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Portrait of a Lady.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady37.asp", "summary": "A few weeks after the death of Mr. Touchett, Madame Merle visits Winchester Square and is surprised to find it is already being dismantled to be sold. Mrs. Touchett says she is pleased that her husband left her in such good financial shape and the narrator shows the Madame Merle is thinking unflattering things about Mrs. Touchetts virtues as a wife and as a person. When Mrs. Touchett tells her that Isabel inherited a fortune, Madame Merle exclaims, \"the clever creature.\" Mrs. Touchett calls her on this, saying Isabel had no intention of gaining anything in her friendship with Mr. Touchett. Madame Merle asks to see Isabel and finds her solemn but very glad to see her. Isabel has been feeling very serious about her new wealth. She knows it is power she has gained and she thinks of it with \"tender ferocity.\" She decides that \"to be rich was a virtue\" because it allowed her to do things. She accompanies her aunt to Paris and finds her aunts friends there to be very inane and empty-headed. Mrs. Luce spends all her time in her Baltimore-like house as if she werent in Paris at all. Mr. Luce carries on a rigid schedule of doing nothing and has as his greatest accomplishment the ability to order dinner at a restaurant. He is a staunch conservative who longs for the days of the French monarchy to return, an opinion Mrs. Touchett agrees with. She meets Ned Rosier, also an expatriate, but one who has lived in Paris all his life. She had met him as a child. He spends all his time shopping and tries to answer Isabels impertinent questions about the value of his existence. Henrietta Stackpole is also in Paris at this time. She has traveled very intimately with Mr. Bantling and finds him a perfect companion. Isabel finds the couple an odd pair. Henrietta Stackpole lectures Ned Rosier on the duties of being an American citizen. She tells Isabel she would have advised Mr. Touchett against giving her this fortune. She thinks it will enable Isabel to continue to live in the world of her dreams instead of looking squarely at reality. She tells Isabel that her main illusion is that she can live by pleasing herself and others. Henrietta states that, on the contrary, one must often make choices that will not please others or even oneself.", "analysis": "Notes Chapter 20 brings in Madame Merle only briefly, but quite importantly. She comes in to see the dismantling of the Touchett holdings, the house on Winchester Square in particular. In the narrators inside view of her thoughts, the reader finds out that she is envious. When she finds out that her new friend Isabel inherited a fortune, her first impulse is to think Isabel manipulated Mr. Touchett into giving her this large behest. She is clearly not the ideal figure Isabel has taken her for. In letting the reader see this while keeping Isabel uninformed of it, James sets up a tension in the novel which will continue to build up suspense in the plot. Chapter 20 introduces the Parisian scene and it is clearly not one which Henry James finds as appealing as the British country house life. All of its representatives--the ex-patriot Americans-- come in for subtle and witty critique. Mrs. Luce, who recreates Baltimore in Paris, her husband, Mr. Luce, whose great achievement is his ability to order dinner in a Parisian restaurant, and Ned Rosier, who cant imagine any occupation other than shopping for fine articles. James also takes time in this chapter to keep the reader informed of Henrietta Stackpoles progress through Europe. In this way, he can keep the most straightforward of Isabels critics in view and the narrator doesnt have to do this kind of moralizing. Henriettas insights are sharp. She finds that Isabel is an idealist and thinks she can live a life in which she pleases herself and others and never has to do anything that goes against this pleasantness. This is an important insight for setting up Isabels later choices."}

Some fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansom cab to the house in Winchester Square. As she descended from her vehicle she observed, suspended between the dining-room windows, a large, neat, wooden tablet, on whose fresh black ground were inscribed in white paint the words--"This noble freehold mansion to be sold"; with the name of the agent to whom application should be made. "They certainly lose no time," said the visitor as, after sounding the big brass knocker, she waited to be admitted; "it's a practical country!" And within the house, as she ascended to the drawing-room, she perceived numerous signs of abdication; pictures removed from the walls and placed upon sofas, windows undraped and floors laid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received her and intimated in a few words that condolences might be taken for granted. "I know what you're going to say--he was a very good man. But I know it better than any one, because I gave him more chance to show it. In that I think I was a good wife." Mrs. Touchett added that at the end her husband apparently recognised this fact. "He has treated me most liberally," 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't expect. But he chose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though I lived much abroad and mingled--you may say freely--in foreign life, I never exhibited the smallest preference for any one else." "For any one but yourself," Madame Merle mentally observed; but the reflexion was perfectly inaudible. "I never sacrificed my husband to another," Mrs. Touchett continued with her stout curtness. "Oh no," thought Madame Merle; "you never did anything for another!" There was a certain cynicism in these mute comments which demands an explanation; the more so as they are not in accord either with the view--somewhat superficial perhaps--that we have hitherto enjoyed of Madame Merle's character or with the literal facts of Mrs. Touchett's history; the more so, too, as Madame Merle had a well-founded conviction that her friend's last remark was not in the least to be construed as a side-thrust at herself. The truth is that the moment she had crossed the threshold she received an impression that Mr. Touchett's death had had subtle consequences and that these consequences had been profitable to a little circle of persons among whom she was not numbered. Of course it was an event which would naturally have consequences; her imagination had 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 another to stand among its massive records. The idea of a distribution of property--she would almost have said of spoils--just now pressed upon her senses and irritated her with a sense of exclusion. I am far from wishing to picture her as one of the hungry mouths or envious hearts of the general herd, but we have already learned of her having desires that had never been satisfied. If she had been questioned, she would of course have admitted--with a fine proud smile--that she had not the faintest claim to a share in Mr. Touchett's relics. "There was never anything in the world between us," she would have said. "There was never that, poor man!"--with a fillip of her thumb and her third finger. I hasten to add, moreover, that if she couldn't at the present moment keep from quite perversely yearning she was careful not to betray herself. She had after all as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett's gains as for her losses. "He has left me this house," the newly-made widow said; "but of course I shall not live in it; I've a much better one in Florence. The will was opened only three days since, but I've already offered the house for sale. I've also a share in the bank; but I don't yet understand if I'm obliged 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 to keep up the place. He's naturally left very well off, but his father has given away an immense deal of money; there are bequests to a string of third cousins in Vermont. Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourt and would be quite capable of living there--in summer--with a maid-of-all-work and a gardener's boy. There's one remarkable clause in my husband's will," Mrs. Touchett added. "He has left my niece a fortune." "A fortune!" Madame Merle softly repeated. "Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds." Madame Merle's hands were clasped in her lap; at this she raised them, still clasped, and held them a moment against her bosom while her eyes, a little dilated, fixed themselves on those of her friend. "Ah," she cried, "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. "It certainly 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 she had said; her wisdom was shown rather in maintaining it and placing it in a favourable light. "My dear friend, Isabel would certainly not have had seventy thousand pounds left her if she had not been the most charming 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 his intention," Mrs. Touchett said. "She had no claim upon him whatever; it was no great recommendation to him that she was my niece. Whatever she achieved 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 to think about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gun were suddenly fired off behind her; she's feeling herself to see if she be hurt. It's but three days since she received a visit from the principal executor, who came in person, very gallantly, to notify her. He told me afterwards that 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 the interest." 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'll get 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 and anxiety and hurrying off to the south. He's on his way to the Riviera and I've not yet heard from him. But it's not likely he'll ever object to 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 for the people in America. He's not in the least addicted to looking after number one." "It depends upon whom he regards as number one!" said Madame Merle. And she remained thoughtful a moment, her eyes bent on the floor. "Am I not to see your happy niece?" she asked at last as she raised them. "You may see her; but you'll not be struck with her being happy. She has 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; and Madame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs. Touchett's comparison had its force. The girl was pale and grave--an effect not mitigated by her deeper mourning; but the smile of her brightest moments came into her face as she saw Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on our heroine's shoulder and, after looking at her a moment, kissed her as if she were returning the kiss she had received from her at Gardencourt. This was the only allusion the visitor, in her great good taste, made for the present to her young friend's inheritance. Mrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the sale of her house. After selecting from among its furniture the objects she wished to transport to her other abode, she left the rest of its contents to be disposed of by the auctioneer and took her departure for the Continent. She was of course accompanied on this journey by her niece, who now had plenty of leisure to measure and weigh and otherwise handle the windfall on which Madame Merle had covertly congratulated her. Isabel thought very often of the fact of her accession of means, looking at it in a dozen different lights; but we shall not now attempt to follow her train of thought or to explain exactly why her new consciousness was at first oppressive. 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 because it was to be able to do, and that to do could only be sweet. It was the graceful contrary of the stupid side of weakness--especially the feminine variety. To be weak was, for a delicate young person, rather graceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself, there was a larger grace than that. Just now, it is true, there was not much to do--once she had sent off a cheque to Lily and another to poor Edith; but she was thankful for the quiet months which her mourning robes and her aunt's fresh widowhood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition of power made her serious; she scrutinised her power with a kind of tender ferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She began to do so during a stay of some weeks which she eventually made with her aunt in Paris, though in ways that will inevitably present themselves as trivial. They were the ways most naturally imposed in a city in which the shops are the admiration of the world, and that were prescribed unreservedly by the guidance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly practical view of the transformation of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one. "Now that you're a young woman of fortune you must know how to play the part--I mean to play it well," she said to Isabel once for all; and she added that the girl's first duty was to have everything handsome. "You don't know how to take care of your things, but you must learn," she went on; this was Isabel's second duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present her imagination was not kindled; she longed for opportunities, but these were not the opportunities she meant. Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having intended before her husband's death to spend a part of the winter in Paris, saw no reason to deprive herself--still less to deprive her companion--of this advantage. Though they would live in great retirement she might still present her niece, informally, to the little circle of her fellow countrymen dwelling upon the skirts of the Champs Elysees. With many of these amiable colonists Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared their expatriation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui. Isabel saw them arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt's hotel, and pronounced on them with a trenchancy doubtless to be accounted for by the temporary exaltation of her sense of human duty. She made up her mind that their lives were, though luxurious, inane, and incurred some disfavour by expressing this view on bright Sunday afternoons, when the American absentees were engaged in calling on each other. Though her listeners passed for people kept exemplarily genial by their cooks and dressmakers, two or three of them thought her cleverness, which was generally admitted, inferior to that of the new theatrical pieces. "You all live here this way, but what does it lead to?" she was pleased to ask. "It doesn't seem to lead to anything, and I should think you'd get very tired of it." Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy of Henrietta Stackpole. The two ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and Isabel constantly saw her; so that Mrs. Touchett had some reason for saying to herself that if her niece were not clever enough to originate almost anything, she might be suspected of having borrowed that style of remark from her journalistic friend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was that of a 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. Luce had been living in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe; she used to say jocosely that she was one of the generation of 1830--a joke of which the point was not always taken. When it failed Mrs. Luce used to explain--"Oh yes, I'm one of the romantics;" her French had never become quite perfect. She was always at home on Sunday afternoons and surrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same. In fact she was at home at all times, and reproduced with wondrous truth in her well-cushioned little corner of the brilliant city, the domestic tone of her native Baltimore. This reduced Mr. Luce, her worthy husband, a tall, lean, grizzled, well-brushed gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass and carried his hat a little too much on the back of his head, to mere platonic praise of the "distractions" of Paris--they were his great word--since you would never have guessed from what cares he escaped to them. 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 colloquial an institution as in an American country town. He passed an hour (in fine weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined uncommonly well 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 the French capital. Occasionally he dined with a friend or two at the Cafe Anglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was a source of felicity to his companions and an object of admiration even to the headwaiter of the establishment. These were his only known pastimes, but they had beguiled his hours for upwards of half a century, and they doubtless justified his frequent declaration that there was no place like Paris. In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flatter himself that he was enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris, but it must be confessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of this scene of his dissipations than in earlier days. In the list of his resources his political reflections should not be omitted, for they were doubtless the animating principle of many hours that superficially seemed vacant. Like many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce was a high--or rather a deep--conservative, and gave no countenance to the government lately established in France. He had no faith in its duration and would assure you from year to year that its end was close at hand. "They want to be kept down, sir, to be kept down; nothing but the strong hand--the iron heel--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 superseded Empire. "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 to Mrs. Touchett, who was quite of his own way of thinking and wished to know what one had crossed that odious Atlantic for but to get away from republics. "Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite to the Palace of Industry, I've seen the court-carriages from the Tuileries pass up and down as many as seven times a day. I remember one occasion when they went as high as nine. What do you see now? It's no use talking, the style's all gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, and there'll be a dark cloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the Empire back again." Among Mrs. Luce's visitors on Sunday afternoons was a young man with whom Isabel had had a good deal of conversation and whom she found full of valuable knowledge. Mr. Edward Rosier--Ned Rosier as he was called--was native to New York and had been brought up in Paris, living there under the eye of his father who, as it happened, had been an early and intimate friend of the late Mr. Archer. Edward Rosier remembered Isabel as a little girl; it had been his father who came to the rescue of the small Archers at the inn at Neufchatel (he was travelling that way with the boy and had stopped at the hotel by chance), after their bonne had gone off with the Russian prince and when Mr. Archer's whereabouts remained for some days a mystery. Isabel remembered perfectly the neat little male child whose hair smelt of a delicious cosmetic and who had a bonne all his own, warranted to lose sight of him under no provocation. Isabel took a walk with the pair beside the lake and thought little Edward as pretty as an angel--a comparison by no means conventional in her mind, for she had a very definite conception of a type of features which she supposed to be angelic and which her new friend perfectly illustrated. A small pink face surmounted by a blue velvet bonnet and set off by a stiff embroidered collar had become the countenance of her childish dreams; and she had firmly believed for some time afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversed among themselves in a queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properest sentiments, as when Edward told her that he was "defended" by his bonne to go near the edge of the lake, and that one must always obey to one's bonne. Ned Rosier's English had improved; at least it exhibited in a less degree the French variation. His father was dead and his bonne dismissed, but the young man still conformed to the spirit of their teaching--he never went to the edge of the lake. There was still something agreeable to the nostrils about him and something not offensive 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. He could order a dinner almost as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable that as his experience accumulated he would be a worthy successor to that gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocated in a soft and innocent voice. He had some charming rooms in Paris, decorated with old Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his female friends, who declared that his chimney-piece was better draped than the high shoulders of many a duchess. He usually, however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, and had once passed a couple of months in the United States. He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk at Neufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He seemed to recognise this same tendency in the subversive enquiry that I quoted a moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine's question with greater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. "What does it lead to, Miss Archer? Why Paris leads everywhere. You can't go anywhere unless you come 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 of it--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 such things as you can here? In spite of all they say I maintain they're cheaper 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 particular favour; only you mustn't tell any one else. Don't you go anywhere without asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As a general thing avoid the Boulevards; there's very little to be done on the Boulevards. Speaking conscientiously--sans blague--I don't believe any one knows Paris better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come and breakfast with me some day, and I'll show you my things; je ne vous dis que ca! There has been a great deal of talk about London of late; it's the fashion to cry up London. But there's nothing in it--you can't do 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. Do I spend my life at the auctioneer's?" Mr. Rosier pursued in answer to another question of Isabel's. "Oh no; I haven't the means. I wish I had. You think I'm a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of your face--you've got a wonderfully expressive face. I hope you don't mind my saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to do something, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when you come to the point you see you have to stop. I can't go home and be a shopkeeper. You think I'm very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you overrate me. I can buy very well, but I can't sell; you should see when I sometimes try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability to make other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever they must 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 in the Bible. They're very difficult, in the Old Testament particularly. I can't be a lawyer; I don't understand--how do you call it?--the American procedure. Is there anything else? There's nothing for a gentleman in America. I should like to be a diplomatist; but American diplomacy--that's not for gentlemen either. I'm sure if you had seen the last min--" Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr. Rosier, coming to pay his compliments late in the afternoon, expressed himself after the fashion I have sketched, usually interrupted the young man at this 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 fine criticism, for her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regards Isabel. She had not congratulated this young lady on her augmentations and begged to be excused from doing so. "If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the money," she frankly asserted, "I'd have said to him 'Never!" "I see," Isabel had answered. "You think it will prove a curse in disguise. Perhaps it will." "Leave it to some one you care less for--that's what I should have said." "To yourself for instance?" Isabel suggested jocosely. And then, "Do you really believe it will ruin me?" she asked in quite another tone. "I hope it won't ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your dangerous tendencies." "Do you mean the love of luxury--of extravagance?" "No, no," said Henrietta; "I mean your exposure on the moral side. I approve of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Look at the luxury of our western cities; I've seen nothing over here to compare with it. I hope you'll never become grossly sensual; but I'm not afraid of that. The peril for you is that you live too much in the world of your own dreams. You're not enough in contact with reality--with the toiling, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world that surrounds you. You're too fastidious; you've too many graceful illusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more and more to the society of a few selfish and heartless people who will be interested in keeping them up." Isabel's eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid scene. "What are my illusions?" she asked. "I try so hard not to have any." "Well," said Henrietta, "you think you can lead a romantic life, that you can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You'll find you're mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it--to make any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that it ceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And you can'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's still more important--you must often displease others. You must always be ready for that--you must never shrink from it. That doesn't suit you at all--you're too fond of admiration, you like to be thought well of. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic views--that's your great illusion, my dear. But we can't. You must be prepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all--not even yourself." 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 English sojourn, had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr. Bantling, who had now returned to England, was her companion for the first four weeks of her stay; and about Mr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabel learned from her friend that the two had led a life of great personal intimacy and that this had been a peculiar advantage to Henrietta, owing to the gentleman's remarkable knowledge of Paris. He had explained everything, shown her everything, been her constant guide and interpreter. They had breakfasted together, dined together, gone to the theatre together, supped together, really in a manner quite lived together. He was a true friend, Henrietta more than once assured our heroine; and she had never supposed that she could like any Englishman so well. Isabel could not have told you why, but she found something that ministered to mirth in the alliance the correspondent of the Interviewer had struck with Lady Pensil's brother; her amusement moreover subsisted in face of the fact that she thought it a credit to each of them. Isabel couldn't rid herself of a suspicion that they were playing somehow at cross-purposes--that the simplicity of each had been entrapped. But this simplicity was on either side none the less honourable. It was as graceful on Henrietta's part to believe that Mr. Bantling took an interest in the diffusion of lively journalism and in consolidating the position of lady-correspondents as it was on the part of his companion to suppose that the cause of the Interviewer--a periodical of which he never formed a very definite conception--was, if subtly analysed (a task to which Mr. Bantling felt himself quite equal), but the cause of Miss Stackpole's need of demonstrative affection. Each of these groping celibates supplied at any rate a want of which the other was impatiently conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slow and a discursive habit, relished a prompt, keen, positive woman, who charmed him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye and a kind of bandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a mind to which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta, on the other hand, enjoyed the society of a gentleman who appeared somehow, in his way, made, by expensive, roundabout, almost "quaint" processes, for her use, and whose leisured state, though generally indefensible, was a decided boon to a breathless mate, and who was furnished with an easy, traditional, though by no means exhaustive, answer to almost any social or practical question that could come up. She often found Mr. Bantling's answers very convenient, and in the press of catching the American post would largely and showily address them to publicity. It was to be feared that she was indeed drifting toward those abysses of sophistication as to which Isabel, wishing for a good-humoured retort, had warned her. There might be danger in store for Isabel; but it was scarcely to be hoped that Miss Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent rest in any adoption of the views of a class pledged to all the old abuses. Isabel continued to warn her good-humouredly; Lady Pensil's obliging brother was sometimes, on our heroine's lips, an object of irreverent and facetious allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta's amiability on this point; she used to abound in the sense of Isabel's irony and to enumerate with elation the hours she had spent with this perfect man of the world--a term that had ceased to make with her, as previously, for opprobrium. Then, a few moments later, she would forget that they had been talking jocosely and would mention with impulsive earnestness some expedition she had enjoyed in his company. She would say: "Oh, I know all about Versailles; I went there with Mr. Bantling. I was bound to see it thoroughly--I warned him when we went out there that I was thorough: so we spent three days at the hotel and wandered all over the place. It was lovely weather--a kind of Indian summer, only not so good. We just lived in that park. Oh yes; you can't tell me anything about Versailles." Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements to meet her gallant friend during the spring in Italy.

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady37.asp

A few weeks after the death of Mr. Touchett, Madame Merle visits Winchester Square and is surprised to find it is already being dismantled to be sold. Mrs. Touchett says she is pleased that her husband left her in such good financial shape and the narrator shows the Madame Merle is thinking unflattering things about Mrs. Touchetts virtues as a wife and as a person. When Mrs. Touchett tells her that Isabel inherited a fortune, Madame Merle exclaims, "the clever creature." Mrs. Touchett calls her on this, saying Isabel had no intention of gaining anything in her friendship with Mr. Touchett. Madame Merle asks to see Isabel and finds her solemn but very glad to see her. Isabel has been feeling very serious about her new wealth. She knows it is power she has gained and she thinks of it with "tender ferocity." She decides that "to be rich was a virtue" because it allowed her to do things. She accompanies her aunt to Paris and finds her aunts friends there to be very inane and empty-headed. Mrs. Luce spends all her time in her Baltimore-like house as if she werent in Paris at all. Mr. Luce carries on a rigid schedule of doing nothing and has as his greatest accomplishment the ability to order dinner at a restaurant. He is a staunch conservative who longs for the days of the French monarchy to return, an opinion Mrs. Touchett agrees with. She meets Ned Rosier, also an expatriate, but one who has lived in Paris all his life. She had met him as a child. He spends all his time shopping and tries to answer Isabels impertinent questions about the value of his existence. Henrietta Stackpole is also in Paris at this time. She has traveled very intimately with Mr. Bantling and finds him a perfect companion. Isabel finds the couple an odd pair. Henrietta Stackpole lectures Ned Rosier on the duties of being an American citizen. She tells Isabel she would have advised Mr. Touchett against giving her this fortune. She thinks it will enable Isabel to continue to live in the world of her dreams instead of looking squarely at reality. She tells Isabel that her main illusion is that she can live by pleasing herself and others. Henrietta states that, on the contrary, one must often make choices that will not please others or even oneself.

Notes Chapter 20 brings in Madame Merle only briefly, but quite importantly. She comes in to see the dismantling of the Touchett holdings, the house on Winchester Square in particular. In the narrators inside view of her thoughts, the reader finds out that she is envious. When she finds out that her new friend Isabel inherited a fortune, her first impulse is to think Isabel manipulated Mr. Touchett into giving her this large behest. She is clearly not the ideal figure Isabel has taken her for. In letting the reader see this while keeping Isabel uninformed of it, James sets up a tension in the novel which will continue to build up suspense in the plot. Chapter 20 introduces the Parisian scene and it is clearly not one which Henry James finds as appealing as the British country house life. All of its representatives--the ex-patriot Americans-- come in for subtle and witty critique. Mrs. Luce, who recreates Baltimore in Paris, her husband, Mr. Luce, whose great achievement is his ability to order dinner in a Parisian restaurant, and Ned Rosier, who cant imagine any occupation other than shopping for fine articles. James also takes time in this chapter to keep the reader informed of Henrietta Stackpoles progress through Europe. In this way, he can keep the most straightforward of Isabels critics in view and the narrator doesnt have to do this kind of moralizing. Henriettas insights are sharp. She finds that Isabel is an idealist and thinks she can live a life in which she pleases herself and others and never has to do anything that goes against this pleasantness. This is an important insight for setting up Isabels later choices.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_20_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 21

chapter 21

{"name": "Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady38.asp", "summary": "Mrs. Touchett prepares to leave Paris for Italy. She tells Isabel before they leave that she now has a clear choice whether to remain with her or go her own way. She says that \"property erects a kind of barrier\" and that when a woman is rich she can do many things that would be stoutly condemned if she were not. Isabel wants to continue with her aunt since she always feels a great regard for doing what is proper and decent and she doesnt think a young woman without relatives is very proper. She and Mrs. Touchett stop in San Remo to visit Ralph on their way to Italy. Isabel enjoys spending time with him. She asks him one day if he knew that his father was going to leave her the money. He says he discussed it briefly with his father. She wants to know why she was left so much. Ralph says it was a compliment for her so beautifully existing. Isabel isnt satisfied with this. She says she wants to be treated with justice. She wants to know if he agrees with Henrietta Stackpole that the fortune will be bad for her. Ralph is impatient with this kind of thinking. He says Isabel should stop worrying over the rights and wrongs of life. He says most of life is good for one and that a fortune certainly is one of those things. He tells her she should spread her wings. Isabel is happy to hear this. She agrees that she usually does treat her life like a doctors prescription, wondering what is good for her and what isnt. As she strolls along the beach with Ralph, she can look across the water and imagine Italy. She thinks of it as a land of promise. She cant wait to see it. She thinks it is going to be a \"larger adventure. \" She becomes used to her fortune. It becomes part of her \"better self.\" While she has this time, she thinks about Caspar Goodwood and Lord Warburton. She recognizes the leisure of not having to think of them. She knows she only has a year and a half before she will have to deal with Caspar. She thinks he might find someone else in that time and realizes that she might feel a pang of hurt feelings if he did. She thinks, on the other hand, that if Lord Warburton found someone else, she would be happy for him.", "analysis": "Notes The San Remo chapter provides a meditative interlude in the novel and builds up suspense as to what will happen in Italy, the \"land of promise,\" in Isabels mind where \"a love the beautiful might be comforted by endless knowledge.\" Ralph is in San Remo and it is always with Ralph that Isabel is shown in her best light. Ralph finds her a \"lovely being\" and tells her his father gave her the fortune for no other reason that that she \"beautifully exist.\" Ralph advises Isabel to do more of this, to stop treating herself as if she were \"look at life too much as a doctors prescription\" worrying about what was good for her and what was bad for her. In this aspect, Isabel is a quintessential American protagonist. James is always comparing the freshly arrived Americans like Henrietta Stackpole and Isabel to the Americans who have lived in Europe more or less permanently for years. He clearly values the Americans who expatriated to England over those who moved to Paris, but he seems to find it useful to use the newly arrived patriotic Americans as a sort of moral measure of the others. He does this a great deal, but he also finds this sort of hyper-moralizing a bit ridiculous. It is here that the ideal figure--the figure who is both American and British--Ralph Touchett can come in and say, just live life and stop worrying."}

Mrs. Touchett, before arriving in Paris, had fixed the day for her departure and by the middle of February had begun to travel southward. She interrupted her journey to pay a visit to her son, who at San Remo, on the Italian shore of the Mediterranean, had been spending a dull, bright winter beneath a slow-moving white umbrella. Isabel went with her aunt as a matter of course, though Mrs. Touchett, with homely, customary logic, had laid before her a pair of alternatives. "Now, of course, you're completely your own mistress and are as free as the bird on the bough. I don't mean you were not so before, but you're at present on a different footing--property erects a kind of barrier. You can do a great many things if you're rich which would be severely criticised if you were poor. You can go and come, you can travel alone, you can have your own establishment: I mean of course if you'll take a companion--some decayed gentlewoman, with a darned cashmere and dyed hair, who paints on velvet. You don't think you'd like that? Of course you can do as you please; I only want you to understand how much you're at liberty. You might take Miss Stackpole as your dame de compagnie; she'd keep people off very well. I think, however, that it's a great deal better you should remain with me, in spite of there being no obligation. It's better for several reasons, quite apart from your liking it. I shouldn't think you'd like it, but I recommend you to make the sacrifice. Of course whatever novelty there may have been at first in my society has quite passed away, and you see me as I am--a dull, obstinate, narrow-minded old woman." "I don't think you're at all dull," Isabel had replied to this. "But you do think I'm obstinate and narrow-minded? I told you so!" said Mrs. Touchett with much elation at being justified. Isabel remained for the present with her aunt, because, in spite of eccentric impulses, she had a great regard for what was usually deemed decent, and a young gentlewoman without visible relations had always struck her as a flower without foliage. It was true that Mrs. Touchett's conversation had never again appeared so brilliant as that first afternoon in Albany, when she sat in her damp waterproof and sketched the opportunities that Europe would offer to a young person of taste. This, however, was in a great measure the girl's own fault; she had got a glimpse of her aunt's experience, and her imagination constantly anticipated the judgements and emotions of a woman who had very little of the same faculty. Apart from this, Mrs. Touchett had a great merit; she was as honest as a pair of compasses. There was a comfort in her stiffness and firmness; you knew exactly where to find her and were never liable to chance encounters and concussions. On her own ground she was perfectly present, but was never over-inquisitive as regards the territory of her neighbour. Isabel came at last to have a kind of undemonstrable pity for her; there seemed something so dreary in the condition of a person whose nature had, as it were, so little surface--offered so limited a face to the accretions of human contact. Nothing tender, nothing sympathetic, had ever had a chance to fasten upon it--no wind-sown blossom, no familiar softening moss. Her offered, her passive extent, in other words, was about that of a knife-edge. Isabel had reason to believe none the less that as she advanced in life she made more of those concessions to the sense of something obscurely distinct from convenience--more of them than she independently exacted. She was learning to sacrifice consistency to considerations of that inferior order for which the excuse must be found in the particular case. It was not to the credit of her absolute rectitude that she should have gone the longest way round to Florence in order to spend a few weeks with her invalid son; since in former years it had been one of her most definite convictions that when Ralph wished to see her he was at liberty to remember that Palazzo Crescentini contained a large apartment known as the quarter of the signorino. "I want to ask you something," Isabel said to this young man the day after her arrival at San Remo--"something I've thought more than once of asking you by letter, but that I've hesitated on the whole to write about. Face to face, nevertheless, my question seems easy enough. Did you know your father intended to leave me so much money?" Ralph stretched his legs a little further than usual and gazed a little more fixedly at the Mediterranean. "What does it matter, my dear Isabel, whether I knew? My father was very obstinate." "So," said the girl, "you did know." "Yes; he told me. We even talked it over a little." "What did he do it for?" asked Isabel abruptly. "Why, as a kind of compliment." "A compliment on what?" "On your so beautifully existing." "He liked me too much," she presently declared. "That's a way we all have." "If I believed that I should be very unhappy. Fortunately I don't believe it. I want to be treated with justice; I want nothing but that." "Very good. But you must remember that justice to a lovely being is after all a florid sort of sentiment." "I'm not a lovely being. How can you say that, at the very moment when I'm asking such odious questions? I must seem to you delicate!" "You seem to me troubled," said Ralph. "I am troubled." "About what?" For a moment she answered nothing; then she broke out: "Do you think it good for me suddenly to be made so rich? Henrietta doesn't." "Oh, hang Henrietta!" said Ralph coarsely, "If you ask me I'm delighted at it." "Is that why your father did it--for your amusement?" "I differ with Miss Stackpole," Ralph went on more gravely. "I think it very good for you to have means." Isabel looked at him with serious eyes. "I wonder whether you know what's good for me--or whether you care." "If I know depend upon it I care. Shall I tell you what it is? Not to torment yourself." "Not to torment you, I suppose you mean." "You can't do that; I'm proof. Take things more easily. Don't ask yourself so much whether this or that is good for you. Don't question your conscience so much--it will get out of tune like a strummed piano. Keep it for great occasions. Don't try so much to form your character--it's like trying to pull open a tight, tender young rose. Live as you like best, and your character will take care of itself. Most things are good for you; the exceptions are very rare, and a comfortable income's not one of them." Ralph paused, smiling; Isabel had listened quickly. "You've too much power of thought--above all too much conscience," Ralph added. "It's out of all reason, the number of things you think wrong. Put back your watch. Diet your fever. Spread your wings; rise above the ground. It's never wrong to do that." She had listened eagerly, as I say; and it was her nature to understand quickly. "I wonder if you appreciate what you say. If you do, you take a great responsibility." "You frighten me a little, but I think I'm right," said Ralph, persisting in cheer. "All the same what you say is very true," Isabel pursued. "You could say nothing more true. I'm absorbed in myself--I look at life too much as a doctor's prescription. Why indeed should we perpetually be thinking whether things are good for us, as if we were patients lying in a hospital? Why should I be so afraid of not doing right? As if it mattered to the world whether I do right or wrong!" "You're a capital person to advise," said Ralph; "you take the wind out of my sails!" She looked at him as if she had not heard him--though she was following out the train of reflexion which he himself had kindled. "I try to care more about the world than about myself--but I always come back to myself. It's because I'm afraid." She stopped; her voice had trembled a little. "Yes, I'm afraid; I can't tell you. A large fortune means freedom, and I'm afraid of that. It's such a fine thing, and one should make such a good use of it. If one shouldn't one would be ashamed. And one must keep thinking; it's a constant effort. I'm not sure it's not a greater happiness to be powerless." "For weak people I've no doubt it's a greater happiness. For weak people the effort not to be contemptible must be great." "And how do you know I'm not weak?" Isabel asked. "Ah," Ralph answered with a flush that the girl noticed, "if you are I'm awfully sold!" The charm of the Mediterranean coast only deepened for our heroine on acquaintance, for it was the threshold of Italy, the gate of admirations. Italy, as yet imperfectly seen and felt, stretched before her as a land of promise, a land in which a love of the beautiful might be comforted by endless knowledge. Whenever she strolled upon the shore with her cousin--and she was the companion of his daily walk--she looked across the sea, with longing eyes, to where she knew that Genoa lay. She was glad to pause, however, on the edge of this larger adventure; there was such a thrill even in the preliminary hovering. It affected her moreover as a peaceful interlude, as a hush of the drum and fife in a career which she had little warrant as yet for regarding as agitated, but which nevertheless she was constantly picturing to herself by the light of her hopes, her fears, her fancies, her ambitions, her predilections, and which reflected these subjective accidents in a manner sufficiently dramatic. Madame Merle had predicted to Mrs. Touchett that after their young friend had put her hand into her pocket half a dozen times she would be reconciled to the idea that it had been filled by a munificent uncle; and the event justified, as it had so often justified before, that lady's perspicacity. Ralph Touchett had praised his cousin for being morally inflammable, that is for being quick to take a hint that was meant as good advice. His advice had perhaps helped the matter; she had at any rate before leaving San Remo grown used to feeling rich. The consciousness in question found a proper place in rather a dense little group of ideas that she had about herself, and often it was by no means the least agreeable. It took perpetually for granted a thousand good intentions. She lost herself in a maze of visions; the fine things to be done by a rich, independent, generous girl who took a large human view of occasions and obligations were sublime in the mass. Her fortune therefore became to her mind a part of her better self; it gave her importance, gave her even, to her own imagination, a certain ideal beauty. What it did for her in the imagination of others is another affair, and on this point we must also touch in time. The visions I have just spoken of were mixed with other debates. Isabel liked better to think of the future than of the past; but at times, as she listened to the murmur of the Mediterranean waves, her glance took a backward flight. It rested upon two figures which, in spite of increasing distance, were still sufficiently salient; they were recognisable without difficulty as those of Caspar Goodwood and Lord Warburton. It was strange how quickly these images of energy had fallen into the background of our young lady's life. It was in her disposition at all times to lose faith in the reality of absent things; she could summon back her faith, in case of need, with an effort, but the effort was often painful even when the reality had been pleasant. The past was apt to look dead and its revival rather to show the livid light of a judgement-day. The girl moreover was not prone to take for granted that she herself lived in the mind of others--she had not the fatuity to believe she left indelible traces. She was capable of being wounded by the discovery that she had been forgotten; but of all liberties the one she herself found sweetest was the liberty to forget. She had not given her last shilling, sentimentally speaking, either to Caspar Goodwood or to Lord Warburton, and yet couldn't but feel them appreciably in debt to her. She had of course reminded herself that she was to hear from Mr. Goodwood again; but this was not to be for another year and a half, and in that time a great many things might happen. She had indeed failed to say to herself that her American suitor might find some other girl more comfortable to woo; because, though it was certain many other girls would prove so, she had not the smallest belief that this merit would attract him. But she reflected that she herself might know the humiliation of change, might really, for that matter, come to the end of the things that were not Caspar (even though there appeared so many of them), and find rest in those very elements of his presence which struck her now as impediments to the finer respiration. It was conceivable that these impediments should some day prove a sort of blessing in disguise--a clear and quiet harbour enclosed by a brave granite breakwater. But that day could only come in its order, and she couldn't wait for it with folded hands. That Lord Warburton should continue to cherish her image seemed to her more than a noble humility or an enlightened pride ought to wish to reckon with. She had so definitely undertaken to preserve no record of what had passed between them that a corresponding effort on his own part would be eminently just. This was not, as it may seem, merely a theory tinged with sarcasm. Isabel candidly believed that his lordship would, in the usual phrase, get over his disappointment. He had been deeply affected--this she believed, and she was still capable of deriving pleasure from the belief; but it was absurd that a man both so intelligent and so honourably dealt with should cultivate a scar out of proportion to any wound. Englishmen liked moreover to be comfortable, said Isabel, and there could be little comfort for Lord Warburton, in the long run, in brooding over a self-sufficient American girl who had been but a casual acquaintance. She flattered herself that, should she hear from one day to another that he had married some young woman of his own country who had done more to deserve him, she should receive the news without a pang even of surprise. It would have proved that he believed she was firm--which was what she wished to seem to him. That alone was grateful to her pride.

Chapter 21

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady38.asp

Mrs. Touchett prepares to leave Paris for Italy. She tells Isabel before they leave that she now has a clear choice whether to remain with her or go her own way. She says that "property erects a kind of barrier" and that when a woman is rich she can do many things that would be stoutly condemned if she were not. Isabel wants to continue with her aunt since she always feels a great regard for doing what is proper and decent and she doesnt think a young woman without relatives is very proper. She and Mrs. Touchett stop in San Remo to visit Ralph on their way to Italy. Isabel enjoys spending time with him. She asks him one day if he knew that his father was going to leave her the money. He says he discussed it briefly with his father. She wants to know why she was left so much. Ralph says it was a compliment for her so beautifully existing. Isabel isnt satisfied with this. She says she wants to be treated with justice. She wants to know if he agrees with Henrietta Stackpole that the fortune will be bad for her. Ralph is impatient with this kind of thinking. He says Isabel should stop worrying over the rights and wrongs of life. He says most of life is good for one and that a fortune certainly is one of those things. He tells her she should spread her wings. Isabel is happy to hear this. She agrees that she usually does treat her life like a doctors prescription, wondering what is good for her and what isnt. As she strolls along the beach with Ralph, she can look across the water and imagine Italy. She thinks of it as a land of promise. She cant wait to see it. She thinks it is going to be a "larger adventure. " She becomes used to her fortune. It becomes part of her "better self." While she has this time, she thinks about Caspar Goodwood and Lord Warburton. She recognizes the leisure of not having to think of them. She knows she only has a year and a half before she will have to deal with Caspar. She thinks he might find someone else in that time and realizes that she might feel a pang of hurt feelings if he did. She thinks, on the other hand, that if Lord Warburton found someone else, she would be happy for him.

Notes The San Remo chapter provides a meditative interlude in the novel and builds up suspense as to what will happen in Italy, the "land of promise," in Isabels mind where "a love the beautiful might be comforted by endless knowledge." Ralph is in San Remo and it is always with Ralph that Isabel is shown in her best light. Ralph finds her a "lovely being" and tells her his father gave her the fortune for no other reason that that she "beautifully exist." Ralph advises Isabel to do more of this, to stop treating herself as if she were "look at life too much as a doctors prescription" worrying about what was good for her and what was bad for her. In this aspect, Isabel is a quintessential American protagonist. James is always comparing the freshly arrived Americans like Henrietta Stackpole and Isabel to the Americans who have lived in Europe more or less permanently for years. He clearly values the Americans who expatriated to England over those who moved to Paris, but he seems to find it useful to use the newly arrived patriotic Americans as a sort of moral measure of the others. He does this a great deal, but he also finds this sort of hyper-moralizing a bit ridiculous. It is here that the ideal figure--the figure who is both American and British--Ralph Touchett can come in and say, just live life and stop worrying.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_21_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 22

chapter 22

{"name": "Chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady39.asp", "summary": "In May of the same year, six months after Mr. Touchett died, a man, his fifteen year old daughter, and two nuns are in one of the rooms of an Italian villa outside the gate of Florence. The house is like many of the ancient villas in Florence. It seems to wear a mask, so one cant see what it is like from the outside. The room where the group are talking is exquisitely graceful. The man is forty years old and of indeterminable nationality. His eyes are \"at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of the observer as well as the dreamer.\" He asks his daughter what she thinks of the water color that hangs on the easel. She answers obediently that she likes it. He asks the nuns about his daughters education. The tell him of their policy of having nuns from many nationalities speaking their own languages. They discuss her size. They discuss her perfection. The nuns have had her in their care since she was young. They are sad at the prospect that she is to be taken from them. He tells them it is not certain that she will. They tell him, though, that she is \"made for the world.\" At a knock at the door, the man answers it and in the ante- chamber, he and the woman who enters dont say anything to each other. She asks him if anyone is there before she enters the room. It is Madame Merle. The nuns know her well since she visits the girl in Rome often. The girls name is Pansy. The man and Madame Merle have a brief discussion about what Madame Merle has told Pansy about this visit. When they speak, they speak in lowered tones as if from habit. The nuns prepare to take their leave. Pansy wants to see them out, but Madame Merle tells her she would prefer that Pansy stay with her inside. Pansy is disappointed, but obeys readily. Madame Merle tells her she is glad Pansy is so obedient. Pansy agrees that she is very obedient. Madame Merle asks Pansy if shed miss Mother Catherine, one of the nuns. Pansy says she will and Madame Merle tells her she might soon have another mother. The man, Gilbert Osmond, returns to the room. He and Madame Merle begin a discussion and keep Pansy in the room with them, saying she wont understand what theyre saying. They discuss Madame Merles travels. He tells her that he thinks of her life as her ambitions. She wonders if Pansy can understand this and he tells Pansy to go out into the garden. Then she tells him her ambitions in life are principally for him. She tells him that if he can shake himself free of his usually indolence, he might find a great reward. She tells him about Isabel Archer, who is 23 years old and quite rich, as well as being attractive and clever. She says she will put Isabel Archer in his way. He wonders if Isabel Archer isnt meant for something better. She answers, \"I dont pretend to know what people are meant for. I only know what I can do with them.\" He says he is sorry for Isabel Archer. The narrator notes the fact that in their manner, these two people know each other deeply intimately. Gilbert Osmond tells Madame Merle that she is the most remarkable of women. She tells him she has already spoken to Isabel about him. Then they begin to discuss the Touchetts. Gilbert also doesnt like Ralph Touchett. He calls him a donkey. Madame Merle tells him she wants him to marry Isabel Archer. They get up and watch Pansy in the garden. Madame Merle says Pansy doesnt like her.", "analysis": ""}

On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr. Touchett's death, a small group that might have been described by a painter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of an ancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gate of Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, with the far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that encircle Florence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmonious a rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses that usually rise in groups of three or four beside it. The house had a front upon a little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupied a part of the hill-top; and this front, pierced with a few windows in irregular relations and furnished with a stone bench lengthily adjusted to the base of the structure and useful as a lounging-place to one or two persons wearing more or less of that air of undervalued merit which in Italy, for some reason or other, always gracefully invests any one who confidently assumes a perfectly passive attitude--this antique, solid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommunicative character. It was the mask, not the face of the house. It had heavy lids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another way--looked off behind, into splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light. In that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the long valley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in the manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses and other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of the terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the ground declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not, however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on this bright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer the shady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you saw them from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremely architectural; but their function seemed less to offer communication with the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massively cross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on tiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by a row of three of these jealous apertures--one of the several distinct apartments into which the villa was divided and which were mainly occupied by foreigners of random race long resident in Florence--a gentleman was seated in company with a young girl and two good sisters from a religious house. The room was, however, less sombre than our indications may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, which now stood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall iron lattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italian sunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury, telling of arrangements subtly studied and refinements frankly proclaimed, and containing a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry, those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angular specimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, those perverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept terms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had been made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the chairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a writing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London and the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines and newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture in silence. Silence--absolute silence--had not fallen upon her companions; but their talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sisters had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitude expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner than her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which apparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her hat--an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her plain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must already have been "let out." The gentleman who might have been supposed to be entertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of his function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the very meek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly much occupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man of forty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense, but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow, extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just this effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to which the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish, gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a gentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyes at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one. If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he was, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a special occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure, and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man dresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar things. "Well, my dear, what do you think of it?" he asked of the young girl. He used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would not have convinced you he was Italian. The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. "It's very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?" "Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?" "Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures." And she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and intensely sweet smile. "You should have brought me a specimen of your powers." "I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk." "She draws very--very carefully," the elder of the nuns remarked, speaking in French. "I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?" "Happily no," said the good sister, blushing a little. "Ce n'est pas ma partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've an excellent drawing-master, Mr.--Mr.--what is his name?" she asked of her companion. Her companion looked about at the carpet. "It's a German name," she said in Italian, as if it needed to be translated. "Yes," the other went on, "he's a German, and we've had him many years." The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden. "And you, my sister, are French," said the gentleman. "Yes, sir," the visitor gently replied. "I speak to the pupils in my own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other countries--English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper language." The gentleman gave a smile. "Has my daughter been under the care of one of the Irish ladies?" And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected a joke, though failing to understand it, "You're very complete," he instantly added. "Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of the best." "We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark. "But not dangerous." "I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?" A question which provoked much candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown. "Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain--not big," said the French sister. "I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books--very good and not too long. But I know," the gentleman said, "no particular reason why my child should be short." The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might be beyond our knowledge. "She's in very good health; that's the best thing." "Yes, she looks sound." And the young girl's father watched her a moment. "What do you see in the garden?" he asked in French. "I see many flowers," she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an accent as good as his own. "Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and gather some for ces dames." The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. "May I, truly?" "Ah, when I tell you," said her father. The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. "May I, truly, ma mere?" "Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister, blushing again. The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the threshold and was presently lost to sight. "You don't spoil them," said her father gaily. "For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is freely granted, but they must ask it." "Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent. I sent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith." "One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her spectacles. "Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?" The sister dropped her eyes a moment. "A good Christian, monsieur." Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement had in each case a different spring. "Yes, and what else?" He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she was not so crude as that. "A charming young lady--a real little woman--a daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment." "She seems to me very gentille," said the father. "She's really pretty." "She's perfect. She has no faults." "She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her none." "We love her too much," said the spectacled sister with dignity. "And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'est pas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say. We've had her since she was so small." "Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss most," the younger woman murmured deferentially. "Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shall hold her up to the new ones." And at this the good sister appeared to find her spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture. "It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet," their host rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. "We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us." "Oh," exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used, "it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her always!" "Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, "good as she is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera." "If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world get on?" her companion softly enquired, rising also. This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying comfortably: "Fortunately there are good people everywhere." "If you're going there will be two less here," her host remarked gallantly. For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion was speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large bunches of roses--one of them all white, the other red. "I give you your choice, mamman Catherine," said the child. "It's only the colour that's different, mamman Justine; there are just as many roses in one bunch as in the other." The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with "Which will you take?" and "No, it's for you to choose." "I'll take the red, thank you," said Catherine in the spectacles. "I'm so red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to Rome." "Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. "I wish I could give you something that would last!" "You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will last!" "I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads," the child went on. "And do you go back to Rome to-night?" her father enquired. "Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas." "Are you not tired?" "We are never tired." "Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress. "Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vous garde, ma fine." Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red tiles; and into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door, after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold she hesitated. "Is there any one?" she asked. "Some one you may see." She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little soft cry: "Ah, Madame Merle!" The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant was none the less gracious. "Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you home." And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this portion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer world. "These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return to the convent," the gentleman explained. "Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very lovely now," said Madame Merle. The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves, accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. "She came to see me at the convent," said the young girl before the lady addressed had time to reply. "I've been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle declared. "Am I not your great friend in Rome?" "I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you told me I should come away." "Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked. "I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me." "I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't know such things by inspiration--though I suppose one ought. You had better sit down." These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice--a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. "You're going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them. "This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in her judgement, and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays." "I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister in spectacles ventured to remark. "That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Madame Merle, but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a very good school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant for the world." "That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered. "It's precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegant apparel. "Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world," said Pansy's father. The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "Am I not meant for you, papa?" Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the world, Pansy." "Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be good and wise and happy in any case, my daughter." "I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned, recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle. "Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takes the good ladies to the door." Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the operation of her fate. "May I not see mamman Catherine get into the carriage?" she nevertheless asked very gently. "It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Madame Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber. "Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of the window; her eyes had filled with tears. "I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle. "That's what good little girls should do." "Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh. Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair. "I hope they always see that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little girls usually dislike them." "I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child made answer. "Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen." "I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded with interest. Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours." "But very pretty?" "Are you very fond of pretty things?" "Yes; but--but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of asceticism. "Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned with a laugh. She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which, looking at her a moment, "Shall you miss mother Catherine?" she went on. "Yes--when I think of her." "Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame Merle, "you'll have another mother." "I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little soft conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the convent." Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then, without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him as he moved about. Then at last she said: "I hoped you'd have come to Rome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansy away." "That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first time I've acted in defiance of your calculations." "Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse." Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room--there was plenty of space in it to move about--in the fashion of a man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him--unless he took up a book--but to stand with his hands behind him looking at Pansy. "Why didn't you come and see the last of mamman Catherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French. Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "I asked her to stay with me," said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place. "Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked. "She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy. "You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle observed. "You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to have everything she needs." "I should think she had had enough of the nuns." "If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the room." "Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something else." "If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appearance of candour which imposed conviction. "You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand," her father replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion. "You're looking particularly well." "I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle. "You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman." "Yes, I think I am." "You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present." "I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain." "That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your friends." Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less characteristic than your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what you say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself." "Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many other lives." "What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's appearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?" "I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond. Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she understands that," she murmured. "You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle," he went on in French. "That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another attitude might be wanting. "My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking up at him with a certain courage. "That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousand others. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?" "You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault." "I'm afraid it's really my best." "You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely. "No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome. But it was only one of them." "It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though I should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--which you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence." "Please remember my indolence," said Osmond. "I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new acquaintance?" "I don't think I've made any since I made yours." "It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine I want you to know." Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and was looking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine. "What good will it do me?" he asked with a sort of genial crudity. Madame Merle waited. "It will amuse you." There was nothing crude in this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered. "If you say that, you know, I believe it," said Osmond, coming toward her. "There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete. I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad." "Society is all bad." "Pardon me. That isn't--the knowledge I impute to you--a common sort of wisdom. You've gained it in the right way--experimentally; you've compared an immense number of more or less impossible people with each other." "Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge." "To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?" "It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induce you to make an effort!" "Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in the world--that's likely to turn up here--is worth an effort?" Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. "Don't be foolish, Osmond. No one knows better than you what IS worth an effort. Haven't I seen you in old days?" "I recognise some things. But they're none of them probable in this poor life." "It's the effort that makes them probable," said Madame Merle. "There's something in that. Who then is your friend?" "The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs. Touchett, whom you'll not have forgotten." "A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you're coming to." "Yes, she's young--twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of mine. I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don't do every day--I admire her. You'll do the same." "Not if I can help it." "Precisely. But you won't be able to help it." "Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and unprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I care to make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak to me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that description. I know plenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any more." "Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. She corresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to know her. She fills all your requirements." "More or less, of course." "No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for an American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable, and she has a handsome fortune." Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his mind with his eyes on his informant. "What do you want to do with her?" he asked at last. "What you see. Put her in your way." "Isn't she meant for something better than that?" "I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said Madame Merle. "I only know what I can do with them." "I'm sorry for Miss Archer!" Osmond declared. Madame Merle got up. "If that's a beginning of interest in her I take note of it." The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking down at it as she did so. "You're looking very well," Osmond repeated still less relevantly than before. "You have some idea. You're never so well as when you've got an idea; they're always becoming to you." In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any juncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, was something indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each other obliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of each appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off any embarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not on this occasion the form she would have liked to have--the perfect self-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point to be made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them, whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closely face to face than either ever was with any one else. This was what had happened now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on the whole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensation for the inconvenience--whatever it might be--of being known. "I wish very much you were not so heartless," Madame Merle quietly said. "It has always been against you, and it will be against you now." "I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touches me--as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are for me. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they should be. But it touches me, all the same." "You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are some things you'll never understand. There's no particular need you should." "You, after all, are the most remarkable of women," said Osmond. "You have more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think Mrs. Touchett's niece should matter very much to me, when--when--" But he paused a moment. "When I myself have mattered so little?" "That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known and appreciated such a woman as you." "Isabel Archer's better than I," said Madame Merle. Her companion gave a laugh. "How little you must think of her to say that!" "Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that." "With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't." "Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs. Touchett's--Palazzo Crescentini--and the girl will be there." "Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the girl?" said Osmond. "You could have had her there at any rate." Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he could ever put would find unprepared. "Do you wish to know why? Because I've spoken of you to her." Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not know that." Then in a moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour drawing. "Have you seen what's there--my last?" Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the Venetian Alps--one of your last year's sketches?" "Yes--but how you guess everything!" She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I don't care for your drawings." "I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much better than most people's." "That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's so little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were my ambitions." "Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible." "Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And then in quite a different tone: "In itself your little picture's very good." She looked about the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces of faded silk. "Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with that afresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand this sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste." "I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond. "You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told her about it." "I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots." "You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to particular advantage." Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?" "She has seventy thousand pounds." "En ecus bien comptes?" "There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may say." "Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see the mother?" "The mother? She has none--nor father either." "The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep her out of the way." "I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs. Touchett. She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivid identity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?" "He's there, but he won't trouble you." "He's a good deal of a donkey." "I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not fond of being about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me." "What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?" Osmond went on. "Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them. Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you." "A beginning of what?" Madame Merle was silent a little. "I want you of course to marry her." "The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you told her that?" "For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of machinery--nor am I." "Really," said Osmond after some meditation, "I don't understand your ambitions." "I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer. Suspend your judgement." Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the open door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. "Pansy has really grown pretty," she presently added. "So it seemed to me." "But she has had enough of the convent." "I don't know," said Osmond. "I like what they've made of her. It's very charming." "That's not the convent. It's the child's nature." "It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl." "Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?" Madame Merle asked. "She's not in a hurry." "We'll go and get them." "She doesn't like me," the visitor murmured as she raised her parasol and they passed into the garden.

Chapter 22

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In May of the same year, six months after Mr. Touchett died, a man, his fifteen year old daughter, and two nuns are in one of the rooms of an Italian villa outside the gate of Florence. The house is like many of the ancient villas in Florence. It seems to wear a mask, so one cant see what it is like from the outside. The room where the group are talking is exquisitely graceful. The man is forty years old and of indeterminable nationality. His eyes are "at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of the observer as well as the dreamer." He asks his daughter what she thinks of the water color that hangs on the easel. She answers obediently that she likes it. He asks the nuns about his daughters education. The tell him of their policy of having nuns from many nationalities speaking their own languages. They discuss her size. They discuss her perfection. The nuns have had her in their care since she was young. They are sad at the prospect that she is to be taken from them. He tells them it is not certain that she will. They tell him, though, that she is "made for the world." At a knock at the door, the man answers it and in the ante- chamber, he and the woman who enters dont say anything to each other. She asks him if anyone is there before she enters the room. It is Madame Merle. The nuns know her well since she visits the girl in Rome often. The girls name is Pansy. The man and Madame Merle have a brief discussion about what Madame Merle has told Pansy about this visit. When they speak, they speak in lowered tones as if from habit. The nuns prepare to take their leave. Pansy wants to see them out, but Madame Merle tells her she would prefer that Pansy stay with her inside. Pansy is disappointed, but obeys readily. Madame Merle tells her she is glad Pansy is so obedient. Pansy agrees that she is very obedient. Madame Merle asks Pansy if shed miss Mother Catherine, one of the nuns. Pansy says she will and Madame Merle tells her she might soon have another mother. The man, Gilbert Osmond, returns to the room. He and Madame Merle begin a discussion and keep Pansy in the room with them, saying she wont understand what theyre saying. They discuss Madame Merles travels. He tells her that he thinks of her life as her ambitions. She wonders if Pansy can understand this and he tells Pansy to go out into the garden. Then she tells him her ambitions in life are principally for him. She tells him that if he can shake himself free of his usually indolence, he might find a great reward. She tells him about Isabel Archer, who is 23 years old and quite rich, as well as being attractive and clever. She says she will put Isabel Archer in his way. He wonders if Isabel Archer isnt meant for something better. She answers, "I dont pretend to know what people are meant for. I only know what I can do with them." He says he is sorry for Isabel Archer. The narrator notes the fact that in their manner, these two people know each other deeply intimately. Gilbert Osmond tells Madame Merle that she is the most remarkable of women. She tells him she has already spoken to Isabel about him. Then they begin to discuss the Touchetts. Gilbert also doesnt like Ralph Touchett. He calls him a donkey. Madame Merle tells him she wants him to marry Isabel Archer. They get up and watch Pansy in the garden. Madame Merle says Pansy doesnt like her.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_22_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady41.asp", "summary": "Madame Merle has come to Florence at the invitation of Mrs. Touchett to spend a month with her at her house, the Palazzo Crescentini. She speaks to Isabel again about Gilbert Osmond, telling her that he is one of the greatest men in Europe. Isabel spends her mornings with Ralph, who enjoys taking her through the great monuments of Venice. Isabel loves coming back home to the Palazzo Crescentini. One day Gilbert Osmond comes to visit Madame Merle and Isabel meets him. She doesnt speak hardly at all during his entire visit. Isabel finds that there is \"something in the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense. \" She has the idea that she must first find out about him before she produces an impression of her own. He is not handsome, but fine, like an old art work; his voice is fine also, but not sweet. When he leaves, he asks Isabel if she will come to visit him next week. He would like her to meet his daughter and see his home. When he is gone, Madame Merle tells her she was perfectly charming and that she couldnt have asked for any other kind of behavior. Isabel is unaccountably irritated, and says she is under no obligation to charm Gilbert Osmond. Isabel is interested to find out what Ralph thinks of Gilbert Osmond. Ralph says he is \"a vague, unexplained American\" who has been living in Italy for thirty years. He knows nothing of Mr. Osmonds background, but thinks the man looks like some kind of \"prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since.\" Ralph says that Mr. Osmonds great dread of vulgarity is his \"special line\" and his only line. She tells Isabel he once met Mr. Osmonds sister, who is married to a Count, and found her to be nicer than Mr. Osmond, but impossible, and someone Isabel should not meet. When Isabel prompts him to say more, he tells her that if she falls in love with Mr. Osmond, she wont listen to anything he says about the man anyway. Then he enjoins her to judge everything and everyone for herself. They move on to a discussion of Madame Merle. Isabel tries to get Ralph to say why he doesnt like her. He explains that Madame Merle is too perfect. She seems inhuman in not having any faults whatsoever. Shes too controlled and too complete. Ralph thinks about Isabels spending so much time with Madame Merle. He thinks nothing will harm Isabel in the connection and feels that one day Isabel would understand something about Madame Merle that would make her relax her interest in the older woman if not break from her completely.", "analysis": "Notes Isabels first meeting with Gilbert Osmond demonstrates in Henry James usual oblique way that something big is in the works. Instead of acting her usual self with him, Isabel is silent and withdrawn. Since the reader has been informed of the plot-- to get Isabel to marry Gilbert Osmond--this chapter is full of dramatic irony. The reader sees Isabel falling into their trap perfectly. She has few hints that something is wrong. One of these hints is her instinctive displeasure at Madame Merles praise of how she behaved in front of Gilbert Osmond. Isabel recoils from this praise sensing that it implies that she should be on show for some superior. The second hint is Ralphs clear dislike of both Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond. Isabel is too innocent to listen carefully to Ralphs subtext. He is too cultivated a man to warn her openly. He does so only by hints and he withdraws every hint at direct questioning."}

Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at the invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would find it well to "meet"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever in the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite another affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one, saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just exactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his perversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the men really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and dull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At any rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in Italy without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the country than any one except two or three German professors. And if they had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and taste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her friend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the deeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie binding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always somehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest created by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr. Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a great many men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as possible, so as to get used to them." "Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. "Why, I'm not afraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys." "Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you don't despise." This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle had promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery. She was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it a joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the treasures of Florence again and again and had always something else to do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of memory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it. She had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art, differing often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her interpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened to the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that she might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the advantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the clear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs. Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at the pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her, and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising tears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But the return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs. Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow street whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This vague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake. Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might have been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had the rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle appealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore any learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put dreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved she could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more important she should get an impression of him than that she should produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the first show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the Uffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its clearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with making her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak. "Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for she's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if you could know my daughter," he went on a moment afterwards. Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments, "You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you. You're never disappointing." A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange to say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I know of to charm Mr. Osmond." Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM." "I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters either." "Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle returned with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time another old friend's concerned." Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance for that. "Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well, but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained? Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he rather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here; I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great dread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly large. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself. He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than I." "I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said Isabel. "A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you care for that?" "Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more information one has about one's dangers the better." "I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." "That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do that people call you conceited." "You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or your enemy." Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some things I can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I myself am praised." "Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them all!" "I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised to pay him a visit." "To pay him a visit?" "To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many ladies call on him." "Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said Ralph. "She knows none but the best people." Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. "It seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean, but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either mention them frankly or else say nothing at all." Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her: with an even exaggerated respect." "Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of." "I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated." "By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service." "No, no; by herself." "Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a woman who made small claims--!" "You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's exaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect right to make large ones." "Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself." "Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably blameless; a pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a chance." "A chance for what?" "Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but that one little fault." Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you; you're too paradoxical for my plain mind." "Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the vulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too far--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt about Aristides the Just." Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. "Do you wish Madame Merle to be banished?" "By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle," said Ralph Touchett simply. "You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend. "Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!" "That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head. "That is why I like her so much." "She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world you couldn't have a better guide." "I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?" "Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!" It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his mother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could have been nothing so "sustained" to attend to as the general performance of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training, but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle, the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in too-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not, without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of itself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable that Isabel would be injured.

Chapter 23

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady41.asp

Madame Merle has come to Florence at the invitation of Mrs. Touchett to spend a month with her at her house, the Palazzo Crescentini. She speaks to Isabel again about Gilbert Osmond, telling her that he is one of the greatest men in Europe. Isabel spends her mornings with Ralph, who enjoys taking her through the great monuments of Venice. Isabel loves coming back home to the Palazzo Crescentini. One day Gilbert Osmond comes to visit Madame Merle and Isabel meets him. She doesnt speak hardly at all during his entire visit. Isabel finds that there is "something in the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense. " She has the idea that she must first find out about him before she produces an impression of her own. He is not handsome, but fine, like an old art work; his voice is fine also, but not sweet. When he leaves, he asks Isabel if she will come to visit him next week. He would like her to meet his daughter and see his home. When he is gone, Madame Merle tells her she was perfectly charming and that she couldnt have asked for any other kind of behavior. Isabel is unaccountably irritated, and says she is under no obligation to charm Gilbert Osmond. Isabel is interested to find out what Ralph thinks of Gilbert Osmond. Ralph says he is "a vague, unexplained American" who has been living in Italy for thirty years. He knows nothing of Mr. Osmonds background, but thinks the man looks like some kind of "prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since." Ralph says that Mr. Osmonds great dread of vulgarity is his "special line" and his only line. She tells Isabel he once met Mr. Osmonds sister, who is married to a Count, and found her to be nicer than Mr. Osmond, but impossible, and someone Isabel should not meet. When Isabel prompts him to say more, he tells her that if she falls in love with Mr. Osmond, she wont listen to anything he says about the man anyway. Then he enjoins her to judge everything and everyone for herself. They move on to a discussion of Madame Merle. Isabel tries to get Ralph to say why he doesnt like her. He explains that Madame Merle is too perfect. She seems inhuman in not having any faults whatsoever. Shes too controlled and too complete. Ralph thinks about Isabels spending so much time with Madame Merle. He thinks nothing will harm Isabel in the connection and feels that one day Isabel would understand something about Madame Merle that would make her relax her interest in the older woman if not break from her completely.

Notes Isabels first meeting with Gilbert Osmond demonstrates in Henry James usual oblique way that something big is in the works. Instead of acting her usual self with him, Isabel is silent and withdrawn. Since the reader has been informed of the plot-- to get Isabel to marry Gilbert Osmond--this chapter is full of dramatic irony. The reader sees Isabel falling into their trap perfectly. She has few hints that something is wrong. One of these hints is her instinctive displeasure at Madame Merles praise of how she behaved in front of Gilbert Osmond. Isabel recoils from this praise sensing that it implies that she should be on show for some superior. The second hint is Ralphs clear dislike of both Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond. Isabel is too innocent to listen carefully to Ralphs subtext. He is too cultivated a man to warn her openly. He does so only by hints and he withdraws every hint at direct questioning.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_23_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady42.asp", "summary": "Isabel and Madame Merle ride out to Gilbert Osmonds hill-top house one afternoon. In looking at the house, one saw that there was something \"grave and strong in ; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out.\" Isabel, however, isnt at all interested in getting out. She goes inside and meets the Countess Gemini, Gilbert Osmonds bird- like sister, who talks incessantly and irritatingly. Isabel realizes that \"perfect simplicity not the badge of his family.\" She feels the need to be very direct. Isabel and Gilbert Osmond talk together while Madame merle and the Countess talk. She finds him putting out a special effort to be charming. He tells her it is sad to think she will move along soon. She hints that she might settle in Florence. He tells her his witty opinions of her aunt. Isabel feels a thrill of a new relation to a new person. When his sister and Madame Merle go out to the garden, he asks her what she thinks of his sister. She wont say since she hasnt known her for long. He tells her that his sister is unhappily married and responds the sadness of her life in being comic. Isabel thinks of Gilbert Osmond as resembling no one else shes ever seen. He seems like an original, more so even than her aunt. He seems very fine to her. She realizes he has consulted his taste in everything in his life. She thinks of him as having achieved the refinement of high culture. He takes her on a tour of another two rooms, showing her all his art works. She begins to feel very tired from the effort of trying to say and notice exactly the right things. She can no longer follow him and hopes he wont find out that shes not as intelligent as he has been led to believe. They go out to the garden to join the others. It is beautiful outside. He asks her again if she will come back to visit him and if she will settle in Florence. She tells him she will come back and that she doesnt know yet where she will settle. He tells her \"a womans natural mission is to be where shes most appreciated.\" Then he tells her what his plan of life has been. It has been not to strive or struggle, but to resign himself and to be content with little. He calls it a willful renunciation. He tells her he had no prospects and no fortune and so he decided when he was a young man--the \"most fastidious young gentleman alive\"-- that he would do nothing. He tells her the events of his life have been unnoticed by anyone else but himself. Isabel thinks to herself that he must be leaving out the human element in describing his life out of modesty or reserve. She thinks he must have had relations with people. Still, she thinks it must have been a pleasant life to renounce everything but art. He tells her he wont be able to keep it up for much longer since hell have to take his daughter into account now, calling Pansy \"a little saint of heaven.\"", "analysis": "Notes Gilbert Osmond takes the first step in fulfilling Madame Merles ambitions for him. He woos Isabel Archer in the most subtle way. Isabel Archer has a few categories in her mind in which she finds a place for all the people she knows. Mr. Osmond, however, fits none of these categories, and it is just such a nature that is likely to attract Isabel intensely. The other elements of this scene that are sure to attract Isabel include the romantic and the artistic. Ralph has said in the previous chapter that Mr. Osmond is like a prince who abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and then lived the rest of his life in a state of constant disgust. Gilbert Osmond says almost the same thing of himself, but puts it in a more flattering light. He tells her that he was \"the most fastidious young gentleman living\" in his youth and decided that since he could do nothing really to distinguish himself, he would do nothing at all. So he renounced all activity. Isabel falls into the trap that many new lovers do. She doesnt believe what he says. She supplies the romantic cloak to drape over the bare truth that he has told her. She says to herself that there must be a \"human element\" in this renunciation and that he is just not telling her all of it at once. In Gilbert Osmonds family, the reader might find an ominous note for any future wife. His daughter is praised for her abject submissiveness. She is treated as an otherworldly angel or a this- worldly piece of art. His sister is unhappily married and a frenetic talker who cant pause for a moment, it seems, to be real with a new person she meets. If Madame Merle can be considered part of the family by virtue of her intimacy with its members, she is also not the best figure to produce warm family feeling. What is it here then that would attract a young woman from American who has spent most of her life in a library reading? Gilbert Osmond is the prince without a princess. His sister is a countess. Pansy Osmond is the precious jewel of a daughter. Perhaps Madame Merle is the fairly godmother."}

It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top. Nothing could have been more charming than this occasion--a soft afternoon in the full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and wound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming orchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of the villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least a very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out, but only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber--it was cold even in the month of May--and ushered her, with her conductress, into the apartment to which we have already been introduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a little, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two persons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. "And that's my little girl," he said, "who has just come out of her convent." Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles. She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed. The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird--a long beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin that receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman, and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself and made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate, bristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched upon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most affected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the violent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with fluttering streamers. "You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only because I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come and see my brother--I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible--I don't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my horses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to give me another pair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's very disagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in the carriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. But I've always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've always managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows a horse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according to his poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so it's all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you," she went on, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond doesn't often invite me; I don't think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. But don't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are some very good seats here, but there are also some horrors." These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of good English, or rather of good American, in adversity. "I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure you're invaluable." "I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking about her. "Everything seems to me beautiful and precious." "I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've nothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked." He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to hint that nothing but the right "values" was of any consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his family. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her, stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not entirely artless. "You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti--that's what you'd have liked," said Madame Merle. "Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" the Countess Gemini exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made it and looked at her from head to foot. Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could say to Isabel. "Won't you have some tea?--you must be very tired," he at last bethought himself of remarking. "No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isabel felt a certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was something in the air, in her general impression of things--she could hardly have said what it was--that deprived her of all disposition to put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people, signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand--she would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless not aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to cover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms that excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours, to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the entertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered less observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less complacently than might have been expected. "What a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in--!" she could fancy his exclaiming to himself. "You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and gives you a lecture on each," said the Countess Gemini. "I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have learned something." "Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of learning anything," said Mr. Osmond. "Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more--I know too much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are." "You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished her education," Madame Merle interposed with a smile. "Pansy will never know any harm," said the child's father. "Pansy's a little convent-flower." "Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with a flutter of her ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there; I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be good, but the nuns do. Don't you see what I mean?" she went on, appealing to Isabel. Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself detested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste--he would always discuss. "For me," she said, "one should like a thing or one shouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But one shouldn't attempt to reason it out--you never know where it may lead you. There are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know? And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons. Don't you see what I mean? I don't care anything about reasons, but I know what I like." "Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather hopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation to another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the latter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the social failure--by which he meant the people who couldn't "realise," as they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything. Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character, didn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social and other "cheek" that flourished in Paris and London. "We're sweetly provincial," said Mr. Osmond, "and I'm perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you--not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll be going away before I've seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you after that. That's what it is to live in a country that people come to. When they're disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeable it's still worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've been deceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she may be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an old one; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure she didn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope you don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea you don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there's no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett." While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!" she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "She has been brought quite into the family." "Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience. "I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer," the Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your bonnet." "I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," said Isabel, who had risen to her feet. The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation, pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other's Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio." "Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never so historical." "Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are Machiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!" "We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed. Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed; she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?" She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your sister too little." "Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to say--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister. She's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's rather unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to show it tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid husband, though I'm not sure she makes the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband's an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't put them together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she's not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was very right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take down that picture; you want more light." He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he gave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to a young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his medallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel felt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as they seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most of the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen specimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think for instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other people who were, relatively speaking, original--original, as one might say, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types already present to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr. Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that she recognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into order before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this "new relation" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle had had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediately gained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did, but rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original without being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain. The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended to impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouched features, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness of structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers produce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal points struck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity, somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and critical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had governed him--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of vulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted, arranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He had consulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sick man consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was what made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something of this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding him completely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see what he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--which was exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a harmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very interesting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what then was the finish of the capital? And she could put this question in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness as his--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectly consistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure the vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; he was critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting a good deal of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical view of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not grossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected that gradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both what pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that he was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge of his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiring mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done. There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been received, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of ciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held his little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend, who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which she found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had ceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive eyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought her quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame Merle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real intelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel's fatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with her) of exposing--not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively little--but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed her to express a liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment, would think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which the truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall into that grotesqueness--in which she had seen women (and it was a warning) serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was very careful therefore as to what she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more careful than she had ever been before. They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should take their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the servant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the golden light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that stretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richly as the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the landscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline, its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and classic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted to come back," Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the angles of the terrace. "I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of what you say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one's natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I were to settle in Florence." "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated." "The point's to find out where that is." "Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People ought to make it very plain to her." "Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me," smiled Isabel. "I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world." "I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day." "I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of pleasures." "It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought to choose something very deliberately, and be faithful to that." "By that rule then, I've not been frivolous." "Have you never made plans?" "Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day." "It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted herself to observe. "It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible." "As quiet?" the girl repeated. "Not to worry--not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be content with little." He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor's with the conscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something. "Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony. "Yes, because it's negative." "Has your life been negative?" "Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference. Mind you, not my natural indifference--I HAD none. But my studied, my wilful renunciation." She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. "I don't see why you should have renounced," she said in a moment. "Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There were two or three people in the world I envied--the Emperor of Russia, for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I envied the Pope of Rome--for the consideration he enjoys. I should have been delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn't be I didn't care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself, and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in Italy--I couldn't even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it then was, to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here on that quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't mean to say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for have been definite--limited. The events of my life have been absolutely unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a bargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering, as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some inspired idiot." This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's career if Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been mingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn't expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now desired to be--would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to express a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preserved his independence. "That's a very pleasant life," she said, "to renounce everything but Correggio!" "Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm whining about it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy." This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Have you lived here always?" "No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in Rome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change, however; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. My daughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best for Pansy." "Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl." "Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of heaven! She is my great happiness!"

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady42.asp

Isabel and Madame Merle ride out to Gilbert Osmonds hill-top house one afternoon. In looking at the house, one saw that there was something "grave and strong in ; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out." Isabel, however, isnt at all interested in getting out. She goes inside and meets the Countess Gemini, Gilbert Osmonds bird- like sister, who talks incessantly and irritatingly. Isabel realizes that "perfect simplicity not the badge of his family." She feels the need to be very direct. Isabel and Gilbert Osmond talk together while Madame merle and the Countess talk. She finds him putting out a special effort to be charming. He tells her it is sad to think she will move along soon. She hints that she might settle in Florence. He tells her his witty opinions of her aunt. Isabel feels a thrill of a new relation to a new person. When his sister and Madame Merle go out to the garden, he asks her what she thinks of his sister. She wont say since she hasnt known her for long. He tells her that his sister is unhappily married and responds the sadness of her life in being comic. Isabel thinks of Gilbert Osmond as resembling no one else shes ever seen. He seems like an original, more so even than her aunt. He seems very fine to her. She realizes he has consulted his taste in everything in his life. She thinks of him as having achieved the refinement of high culture. He takes her on a tour of another two rooms, showing her all his art works. She begins to feel very tired from the effort of trying to say and notice exactly the right things. She can no longer follow him and hopes he wont find out that shes not as intelligent as he has been led to believe. They go out to the garden to join the others. It is beautiful outside. He asks her again if she will come back to visit him and if she will settle in Florence. She tells him she will come back and that she doesnt know yet where she will settle. He tells her "a womans natural mission is to be where shes most appreciated." Then he tells her what his plan of life has been. It has been not to strive or struggle, but to resign himself and to be content with little. He calls it a willful renunciation. He tells her he had no prospects and no fortune and so he decided when he was a young man--the "most fastidious young gentleman alive"-- that he would do nothing. He tells her the events of his life have been unnoticed by anyone else but himself. Isabel thinks to herself that he must be leaving out the human element in describing his life out of modesty or reserve. She thinks he must have had relations with people. Still, she thinks it must have been a pleasant life to renounce everything but art. He tells her he wont be able to keep it up for much longer since hell have to take his daughter into account now, calling Pansy "a little saint of heaven."

Notes Gilbert Osmond takes the first step in fulfilling Madame Merles ambitions for him. He woos Isabel Archer in the most subtle way. Isabel Archer has a few categories in her mind in which she finds a place for all the people she knows. Mr. Osmond, however, fits none of these categories, and it is just such a nature that is likely to attract Isabel intensely. The other elements of this scene that are sure to attract Isabel include the romantic and the artistic. Ralph has said in the previous chapter that Mr. Osmond is like a prince who abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and then lived the rest of his life in a state of constant disgust. Gilbert Osmond says almost the same thing of himself, but puts it in a more flattering light. He tells her that he was "the most fastidious young gentleman living" in his youth and decided that since he could do nothing really to distinguish himself, he would do nothing at all. So he renounced all activity. Isabel falls into the trap that many new lovers do. She doesnt believe what he says. She supplies the romantic cloak to drape over the bare truth that he has told her. She says to herself that there must be a "human element" in this renunciation and that he is just not telling her all of it at once. In Gilbert Osmonds family, the reader might find an ominous note for any future wife. His daughter is praised for her abject submissiveness. She is treated as an otherworldly angel or a this- worldly piece of art. His sister is unhappily married and a frenetic talker who cant pause for a moment, it seems, to be real with a new person she meets. If Madame Merle can be considered part of the family by virtue of her intimacy with its members, she is also not the best figure to produce warm family feeling. What is it here then that would attract a young woman from American who has spent most of her life in a library reading? Gilbert Osmond is the prince without a princess. His sister is a countess. Pansy Osmond is the precious jewel of a daughter. Perhaps Madame Merle is the fairly godmother.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_24_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady43.asp", "summary": "As Osmond and Isabel are chatting, Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sit silently. Then the Countess starts up agitation, telling Madame Merle that she plans to interfere in her plan to get Isabel to marry her brother. She says she likes Isabel and wants to save her from their scheme. Madame Merle tells her she is running up against three people who have stronger wills than she does. She includes Isabel Archer in this group. She tells the Countess that she is sure that Isabel has already fallen in love with Gilbert Osmond. Pansy comes up to them and asks if they think her father would like her to serve tea. The Countess answers ironically about not knowing Gilbert Osmonds desires and Madame Merle says she should make the tea since her father would think it was exactly the thing a young daughter of the house should do. They continue their conversation. The Countess says Gilbert Osmond wont be a good husband. Madame Merle says he will probably be a gentleman. She says its better that they should always act together. The Countess takes this as a threat. The countess looks at her brother and says he is a nobody. He has never done anything and there is nothing grand in his origin. Madame Merle says the Osmonds are a fine race and Gilbert has just perceived this whether or not he has had proof. She adds that Pansy is clearly a young princess. She says Gilbert Osmond is the cleverest of men. The Countess comes back to Isabel, saying it is a shame she is being sacrificed just for her money since any girl would do; they dont have to have such a superior one. Madame Merle says Gilbert Osmond wouldnt have looked at any one inferior. The Countess says that since her brother is so hard to please, she trembles for Isabels happiness.", "analysis": "Notes In stark contrast to Isabels romantic musings of the previous chapter, this chapter gives us the jaded views of the two other women in Gilbert Osmonds life. His sister proves to be just as Ralph said she was--kinder than her brother. She recognizes the plot hatched by Madame Merle to marry Osmond to a rich young woman and she wants to find a way to stop it because she has taken a liking to Isabel. However, in the conversation itself, it is clear that she will prove ineffectual. Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond seem to be much the superiors of the Countess Gemini in accomplishing their goals."}

While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion, breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks. They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a more nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for would not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend from her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which point her eyes followed them. "My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me if I don't congratulate you!" "Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should." "Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the Countess nodded at the sequestered couple. Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very well," she smiled. "No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just now you DON'T wish." "You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle gravely, yet without bitterness. "You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such things?" "What your brother says has a point." "Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But it will be much better that you should understand me." "Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?" "If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to appreciate the danger of my interfering with it." Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think me more calculating than I am." "It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong. You've done so in this case." "You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that." "No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said the Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very much." "So do I," Madame Merle mentioned. "You've a strange way of showing it." "Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance." "That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that could happen to her!" Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. "My dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not to agitate yourself. The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose than yourself." "Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very strong of purpose?" "Quite as much so as we." "Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's her interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!" "Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed to compulsion or deception." "I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But together you're dangerous--like some chemical combination." "You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle. "I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl." "My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into your head." "I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like her." Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you." The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!" "If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her," said Madame Merle. "I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two interviews." Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view, persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment, while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced. The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently approached her aunt. "Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?" The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without answering her question. "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best frock?" "Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common occasions." "Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder." Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile. "I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I expose it beside your beautiful things?" "Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't dress you so well as they might." The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a good little dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would allow me?" "Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me, your father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better. Ask HER." Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty question--let me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful little daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of the house--when she grows up." "So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how well I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself at the table. "Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle, remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of your visitor." "Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's," Pansy objected. "Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle. "I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me." "Do you like her then?" the Countess asked. "She's charming--charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly." "And how do you think she pleases your father?" "Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and call them to tea," she went on to the child. "You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed to summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace. "If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know if the child likes her," said the Countess. "If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to need a husband rather than a stepmother." "And will you provide the husband as well?" "I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I imagine you'll do the same." "Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all women, set such a price on a husband?" "You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a husband I mean a good one." "There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one." Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really object either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help." "Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me. Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman." "It's much better that we should always act together," Madame Merle went on. "Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising. Madame Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed, you've not my coolness!" Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd make her happy?" the Countess demanded. "If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman." The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do you mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that. But does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen any one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who is he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything particularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior clay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But there's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally been said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's descended from the gods." "You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened to this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a fine race--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother, like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not had the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try." "I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little." "We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men." "I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he has done." "What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he has known how to wait." "To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?" "That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has seventy thousand pounds." "Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior." "If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must have the best." "Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her happiness!"

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady43.asp

As Osmond and Isabel are chatting, Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sit silently. Then the Countess starts up agitation, telling Madame Merle that she plans to interfere in her plan to get Isabel to marry her brother. She says she likes Isabel and wants to save her from their scheme. Madame Merle tells her she is running up against three people who have stronger wills than she does. She includes Isabel Archer in this group. She tells the Countess that she is sure that Isabel has already fallen in love with Gilbert Osmond. Pansy comes up to them and asks if they think her father would like her to serve tea. The Countess answers ironically about not knowing Gilbert Osmonds desires and Madame Merle says she should make the tea since her father would think it was exactly the thing a young daughter of the house should do. They continue their conversation. The Countess says Gilbert Osmond wont be a good husband. Madame Merle says he will probably be a gentleman. She says its better that they should always act together. The Countess takes this as a threat. The countess looks at her brother and says he is a nobody. He has never done anything and there is nothing grand in his origin. Madame Merle says the Osmonds are a fine race and Gilbert has just perceived this whether or not he has had proof. She adds that Pansy is clearly a young princess. She says Gilbert Osmond is the cleverest of men. The Countess comes back to Isabel, saying it is a shame she is being sacrificed just for her money since any girl would do; they dont have to have such a superior one. Madame Merle says Gilbert Osmond wouldnt have looked at any one inferior. The Countess says that since her brother is so hard to please, she trembles for Isabels happiness.

Notes In stark contrast to Isabels romantic musings of the previous chapter, this chapter gives us the jaded views of the two other women in Gilbert Osmonds life. His sister proves to be just as Ralph said she was--kinder than her brother. She recognizes the plot hatched by Madame Merle to marry Osmond to a rich young woman and she wants to find a way to stop it because she has taken a liking to Isabel. However, in the conversation itself, it is clear that she will prove ineffectual. Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond seem to be much the superiors of the Countess Gemini in accomplishing their goals.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_25_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 26

chapter 26

{"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady44.asp", "summary": "Gilbert Osmond comes to the Palazzo Crescentini five times. Mrs. Touchett realizes he has never come more than twice in a single year and that since he cant possibly be interested in Madame Merle, he must be interested in Isabel. She asks Ralph about it and he says it is sure that Gilbert Osmond is interested in Isabel, but that they neednt worry since Isabel has higher plans than would be fulfilled by Osmond. Mrs. Touchett also confers with Madame Merle about it. Madame Merle acts as if the thought hasnt occurred to her, but says she will sound Gilbert Osmond out about it and advises Mrs. Touchett not to say anything to Isabel. Isabel, her own part, has developed her initial romantic image of Gilbert Osmond as a \"quiet, clever, sensitive, distinguished man, who is living a \"lonely, studious life in a lovely land,\" picturesquely standing beside his remarkably innocent daughter. The Countess Gemini comes to call several times as well. Mrs. Touchett doesnt like to receive her since she is such a scandal to talk to. Madame Merle tries to soothe her about the Countess taking the latters part. By the way of doing this, she informs Isabel of Amy and Gilbert Osmonds parentage. Their mother had been a minor poet who moved to Italy with her two children after her husband, \"originally rice and wild,\" had died. Isabel tries to be kind to the Countess only because she likes Gilbert Osmond and wants to like his sister. Meanwhile, Henrietta Stackpole comes to Venice and spends time with Isabel. She has been having a wonderful time in France and is now proceeding through Italy. She is preceded by Mr. Bantling, who tells Ralph of his admiration for her and his determination to follow through with all that she allows him of her company just to see how far shell go. When Henrietta arrives, she proposes a trip to Rome. Ralph wants to go as well. The four of them leave together. Gilbert Osmond meets Madame Merle at the Countess Geminis house at one of her parties. He sits slightly behind and to the side of Madame Merle and they carry on a conversation in whispers, acting like they are not together. They discuss the idea of Madame Merles of getting him and Isabel Archer married. He tells her that the way she takes his attention to the younger woman is beautiful. He tells her Isabel is \"not disagreeable.\" She says he is \"unfathomable\" and that she is afraid \"at the abyss into which shall have cast . \" He gets up and leaves, but when she gets up to leave the house, he goes out with her. When they get outside and shes in her carriage, she scolds him with being so indiscreet. They continue their conversation. He tells her Isabel is very charming and graceful. Madame Merle says the more he likes Isabel, the better it is for her, Madame Merle. Gilbert says the only problem with Isabel is that she has too many ideas, but since theyre bad ideas, its not so bad, since they will have to be sacrificed. Their last words are about Pansy. Madame Merle says shell take care of Pansy while he goes to Rome.", "analysis": "Notes This is an unusual chapter for this novel. In it, Henry James shifts point of view from one scene to the next and from one character to the next whereas in most of the chapters of the novel, he maintains more of a unity of scene and point of view. At most, he describes two scenes in one chapter. Here, however, he begins with Mrs. Touchetts point of view as she recognizes Gilbert Osmonds increase in visits to her house and her guess that he is interested in Isabel. Second, we get an almost imperceptible shift to Ralphs point of view as he thinks it is true that Gilbert Osmond is interested in Isabel, but feels sure that Isabel wont be interested in him for long. Next, the scene shifts to a conversation between Mrs. Touchett and Madame Merle in which Madame Merle pretends that she has had not inkling of the budding romance and then promises to sound Gilbert Osmond out about it. Fourth, there is a description of the Countess Gemini making visits to Mrs. Touchetts house and the flurry this causes. This gives James a chance to bring in more background on Gilbert Osmonds family background. Fifth, we get an update on the career of Henrietta Stackpole who has arrived in Venice and who proposes a trip to Rome. With Isabel and her party dispatched to Rome, we get the sixth and last scene, Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle having a clandestine conversation together at a party about whether he should go to Rome as well. The chapter is structured almost as a play with six acts, the final one being the cliff hanger. We are left sure that Gilbert Osmond will proceed to Rome and finish off the wooing of Isabel Archer. Her champion--Ralph Touchett--is disarmed by his own romantic projections. He thinks too highly of his hopes for Isabel to think that she will spoil them by marrying Osmond. The structure of the chapter also functions to build up the final suspense before the end of Volume I. In this way, Volume I gains a certain wholeness, with its own rising action and climax. All the characters are brought together. All Isabels satellite figures are in place, ready to witness her decision in regard to her future."}

Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to Palazzo Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchett and Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former of these ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight he called five times, and compared it with another fact that she found no difficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constituted his regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she had never observed him select for such visits those moments, of almost periodical recurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Madame Merle that he came; these two were old friends and he never put himself out for her. He was not fond of Ralph--Ralph had told her so--and it was not supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son. Ralph was imperturbable--Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity that wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he never divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and was willing at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But he didn't flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice was the motive of their visitor's calls; he read the situation more clearly. Isabel was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one. Osmond was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he should be curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed to him that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied that he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back found a place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly by what art and what process--so negative and so wise as they were--he had everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never been an importunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive, and he was recommended to her by his appearance of being as well able to do without her as she was to do without him--a quality that always, oddly enough, affected her as providing ground for a relation with her. It gave her no satisfaction, however, to think that he had taken it into his head to marry her niece. Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an air of almost morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the girl had refused an English peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord Warburton had not successfully wrestled should content herself with an obscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child and an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's conception of success. She took, it will be observed, not the sentimental, but the political, view of matrimony--a view which has always had much to recommend it. "I trust she won't have the folly to listen to him," she said to her son; to which Ralph replied that Isabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another. He knew she had listened to several parties, as his father would have said, but had made them listen in return; and he found much entertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing her he should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to see life, and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of fine gentlemen going down on their knees to her would do as well as anything else. Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth besieger; he had no conviction she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar and open a parley; she would certainly not allow number three to come in. He expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother, who looked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful, pictorial way of saying things that he might as well address her in the deaf-mute's alphabet. "I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use too many figures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words in the language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr. Osmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone to find a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very little about the young man in America; I don't think she spends much of her time in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for her. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond if she only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very well; no one approves more than I of one's pleasing one's self. But she takes her pleasure in such odd things; she's capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for the beauty of his opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo. She wants to be disinterested: as if she were the only person who's in danger of not being so! Will HE be so disinterested when he has the spending of her money? That was her idea before your father's death, and it has acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one of whose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no such proof of that as his having a fortune of his own." "My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She's making fools of us all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by studying human nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She has started on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll change her course, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have slackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll be steaming away again. Excuse another metaphor." Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as to withhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. "You who know everything," she said, "you must know this: whether that curious creature's really making love to my niece." "Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full intelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed, "that's an idea!" "Hadn't it occurred to you?" "You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder," she added, "if it has occurred to Isabel." "Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The thing would be to ask Mr. Osmond." "I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him enquire of me--as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel's situation--what business it is of mine." "I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared. "But what business--for HIM--is it of yours?" "It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's so much less my business than any one's else that he can put me off with anything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall know." "Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits of your penetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can speak to Isabel." Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don't be too quick with her. Don't inflame her imagination." "I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'm always sure of her doing something--well, not of MY kind." "No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed without the point of interrogation. "Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solid to offer." Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her mouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. "Let us distinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a man who in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. He has made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once." "Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs; they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What you say's precisely why I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that I know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pert little daughter." "The early masters are now worth a good deal of money," said Madame Merle, "and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and very harmless person." "In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean? Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so that Isabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with a dowry." "Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she likes the poor child." "Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, a week hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her mission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself--and that, to prove it, she must first become one." "She would make a charming stepmother," smiled Madame Merle; "but I quite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission too hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose: there they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character--one has to begin too far back. But I'll investigate and report to you." All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions that her relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle had said nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly to him than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now arrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer's aunt. Isabel thought him interesting--she came back to that; she liked so to think of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to his hill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface and which put on for her a particular harmony with other supposed and divined things, histories within histories: the image of a quiet, clever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace above the sweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whose bell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picture had no flourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the atmosphere of summer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of the kind of personal issue that touched her most nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects, contacts--what might she call them?--of a thin and those of a rich association; of a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old sorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was perhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a care for beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that the career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and with the ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italian garden--allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews of a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini Mr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first--oh self-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which usually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, rather aggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured by the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficulty in believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs of strong conviction--as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciation of anything that might be said on his own side of the question, said perhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this young woman was that while he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as she had heard people, for "effect." He uttered his ideas as if, odd as they often appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; old polished knobs and heads and handles, of precious substance, that could be fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks--not switches plucked in destitution from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One day he brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew acquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be kissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue in a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern; American girls were very different--different too were the maidens of England. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the world, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and infantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine mantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given her--little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet of blank paper--the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that so fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text. The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was quite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had been written over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no means honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeable blots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to some discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor from Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritate people by always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enough of that large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freely as she practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity that this highly compromised character should have presented herself at such a time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so little as she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini. Isabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under that roof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so mismanaged her improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all--which was at the least what one asked of such matters--and had become the mere floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation. She had been married by her mother--a more administrative person, with an appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her justice, had probably by this time thrown off--to an Italian nobleman who had perhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousness of outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself outrageously, and the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of her adventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though the Countess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city; but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere. Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and wit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of a woman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong way. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one should draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would exclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had better shut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long as she remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make arbitrary differences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not been so clever as other women. She was a good creature, not clever at all; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the best society? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and there could be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways than her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabel could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patient attention; she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome to the unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit of being Mr. Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it proper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of things she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not received the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident. Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related the history of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member of an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yet not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able to offer--a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her brother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however, had inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians went, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-lived brute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she had lost three within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristled with pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and corresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her mother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father, lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally rich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle held--see that he had been brought up by a woman; though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be called. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death, and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her arrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity of judgement on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond, approved of political marriages. The Countess was very good company and not really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was to observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said. Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake; he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be confessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name. Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism, her violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his nerves, she was not HIS sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh, the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be habitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times her visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almost exclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer; how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people in Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she should like to live somewhere else--in Paris, in London, in Washington; how impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little old lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life of suffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interest to Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feel exempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess, and she could afford to do what was altogether best--not to appear so. Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her back, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had left Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked her way down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the banks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her with a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang of despair determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delight in her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as a nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and Isabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to her friend's intelligence. Henrietta's arrival had been announced by Mr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and expecting to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached, called at Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment. Henrietta's own advent occurred two days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion amply accounted for by the fact that he had not seen her since the termination of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his situation was generally taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph Touchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked a cigar there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on the subject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentleman took the joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that he regarded the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He liked Miss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on her shoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was not perpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she did, how what they did--and they had done things!--would look. Miss Stackpole never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care, pray why should he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted awfully to see if she ever WOULD care. He was prepared to go as far as she--he didn't see why he should break down first. Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightened on her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of her copious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes with regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent, bristled with difficulties even more numerous than those she had encountered in England. But on the Continent there was the outer life, which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily convertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque islanders. Out of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously remarked, one seemed to see the right side of the tapestry; out of doors in England one seemed to see the wrong side, which gave one no notion of the figure. The admission costs her historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of more occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life. She had been studying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sent to the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza, the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chanted Tasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was at least seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome before the malaria should come on--she apparently supposed that it began on a fixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present but few days in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and she pointed out to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he was a military man and as he had had a classical education--he had been bred at Eton, where they study nothing but Latin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole--he would be a most useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At this juncture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also, under his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected to pass a portion of the next winter there--that was very well; but meantime there was no harm in surveying the field. There were ten days left of the beautiful month of May--the most precious month of all to the true Rome-lover. Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a foregone conclusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of her own sex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady's attention, would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remain with Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn't care to return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peace in Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to Palestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal, and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing to be despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of four arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, had resigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen that she now inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One of Isabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before she started and mentioning her intention to him. "I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "I should like to see you on that wonderful ground." She scarcely faltered. "You might come then." "But you'll have a lot of people with you." "Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone." For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went on at last. "They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it." "Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear--the Niobe of Nations, you know--it has been spoiled?" she asked. "No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled. "If I were to go, what should I do with my little girl?" "Can't you leave her at the villa?" "I don't know that I like that--though there's a very good old woman who looks after her. I can't afford a governess." "Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly. Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter, at her convent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure." "You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired. "No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world." "I was brought up on a different system." "You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you--you were exceptional." "I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was not some truth in the speech. Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it would make her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her there to-morrow." "Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her like herself." "I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. He had almost the air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his domestic matters with Miss Archer. "Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towards making her resemble me!" After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the Countess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess's drawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general, but after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman half-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair. "She wants me to go to Rome with her," he remarked in a low voice. "To go with her?" "To be there while she's there. She proposed it. "I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented." "Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging--she's very encouraging." "I rejoice to hear it--but don't cry victory too soon. Of course you'll go to Rome." "Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!" "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it--you're very ungrateful. You've not been so well occupied these many years." "The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to be grateful for that." "Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She talked with her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room. "You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself that you've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to oblige me." "The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded. Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips closed with a certain firmness. "Is that all you can find to say about that fine creature?" "All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?" She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to the room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. "I'm frightened at the abyss into which I shall have cast her." He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back--you've gone too far." "Very good; but you must do the rest yourself." "I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond. Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but when she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was awaiting her guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it he stood there detaining her. "You're very indiscreet," she said rather wearily; "you shouldn't have moved when I did." He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. "I always forget; I'm out of the habit." "You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up at the windows of the house, a modern structure in the new part of the town. He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. "She's really very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful." "It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the better for me." "I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the bargain capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault." "What's that?" "Too many ideas." "I warned you she was clever." "Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond. "Why is that fortunate?" "Dame, if they must be sacrificed!" Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke to the coachman. But her friend again detained her. "If I go to Rome what shall I do with Pansy?" "I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.

Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady44.asp

Gilbert Osmond comes to the Palazzo Crescentini five times. Mrs. Touchett realizes he has never come more than twice in a single year and that since he cant possibly be interested in Madame Merle, he must be interested in Isabel. She asks Ralph about it and he says it is sure that Gilbert Osmond is interested in Isabel, but that they neednt worry since Isabel has higher plans than would be fulfilled by Osmond. Mrs. Touchett also confers with Madame Merle about it. Madame Merle acts as if the thought hasnt occurred to her, but says she will sound Gilbert Osmond out about it and advises Mrs. Touchett not to say anything to Isabel. Isabel, her own part, has developed her initial romantic image of Gilbert Osmond as a "quiet, clever, sensitive, distinguished man, who is living a "lonely, studious life in a lovely land," picturesquely standing beside his remarkably innocent daughter. The Countess Gemini comes to call several times as well. Mrs. Touchett doesnt like to receive her since she is such a scandal to talk to. Madame Merle tries to soothe her about the Countess taking the latters part. By the way of doing this, she informs Isabel of Amy and Gilbert Osmonds parentage. Their mother had been a minor poet who moved to Italy with her two children after her husband, "originally rice and wild," had died. Isabel tries to be kind to the Countess only because she likes Gilbert Osmond and wants to like his sister. Meanwhile, Henrietta Stackpole comes to Venice and spends time with Isabel. She has been having a wonderful time in France and is now proceeding through Italy. She is preceded by Mr. Bantling, who tells Ralph of his admiration for her and his determination to follow through with all that she allows him of her company just to see how far shell go. When Henrietta arrives, she proposes a trip to Rome. Ralph wants to go as well. The four of them leave together. Gilbert Osmond meets Madame Merle at the Countess Geminis house at one of her parties. He sits slightly behind and to the side of Madame Merle and they carry on a conversation in whispers, acting like they are not together. They discuss the idea of Madame Merles of getting him and Isabel Archer married. He tells her that the way she takes his attention to the younger woman is beautiful. He tells her Isabel is "not disagreeable." She says he is "unfathomable" and that she is afraid "at the abyss into which shall have cast . " He gets up and leaves, but when she gets up to leave the house, he goes out with her. When they get outside and shes in her carriage, she scolds him with being so indiscreet. They continue their conversation. He tells her Isabel is very charming and graceful. Madame Merle says the more he likes Isabel, the better it is for her, Madame Merle. Gilbert says the only problem with Isabel is that she has too many ideas, but since theyre bad ideas, its not so bad, since they will have to be sacrificed. Their last words are about Pansy. Madame Merle says shell take care of Pansy while he goes to Rome.

Notes This is an unusual chapter for this novel. In it, Henry James shifts point of view from one scene to the next and from one character to the next whereas in most of the chapters of the novel, he maintains more of a unity of scene and point of view. At most, he describes two scenes in one chapter. Here, however, he begins with Mrs. Touchetts point of view as she recognizes Gilbert Osmonds increase in visits to her house and her guess that he is interested in Isabel. Second, we get an almost imperceptible shift to Ralphs point of view as he thinks it is true that Gilbert Osmond is interested in Isabel, but feels sure that Isabel wont be interested in him for long. Next, the scene shifts to a conversation between Mrs. Touchett and Madame Merle in which Madame Merle pretends that she has had not inkling of the budding romance and then promises to sound Gilbert Osmond out about it. Fourth, there is a description of the Countess Gemini making visits to Mrs. Touchetts house and the flurry this causes. This gives James a chance to bring in more background on Gilbert Osmonds family background. Fifth, we get an update on the career of Henrietta Stackpole who has arrived in Venice and who proposes a trip to Rome. With Isabel and her party dispatched to Rome, we get the sixth and last scene, Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle having a clandestine conversation together at a party about whether he should go to Rome as well. The chapter is structured almost as a play with six acts, the final one being the cliff hanger. We are left sure that Gilbert Osmond will proceed to Rome and finish off the wooing of Isabel Archer. Her champion--Ralph Touchett--is disarmed by his own romantic projections. He thinks too highly of his hopes for Isabel to think that she will spoil them by marrying Osmond. The structure of the chapter also functions to build up the final suspense before the end of Volume I. In this way, Volume I gains a certain wholeness, with its own rising action and climax. All the characters are brought together. All Isabels satellite figures are in place, ready to witness her decision in regard to her future.

pinkmonkey

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Portrait of a Lady.chapter 27

chapter 27

{"name": "Chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady45.asp", "summary": "Isabel loves Rome and has a very happy time exploring it with her friends. One day, Isabel sits down to rest alone and is met by Lord Warburton, just returned from a six month journey to the east. His looks very handsome and English. He tells her he has written to her many times but has never sent the letters. He tells her he cant stop thinking of her. He promises to leave the matter to rest, but it is clear he wishes he could continue to press his case with her. He will be in Rome for a week or so. Isabel feels it is awkward to have Lord Warburton in Rome, but theres nothing to be done about it. One day, they go to Saint Peters and just as she is walking with Lord Warburton, she turns around to find Gilbert Osmond. He tells her he came to be with her and she blushes, worrying Lord Warburton will have heard this. Ralph and the others come out of the church and join them. Then Ralph and Lord Warburton walk off together and discuss the possibility of Isabel falling in love with Gilbert Osmond. Ralph says Isabel wants nothing either of the two of them can give her.", "analysis": "Notes Chapter 27, the last chapter of Volume I, brings all the satellite figures together around Isabel Archer. It ends on the discussion of Ralph Touchett and Lord Warburton about the likelihood of Isabels falling in love with Gilbert Osmond."}

I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's response to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression was such as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her eagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an imagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she turned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her, but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked less than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an intensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she would even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her, but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it wings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed that she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her, and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often in the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet not seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers. Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been for some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each. Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signori to go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much to her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the corrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman past to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering the ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching footsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She looked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as she was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale surprise. "Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose. "I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you." She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions have just left me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there." "Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly. "Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her dejected pillar. "I'm afraid you're tired." "Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again. "Don't let me interrupt you," she added. "Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passing through." "You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned from Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England. "Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've been in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens." He managed not to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at the girl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will you let me stay a little?" She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton; I'm very glad to see you." "Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?" The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he had asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as he put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching the answer; had given her too some information about himself which was not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once that he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the encounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation advisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things to their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being impossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting, heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands is wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every one of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great decent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by some whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order; her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said that it scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you several times." "Written to me? I've never had your letters." "I never sent them. I burned them up." "Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!" "I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right to trouble you with letters." "I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped that--that--" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the utterance of her thought. "I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain good friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so. She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that"; a speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other. "It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed with force. "I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still as she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than he. But her answer remained. "It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in your power," she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation. "I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain's greater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small conscious majesty, looking for her companions. "I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I only just want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it were. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I expressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I tried to forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty. I didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't distract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw you. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably charm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist; it's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were." He had recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He might have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved. "I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You may be sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of which she tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: "There's no harm in that on either side." They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad it was still so distant. "Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?" she enquired with some anxiety. "Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one would treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to stop a week or two." "Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!" His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't like that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me." "It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leave this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you." "Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful." They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. "Poor Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be good for both of them. "Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful." "You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow." "If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." At this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a word to displease you." "Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end." "Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave." "Give you leave to make me unhappy?" He hesitated. "To tell you again--" But he checked himself. "I'll keep it down. I'll keep it down always." Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious, there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet, and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. "I don't suppose you remember me, sir." "Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to come and see me, and you never came." "I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly. "Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh. "If you do I'll go; so be sure!" Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly "Oh, you here, Bantling?" and a hand-shake. "Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!" "I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoined facetiously. "I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you." "Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton laughed again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of relief as they kept their course homeward. The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long letters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians) follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and frank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him whether it would "pay" for her to visit those countries assured her they offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong sort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply that he must follow his convenience. In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there is something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her. Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place. "So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand. "Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They told me you had come here, and I looked about for you." "The others are inside," she decided to say. "I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned. She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr. Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take the case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however, from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence, that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris. "I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased to remark, "but for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's the only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don't appreciate." "What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile enquiring of our young lady. "It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with replying. "It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom." "Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?" she asked with rather a liking for her phrase. "I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else." "You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering something he had referred to in Florence. "Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond. Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled away together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?" his lordship demanded. "His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence," Ralph said. "What is he besides?" "Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's so little of one." "Has he known Miss Archer long?" "Three or four weeks." "Does she like him?" "She's trying to find out." "And will she?" "Find out--?" Ralph asked. "Will she like him?" "Do you mean will she accept him?" "Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's what I horribly mean." "Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied. His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must be perfectly quiet?" "As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added. "The chance she may?" "The chance she may not?" Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. "Is he awfully clever?" "Awfully," said Ralph. His companion thought. "And what else?" "What more do you want?" Ralph groaned. "Do you mean what more does SHE?" Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others. "She wants nothing that WE can give her." "Ah well, if she won't have You--!" said his lordship handsomely as they went.

Chapter 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady45.asp

Isabel loves Rome and has a very happy time exploring it with her friends. One day, Isabel sits down to rest alone and is met by Lord Warburton, just returned from a six month journey to the east. His looks very handsome and English. He tells her he has written to her many times but has never sent the letters. He tells her he cant stop thinking of her. He promises to leave the matter to rest, but it is clear he wishes he could continue to press his case with her. He will be in Rome for a week or so. Isabel feels it is awkward to have Lord Warburton in Rome, but theres nothing to be done about it. One day, they go to Saint Peters and just as she is walking with Lord Warburton, she turns around to find Gilbert Osmond. He tells her he came to be with her and she blushes, worrying Lord Warburton will have heard this. Ralph and the others come out of the church and join them. Then Ralph and Lord Warburton walk off together and discuss the possibility of Isabel falling in love with Gilbert Osmond. Ralph says Isabel wants nothing either of the two of them can give her.

Notes Chapter 27, the last chapter of Volume I, brings all the satellite figures together around Isabel Archer. It ends on the discussion of Ralph Touchett and Lord Warburton about the likelihood of Isabels falling in love with Gilbert Osmond.

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Portrait of a Lady.chapter 28

chapter 28

{"name": "Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady46.asp", "summary": "VOLUME 2 Chapter 28 The next evening Lord Warburton goes to the opera where he looks for Isabel and the others. He sees Isabel sitting in the opera box with Gilbert Osmond and feels sick at the sight. He meets Ralph on the stairs. Ralph looks dejected and tells him he feels very low. He stays only a short time with the others and then leaves. Gilbert Osmond asks Isabel about Lord Warburton. She tells him Lord Warburton is irreproachable. Henrietta Stackpole adds information about his wealth and his ideas. Isabel indicates that she is not interested in Lord Warburton, though she likes him. Ralph ironically notes Isabels tendency to call Warburton \"poor Lord Warburton\" is a way of coping with having hurt him. Lord Warburton finds Isabel a day later and tells her he plans to leave Rome early since he cant do as she has asked him to do-- not talk about his wish to marry her. She is by turns cold to him and kind to him. He leaves. As she is sitting alone looking at the Roman statues around her, Gilbert Osmond comes up. He asks her about Lord Warburton. She indicates the Lord Warburton has been gone for some time. He thinks to himself that it will be good to have Isabel among his \"collection of choice objects\" since she has turned down a British noble. He has always been peeved at fate for not having made him a noble, so he likes the idea of winning a woman who turned one down.", "analysis": "Notes Volume 2 begins on an ominous note as Isabel Archer says good- bye to the noble Lord Warburton and turns to Gilbert Osmond and he, for his part, thinks to himself the ignoble thought that he will be happy to add Isabel to his collection of rare treasures. Since he has always felt cheated by the universe for not having given him an English dukedom, he can gloat about the thought that his wife turned an English peer down."}

On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when he had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary theatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box; and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were. "I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely and want company," was Ralph's greeting. "You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted." "Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't want me. Then Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either. The opera's very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like peacocks. I feel very low." "You had better go home," Lord Warburton said without affectation. "And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over her." "She seems to have plenty of friends." "Yes, that's why I must watch," said Ralph with the same large mock-melancholy. "If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me." "No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about." Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr. Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing, quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him, formally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with such arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera began again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however; after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said nothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled again. Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she would have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry. Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under the stars. "What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked of Isabel after he had retired. "Irreproachable--don't you see it?" "He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta remarked. "That's what they call a free country!" "Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert Osmond. "Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?" cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants and has thousands of them. It's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me. I don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences." "It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bantling suggested jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me." "Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has very advanced opinions." "He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta announced for the information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like him to converse with a few of our Boston radicals." "Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling. "Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were talking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass." "Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmond went on, questioning Isabel. "Well enough for all the use I have for him." "And how much of a use is that?" "Well, I like to like him." "'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond. "No"--she considered--"keep that for liking to DISlike." "Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a passion for HIM?" She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate," she more easily added, "is a very nice man." "Of great ability?" her friend enquired. "Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks." "As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking. How detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your high favour! That's a man I could envy." Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to be always envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord Warburton." "My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to destroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy only myself." "You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel. "I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But why"--Osmond reverted--"do you speak of your friend as poor?" "Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they've hurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness," said Ralph, joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent. "Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows as if the idea were perfectly fresh. "It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while the curtain rose for the ballet. Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the lion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come in with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert Osmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase, entered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her alertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery. "And I'm leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye." Isabel, inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret, but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which made him look at her rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me very 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop." "Oh no; you could easily change your mind." "That's what I have done." "Bon voyage then." "You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship quite dismally. "Not in the least. But I hate partings." "You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully. Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not keeping your promise!" He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because I can't; and that's why I'm going." "Good-bye then." "Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?" Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: "Some day after you're married." "That will never be. It will be after you are." "That will do as well," she smiled. "Yes, quite as well. Good-bye." They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence. It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude; which, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on the spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially, because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw a solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows of the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made them more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm of their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however, her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. "I'm surprised to find you alone, I thought you had company. "So I have--the best." And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun. "Do you call them better company than an English peer?" "Ah, my English peer left me some time ago." She got up, speaking with intention a little dryly. Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest of his question. "I'm afraid that what I heard the other evening is true: you're rather cruel to that nobleman." Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. "It's not true. I'm scrupulously kind." "That's exactly what I mean!" Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was fond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and now that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example of his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of taking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert Osmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so much for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for its solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing him to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of such conduct as Isabel's. It would be proper that the woman he might marry should have done something of that sort.

Chapter 28

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady46.asp

VOLUME 2 Chapter 28 The next evening Lord Warburton goes to the opera where he looks for Isabel and the others. He sees Isabel sitting in the opera box with Gilbert Osmond and feels sick at the sight. He meets Ralph on the stairs. Ralph looks dejected and tells him he feels very low. He stays only a short time with the others and then leaves. Gilbert Osmond asks Isabel about Lord Warburton. She tells him Lord Warburton is irreproachable. Henrietta Stackpole adds information about his wealth and his ideas. Isabel indicates that she is not interested in Lord Warburton, though she likes him. Ralph ironically notes Isabels tendency to call Warburton "poor Lord Warburton" is a way of coping with having hurt him. Lord Warburton finds Isabel a day later and tells her he plans to leave Rome early since he cant do as she has asked him to do-- not talk about his wish to marry her. She is by turns cold to him and kind to him. He leaves. As she is sitting alone looking at the Roman statues around her, Gilbert Osmond comes up. He asks her about Lord Warburton. She indicates the Lord Warburton has been gone for some time. He thinks to himself that it will be good to have Isabel among his "collection of choice objects" since she has turned down a British noble. He has always been peeved at fate for not having made him a noble, so he likes the idea of winning a woman who turned one down.

Notes Volume 2 begins on an ominous note as Isabel Archer says good- bye to the noble Lord Warburton and turns to Gilbert Osmond and he, for his part, thinks to himself the ignoble thought that he will be happy to add Isabel to his collection of rare treasures. Since he has always felt cheated by the universe for not having given him an English dukedom, he can gloat about the thought that his wife turned an English peer down.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_28_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 29

chapter 29

{"name": "Chapter 29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady47.asp", "summary": "Ralph Touchett has to admit that Gilbert Osmond is a delightful companion. Everyone is delighted with him. For his part, Gilbert Osmond is happy with everything about Isabel archer but one thing. He doesnt like her eagerness and enthusiasm in praising things they see. He feels that if it werent for this fault, \"she would have been as smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm.\" He is so pleased with everything, that he realizes he has never been so happy in his life. Usually, his pleasure in life is ruined by his perception of some flaw that ruins the whole. Now, he has a strong sense of success. Since hes never had success before, he is relishing the feeling. Isabel gets word from Mrs. Touchett that she is planning a trip to Bellaggio and would be happy to have Isabel along. Isabel wants to go and so one evening she discusses her plan with Gilbert Osmond. The discuss her prospects, whether she will come back, how long shell be gone, and how she will find him when she comes back. Isabel thinks he is judging her for wanting to travel. She says \"You dont think a woman ought to do that. You think it bold and ungraceful.\" He tells her this isnt so. He reminds her that his idea is that a person should treat life as if it were a work of art. Isabel should, therefore, do as she pleases. She tells him he knows everything and she knows nothing. He encourages her to travel, therefore, so she can learn. Isabel wonders if her travels will take her away from him so that she would never see him again. She thinks it wouldnt be a bad thing for this to happen because she doubts that she could be as happy with him again as she is now. He tells her he wants to tell her something. He tells her hes in love with her. She rises from her seat and tells him not to tell her this yet. He tells her again that he is \"absolutely in love with . \" Tears come to her eyes. She feels as if some \"fine bolt\" has slipped inside her and she doesnt know what it means. She feels as if shes holding something back and that if she touches it, it will all come out. He tells her this news shouldnt matter to her since he has nothing to offer her. He only tells her because its a relief. Being in love with her makes him happy and hes looking for nothing more than this. He tells her shes the \"most important woman in the world.\" Isabel tells him she doesnt know him. As they part, he tells her he likes the fact that shes going with her aunt since its proper that she should. He tells her hes not just conventional, but convention itself. He asks her to do him one favor in Venice. He wants her to visit his daughter who he has left alone at the Villa since he doesnt think his sister has the same ideas as himself. He leaves. Isabel sits and thinks. Her imagination has been going toward this eventuality of being in love with Gilbert Osmond for a week now, but now that he has told her he loves her, she feels stifled. She holds back. She feels as if in front of her is some \"last vague space\" which she cant cross--\"a dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous and even slightly treacherous.\"", "analysis": "Notes For the third time, Isabel sits and listens to a man tell her his feelings for her. The difference, here, is that he doesnt ask her to marry him; he only tells her he loves her. This time, she feels the fear that if she lets go, she will lose her reticence and go to him. Gilbert Osmond has certainly played his part well. He has made himself agreeable even to Ralph who admits that Osmond is a \"delightful associate.\" Just as Isabel is leaving Rome, he tells her he loves her and acts as though he expects nothing from this news. Such a seemingly passive position on his part is just what is required to let Isabel be active in choosing him for herself. To make sure of her, he adds one more element to his attractiveness. He asks her to go visit Pansy before she leaves. In this way, he makes Pansy part of the package. Since Pansy is a large part of why he wants to marry Isabel anyway--that is, to get Isabels money which will help Pansy marry well--it is fitting that he would include his daughter in his seduction of Isabel. For her own part, Isabel seems to have been quite won over. The manner of her succumbing is fairly disappointing, at least for a late twentieth century reader. She seems to have made of Gilbert Osmond some kind of god-like figure. She tells him he knows everything and she knows nothing. She worries that he thinks shes stupid for doing what she wants to do in traveling around the world. She worries that she is saying stupid words. She has lost much of her sense of self-confidence and her sense of her own powers of discretion and imagination. She seems to have ceded it all to him. Yet there are a couple of moments when she has an inkling that there is something about this relationship that should give hr pause. First, she thinks that if they dont meet again in the future, it will be fore the best since such a good experience cant be repeated. Second, she has a vague foreboding as she sits and thinks after hes left. She feels she will have to cross some treacherous ground in regard to him."}

Ralph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rather markedly qualified, as we know, his recognition of Gilbert Osmond's personal merits; but he might really have felt himself illiberal in the light of that gentleman's conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. Osmond spent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and ended by affecting them as the easiest of men to live with. Who wouldn't have seen that he could command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?--which perhaps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of superficial sociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel's invidious kinsman was obliged to admit that he was just now a delightful associate. His good humour was imperturbable, his knowledge of the right fact, his production of the right word, as convenient as the friendly flicker of a match for your cigarette. Clearly he was amused--as amused as a man could be who was so little ever surprised, and that made him almost applausive. It was not that his spirits were visibly high--he would never, in the concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as a knuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, to what he called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer sometimes of too precipitate a readiness. It was pity she had that fault, because if she had not had it she would really have had none; she would have been as smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm. If he was not personally loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing days of the Roman May he knew a complacency that matched with slow irregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the small sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with everything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at once. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening, going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to which he prefixed the title of "Rome Revisited." A day or two later he showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of life by a tribute to the muse. He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have admitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the fertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his spirit. But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever been in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation. This was simply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human heart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded himself. "Ah no, I've not been spoiled; certainly I've not been spoiled," he used inwardly to repeat. "If I do succeed before I die I shall thoroughly have earned it." He was too apt to reason as if "earning" this boon consisted above all of covertly aching for it and might be confined to that exercise. Absolutely void of it, also, his career had not been; he might indeed have suggested to a spectator here and there that he was resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were, some of them, now too old; others had been too easy. The present one had been less arduous than might have been expected, but had been easy--that is had been rapid--only because he had made an altogether exceptional effort, a greater effort than he had believed it in him to make. The desire to have something or other to show for his "parts"--to show somehow or other--had been the dream of his youth; but as the years went on the conditions attached to any marked proof of rarity had affected him more and more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugs of beer to advertise what one could "stand." If an anonymous drawing on a museum wall had been conscious and watchful it might have known this peculiar pleasure of being at last and all of a sudden identified--as from the hand of a great master--by the so high and so unnoticed fact of style. His "style" was what the girl had discovered with a little help; and now, beside herself enjoying it, she should publish it to the world without his having any of the trouble. She should do the thing FOR him, and he would not have waited in vain. Shortly before the time fixed in advance for her departure this young lady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram running as follows: "Leave Florence 4th June for Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other views. But can't wait if you dawdle in Rome." The dawdling in Rome was very pleasant, but Isabel had different views, and she let her aunt know she would immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that she had done so, and he replied that, spending many of his summers as well as his winters in Italy, he himself would loiter a little longer in the cool shadow of Saint Peter's. He would not return to Florence for ten days more, and in that time she would have started for Bellaggio. It might be months in this case before he should see her again. This exchange took place in the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our friends at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was to take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond had found the girl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friendship with a delightful American family on the fourth floor and had mounted the interminable staircase to pay them a visit. Henrietta contracted friendships, in travelling, with great freedom, and had formed in railway-carriages several that were among her most valued ties. Ralph was making arrangements for the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat alone in a wilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange; the walls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors, the pictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling was deeply vaulted and painted over with naked muses and cherubs. For Osmond the place was ugly to distress; the false colours, the sham splendour were like vulgar, bragging, lying talk. Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere, presented, on their arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in her lap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impatient to pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veil of pink tissue-paper burned on the table beside her and diffused a strange pale rosiness over the scene. "You say you'll come back; but who knows?" Gilbert Osmond said. "I think you're much more likely to start on your voyage round the world. You're under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what you choose; you can roam through space." "Well, Italy's a part of space," Isabel answered. "I can take it on the way." "On the way round the world? No, don't do that. Don't put us in a parenthesis--give us a chapter to ourselves. I don't want to see you on your travels. I'd rather see you when they're over. I should like to see you when you're tired and satiated," Osmond added in a moment. "I shall prefer you in that state." Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. "You turn things into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think, without intending it. You've no respect for my travels--you think them ridiculous." "Where do you find that?" She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the paper-knife. "You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about as if the world belonged to me, simply because--because it has been put into my power to do so. You don't think a woman ought to do that. You think it bold and ungraceful." "I think it beautiful," said Osmond. "You know my opinions--I've treated you to enough of them. Don't you remember my telling you that one ought to make one's life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first; but then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be trying to do with your own." She looked up from her book. "What you despise most in the world is bad, is stupid art." "Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good." "If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me," she went on. Osmond gave a smile--a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had seen it before. "You have one!" "That's exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd." "I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it's one of the countries I want most to see. Can't you believe that, with my taste for old lacquer?" "I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel. "You've a better excuse--the means of going. You're quite wrong in your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what has put it into your head." "It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should have the means to travel when you've not; for you know everything and I know nothing." "The more reason why you should travel and learn," smiled Osmond. "Besides," he added as if it were a point to be made, "I don't know everything." Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages or historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be as well. Happy things don't repeat themselves, and her adventure wore already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go everywhere," he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; get everything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant." "What do you mean by being triumphant?" "Well, doing what you like." "To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things one likes is often very tiresome." "Exactly," said Osmond with his quiet quickness. "As I intimated just now, you'll be tired some day." He paused a moment and then he went on: "I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I want to say to you." "Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'm horrid when I'm tired," Isabel added with due inconsequence. "I don't believe that. You're angry, sometimes--that I can believe, though I've never seen it. But I'm sure you're never 'cross.'" "Not even when I lose my temper?" "You don't lose it--you find it, and that must be beautiful." Osmond spoke with a noble earnestness. "They must be great moments to see." "If I could only find it now!" Isabel nervously cried. "I'm not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I'm speaking very seriously." He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he bent his eyes on the floor. "What I wish to say to you," he went on at last, looking up, "is that I find I'm in love with you." She instantly rose. "Ah, keep that till I am tired!" "Tired of hearing it from others?" He sat there raising his eyes to her. "No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must say it now." She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this situation, exchanging a long look--the large, conscious look of the critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. "I'm absolutely in love with you." He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow the slipping of a fine bolt--backward, forward, she couldn't have said which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but, morally speaking, she retreated before them--facing him still--as she had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. "Oh don't say that, please," she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread--the sense of something within herself, deep down, that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there like a large sum stored in a bank--which there was a terror in having to begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out. "I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you," said Osmond. "I've too little to offer you. What I have--it's enough for me; but it's not enough for you. I've neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it can't offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It gives me pleasure, I assure you," he went on, standing there before her, considerately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken up, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of awkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm, refined, slightly ravaged face. "It gives me no pain, because it's perfectly simple. For me you'll always be the most important woman in the world." Isabel looked at herself in this character--looked intently, thinking she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an expression of any such complacency. "You don't offend me; but you ought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded, troubled." "Incommoded," she heard herself saying that, and it struck her as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her. "I remember perfectly. Of course you're surprised and startled. But if it's nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave something that I may not be ashamed of." "I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that I'm not overwhelmed," said Isabel with rather a pale smile. "I'm not too troubled to think. And I think that I'm glad I leave Rome to-morrow." "Of course I don't agree with you there." "I don't at all KNOW you," she added abruptly; and then she coloured as she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord Warburton. "If you were not going away you'd know me better." "I shall do that some other time." "I hope so. I'm very easy to know." "No, no," she emphatically answered--"there you're not sincere. You're not easy to know; no one could be less so." "Well," he laughed, "I said that because I know myself. It may be a boast, but I do." "Very likely; but you're very wise." "So are you, Miss Archer!" Osmond exclaimed. "I don't feel so just now. Still, I'm wise enough to think you had better go. Good-night." "God bless you!" said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed to surrender. After which he added: "If we meet again you'll find me as you leave me. If we don't I shall be so all the same." "Thank you very much. Good-bye." There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor; he might go of his own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed. "There's one thing more. I haven't asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you must do me that justice. But there's a little service I should like to ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome's delightful, and it's a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry to leave it; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes." "She doesn't even wish it!" Isabel broke out strangely. Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: "Ah well, it's proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that's proper; I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't know me, but when you do you'll discover what a worship I have for propriety." "You're not conventional?" Isabel gravely asked. "I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional: I'm convention itself. You don't understand that?" And he paused a moment, smiling. "I should like to explain it." Then with a sudden, quick, bright naturalness, "Do come back again," he pleaded. "There are so many things we might talk about." She stood there with lowered eyes. "What service did you speak of just now?" "Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She's alone at the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn't at all my ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much," said Gilbert Osmond gently. "It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered. "I'll tell her what you say. Once more good-bye." On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not diminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but here, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke down. The working of this young lady's spirit was strange, and I can only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last vague space it couldn't cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.

Chapter 29

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady47.asp

Ralph Touchett has to admit that Gilbert Osmond is a delightful companion. Everyone is delighted with him. For his part, Gilbert Osmond is happy with everything about Isabel archer but one thing. He doesnt like her eagerness and enthusiasm in praising things they see. He feels that if it werent for this fault, "she would have been as smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm." He is so pleased with everything, that he realizes he has never been so happy in his life. Usually, his pleasure in life is ruined by his perception of some flaw that ruins the whole. Now, he has a strong sense of success. Since hes never had success before, he is relishing the feeling. Isabel gets word from Mrs. Touchett that she is planning a trip to Bellaggio and would be happy to have Isabel along. Isabel wants to go and so one evening she discusses her plan with Gilbert Osmond. The discuss her prospects, whether she will come back, how long shell be gone, and how she will find him when she comes back. Isabel thinks he is judging her for wanting to travel. She says "You dont think a woman ought to do that. You think it bold and ungraceful." He tells her this isnt so. He reminds her that his idea is that a person should treat life as if it were a work of art. Isabel should, therefore, do as she pleases. She tells him he knows everything and she knows nothing. He encourages her to travel, therefore, so she can learn. Isabel wonders if her travels will take her away from him so that she would never see him again. She thinks it wouldnt be a bad thing for this to happen because she doubts that she could be as happy with him again as she is now. He tells her he wants to tell her something. He tells her hes in love with her. She rises from her seat and tells him not to tell her this yet. He tells her again that he is "absolutely in love with . " Tears come to her eyes. She feels as if some "fine bolt" has slipped inside her and she doesnt know what it means. She feels as if shes holding something back and that if she touches it, it will all come out. He tells her this news shouldnt matter to her since he has nothing to offer her. He only tells her because its a relief. Being in love with her makes him happy and hes looking for nothing more than this. He tells her shes the "most important woman in the world." Isabel tells him she doesnt know him. As they part, he tells her he likes the fact that shes going with her aunt since its proper that she should. He tells her hes not just conventional, but convention itself. He asks her to do him one favor in Venice. He wants her to visit his daughter who he has left alone at the Villa since he doesnt think his sister has the same ideas as himself. He leaves. Isabel sits and thinks. Her imagination has been going toward this eventuality of being in love with Gilbert Osmond for a week now, but now that he has told her he loves her, she feels stifled. She holds back. She feels as if in front of her is some "last vague space" which she cant cross--"a dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous and even slightly treacherous."

Notes For the third time, Isabel sits and listens to a man tell her his feelings for her. The difference, here, is that he doesnt ask her to marry him; he only tells her he loves her. This time, she feels the fear that if she lets go, she will lose her reticence and go to him. Gilbert Osmond has certainly played his part well. He has made himself agreeable even to Ralph who admits that Osmond is a "delightful associate." Just as Isabel is leaving Rome, he tells her he loves her and acts as though he expects nothing from this news. Such a seemingly passive position on his part is just what is required to let Isabel be active in choosing him for herself. To make sure of her, he adds one more element to his attractiveness. He asks her to go visit Pansy before she leaves. In this way, he makes Pansy part of the package. Since Pansy is a large part of why he wants to marry Isabel anyway--that is, to get Isabels money which will help Pansy marry well--it is fitting that he would include his daughter in his seduction of Isabel. For her own part, Isabel seems to have been quite won over. The manner of her succumbing is fairly disappointing, at least for a late twentieth century reader. She seems to have made of Gilbert Osmond some kind of god-like figure. She tells him he knows everything and she knows nothing. She worries that he thinks shes stupid for doing what she wants to do in traveling around the world. She worries that she is saying stupid words. She has lost much of her sense of self-confidence and her sense of her own powers of discretion and imagination. She seems to have ceded it all to him. Yet there are a couple of moments when she has an inkling that there is something about this relationship that should give hr pause. First, she thinks that if they dont meet again in the future, it will be fore the best since such a good experience cant be repeated. Second, she has a vague foreboding as she sits and thinks after hes left. She feels she will have to cross some treacherous ground in regard to him.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_29_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 30

chapter 30

{"name": "Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady48.asp", "summary": "Isabel returns to Florence along with Ralph. She is to stay in Florence for three days before leaving with her aunt. She speaks to Madame Merle of her promise to visit Gilbert Osmonds daughter. Madame Merle says she too wants to visit her. Isabel is disappointed since she wanted to make \"her small pilgrimage\" in solitude. Madame Merle seems to sense this and tells her she wont go with her. She warns her, however, that it isnt quite proper for a young woman to go visit a single mans home even in his absence. Isabel thinks this is ridiculous. She feels as though theres a note of falsehood in Madame Merles tone. When she gets to the Osmonds house, she finds Pansy practicing at the piano. She wonders at \"how prettily has been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! \" She even wonders for a moment if Pansy is ingenuous or if she is more self-conscious of the impressions she gives other people. Pansy tells her all of her life issues. One of these includes her curiosity about what her father plans to do with her. She says that one of her good friends at the convent was taken away a year earlier so her family could save the money for her dowry. She wonders if her father is doing this himself. When Isabel leaves, she embraces Pansy and looks at her a long time. She tells her to \"be very good and give pleasure to father. \" Pansy tells her thats just what she lives for. She adds that her father is a sad man. Isabel feels a strong urge to get Pansy to say more about her father, but thinks this would be taking advantage of Pansy. When she says good- bye, she looks at Pansy almost with envy. She thinks of how much pleasure she would get out of discussing Gilbert Osmond with Pansy. Instead she kisses Pansy good-bye and leaves. She tells Pansy shes right to obey her father and that hell never ask her to do anything unreasonable.", "analysis": "Notes Isabels visit to Pansy gives Henry James a way to demonstrate indirectly for the reader how Isabel feels about Gilbert Osmond. When Pansy says her father is a sad man, Isabel feels a strong urge to get her to say more of her father, but holds herself back. When Pansy repeats her fathers instructions over and over and her own eagerness to obey them, Isabel agrees eagerly that Pansy should obey everything he tells her and assures the girl that her father will never tell her to do anything that isnt reasonable. In her attraction to this kind of upbringing for a girl, the reader might be puzzled. Isabel herself received a vastly different kind of education. Instead of being treated as if she were a blank page to be written on, she was left to herself to decide for herself what she wanted to read and do. Why is Isabel so quick to valorize this kind of upbringing for a girl? One reason might be Isabels own childhood. Though she doesnt seem to have found it a problem, the adults around her found her father negligent in his duties towards her and her sisters and even neglectful. One incident is repeated twice in the novel of the time in Isabels childhood when she and her sisters were abandoned by their governess and left at an Inn. When people tried to help them, they couldnt find the girls father anywhere. The girls seem to have thought of it as some sort of adventure, but everyone else thought it was a scandal. Perhaps the neglected daughter, essentially abandoned by her distracted father, is fascinated by a daughter who is so strictly cared for that she is given detailed instructions for almost every hour of the day."}

She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, and Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's preference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel was to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs. Touchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of these to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame Merle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, "forever") seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he had also made her a declaration of love. "Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "I myself have been thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I go off." "We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reasonably" because the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic sentiment to her great consideration for her friend. That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should we both go; having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?" "Very good; I can easily go alone." "I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome bachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!" Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?" "They don't know he's away, you see." "They? Whom do you mean?" "Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify." "If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked. "Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman." "Granting all that, you've not promised." "How much you think of your promises!" said the elder woman in mild mockery. "I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?" "You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really think you wish to be kind to the child." "I wish very much to be kind to her." "Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd have come if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added, "DON'T tell her. She won't care." As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend had meant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals, this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly done? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr. Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and Isabel was pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairs that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her; she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding, as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor, or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there, through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface, successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor talent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified, easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her father's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally expect. "Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time. Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education; it isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with me more; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day he thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for me, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough, and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it's pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she was fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You don't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished to keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!" Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. At any rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry, and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best. That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When did YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do anything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful. In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I practise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish very much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall never have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes." Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said; "give pleasure to your father." "I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not much pleasure; he's rather a sad man." Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of this she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed state. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweet slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged to confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather wistfully beyond. "I may go no further. I've promised papa not to pass this door." "You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable." "I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?" "Not for a long time, I'm afraid." "As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy, "but I shall always expect you." And the small figure stood in the high, dark doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into the brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as it opened.

Chapter 30

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady48.asp

Isabel returns to Florence along with Ralph. She is to stay in Florence for three days before leaving with her aunt. She speaks to Madame Merle of her promise to visit Gilbert Osmonds daughter. Madame Merle says she too wants to visit her. Isabel is disappointed since she wanted to make "her small pilgrimage" in solitude. Madame Merle seems to sense this and tells her she wont go with her. She warns her, however, that it isnt quite proper for a young woman to go visit a single mans home even in his absence. Isabel thinks this is ridiculous. She feels as though theres a note of falsehood in Madame Merles tone. When she gets to the Osmonds house, she finds Pansy practicing at the piano. She wonders at "how prettily has been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! " She even wonders for a moment if Pansy is ingenuous or if she is more self-conscious of the impressions she gives other people. Pansy tells her all of her life issues. One of these includes her curiosity about what her father plans to do with her. She says that one of her good friends at the convent was taken away a year earlier so her family could save the money for her dowry. She wonders if her father is doing this himself. When Isabel leaves, she embraces Pansy and looks at her a long time. She tells her to "be very good and give pleasure to father. " Pansy tells her thats just what she lives for. She adds that her father is a sad man. Isabel feels a strong urge to get Pansy to say more about her father, but thinks this would be taking advantage of Pansy. When she says good- bye, she looks at Pansy almost with envy. She thinks of how much pleasure she would get out of discussing Gilbert Osmond with Pansy. Instead she kisses Pansy good-bye and leaves. She tells Pansy shes right to obey her father and that hell never ask her to do anything unreasonable.

Notes Isabels visit to Pansy gives Henry James a way to demonstrate indirectly for the reader how Isabel feels about Gilbert Osmond. When Pansy says her father is a sad man, Isabel feels a strong urge to get her to say more of her father, but holds herself back. When Pansy repeats her fathers instructions over and over and her own eagerness to obey them, Isabel agrees eagerly that Pansy should obey everything he tells her and assures the girl that her father will never tell her to do anything that isnt reasonable. In her attraction to this kind of upbringing for a girl, the reader might be puzzled. Isabel herself received a vastly different kind of education. Instead of being treated as if she were a blank page to be written on, she was left to herself to decide for herself what she wanted to read and do. Why is Isabel so quick to valorize this kind of upbringing for a girl? One reason might be Isabels own childhood. Though she doesnt seem to have found it a problem, the adults around her found her father negligent in his duties towards her and her sisters and even neglectful. One incident is repeated twice in the novel of the time in Isabels childhood when she and her sisters were abandoned by their governess and left at an Inn. When people tried to help them, they couldnt find the girls father anywhere. The girls seem to have thought of it as some sort of adventure, but everyone else thought it was a scandal. Perhaps the neglected daughter, essentially abandoned by her distracted father, is fascinated by a daughter who is so strictly cared for that she is given detailed instructions for almost every hour of the day.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/31.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_30_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 31

chapter 31

{"name": "Chapter 31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady49.asp", "summary": "Isabel comes back to Florence, but only a year later. During that year, she spends five months with her sister Lily and Lilys children and, briefly, Lilys husband. Lily finds herself disappointed in what Isabel has done with herself all this time. Lily was expecting to find Isabel the center of social life in Europe and she finds her still retiring and quiet. Isabel for her part, never speaks to her sister about the proposal of Lord Warburton or the protestation of love from Gilbert Osmond. It feels too romantic to have it all to herself. After she sees Lily and her family off at Euston Station, she feels exhilarated by a sense of freedom. She feels as if the \"world lay before her.\" She writes to Madame Merle that she will come to Rome to spend some time. Ralph Touchett is spending the winter in Corfu and Henrietta Stackpole has been called back to the States. Mrs. Touchett, meanwhile in Florence, is happy to notice that Isabel isnt hurrying back to Florence and Gilbert Osmond and that he isnt hurrying to Rome to meet her there. After arriving in Rome, Isabel proposes a trip to the East, Athens and Constantinople. She travels \"rapidly and recklessly.\" Madame Merle is her traveling companion, all expenses paid lavishly. After spending three months of traveling with Madame Merle, Isabel feels as if she knows her better. She has heard Madame Merles story. She was married to Monsieur Merle years before and he turned out to be an adventurer who seems to have behaved abominably. Isabel is surprise that Madame Merle can still be so interested in life after such an experience. She always feels that Madame Merle holds back something essential. She thinks of the older woman of having a different, and inferior, morality. Sometimes she catches her in a flash of cruelty or a lapse of candor. Sometimes she feels a sense of \"vague dismay\" and even a foreboding where Madame Merle is concerned. They return to Rome and Gilbert Osmond arrives from Florence and sees Isabel every day. At the end of April, Isabel returns to Florence and waits expectantly for Ralph to arrive. She hasnt seen him in almost a year.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter opens one year later, when Isabel returns to Florence, but then it back-tracks and relates what shes done during the year. It begins with her time spent with her sister Lily. The key feature of this time is that Isabel Archer is thinking of Gilbert Osmond almost constantly, though not telling her sister this. She thinks its more romantic to say nothing. She thinks that if she asked Lilys advice, it would be like shutting a rare romance novel. The chapter seems to function largely as a time marker. If gives the sense that Isabel Archer didnt just fall into Gilbert Osmonds arms, but will do so only after having done all the traveling she wants to do. The sense one gets is that Isabel is relishing freedom as much as possible before she resigns herself to a married existence. Freedom is the keynote of this chapter. When she leaves her sister in London, she walks alone back to her hotel and feels exhilarated by her sense of freedom. When she travels, \"she travel rapidly and recklessly; she like a thirsty person draining cup after cup.\""}

Isabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; an interval sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however, during this interval that we are closely concerned with her; our attention is engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after her return to Palazzo Crescentini and a year from the date of the incidents just narrated. She was alone on this occasion, in one of the smaller of the numerous rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses, and there was that in her expression and attitude which would have suggested that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open, and though its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air of the garden had come in through a broad interstice and filled the room with warmth and perfume. Our young woman stood near it for some time, her hands clasped behind her; she gazed abroad with the vagueness of unrest. Too troubled for attention she moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not be in her thought to catch a glimpse of her visitor before he should pass into the house, since the entrance to the palace was not through the garden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. She wished rather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture, and to judge by the expression of her face this attempt gave her plenty to do. Grave she found herself, and positively more weighted, as by the experience of the lapse of the year she had spent in seeing the world. She had ranged, she would have said, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and was therefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person from the frivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to take the measure of Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She flattered herself she had harvested wisdom and learned a great deal more of life than this light-minded creature had even suspected. If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would have been both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however, would have been the more numerous. With several of the images that might have been projected on such a field we are already acquainted. There would be for instance the conciliatory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund Ludlow's wife, who had come out from New York to spend five months with her relative. She had left her husband behind her, but had brought her children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munificence and tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, toward the last, had been able to snatch a few weeks from his forensic triumphs and, crossing the ocean with extreme rapidity, had spent a month with the two ladies in Paris before taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet, even from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; so that while her sister was with her Isabel had confined her movements to a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in Switzerland in the month of July, and they had spent a summer of fine weather in an Alpine valley where the flowers were thick in the meadows and the shade of great chestnuts made a resting-place for such upward wanderings as might be undertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. They had afterwards reached the French capital, which was worshipped, and with costly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of as noisily vacant by Isabel, who in these days made use of her memory of Rome as she might have done, in a hot and crowded room, of a phial of something pungent hidden in her handkerchief. Mrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts and wonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husband had joined her found further chagrin in his failure to throw himself into these speculations. They all had Isabel for subject; but Edmund Ludlow, as he had always done before, declined to be surprised, or distressed, or mystified, or elated, at anything his sister-in-law might have done or have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow's mental motions were sufficiently various. At one moment she thought it would be so natural for that young woman to come home and take a house in New York--the Rossiters', for instance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just round the corner from her own; at another she couldn't conceal her surprise at the girl's not marrying some member of one of the great aristocracies. On the whole, as I have said, she had fallen from high communion with the probabilities. She had taken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of fortune than if the money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her to offer just the proper setting for her sister's slightly meagre, but scarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less, however, than Lily had thought likely--development, to Lily's understanding, being somehow mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties. Intellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides; but she appeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs. Ludlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily's conception of such achievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly what she had expected of Isabel--to give it form and body. Isabel could have done as well as she had done in New York; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her husband to know whether there was any privilege she enjoyed in Europe which the society of that city might not offer her. We know ourselves that Isabel had made conquests--whether inferior or not to those she might have effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter to decide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacency that I again mention that she had not rendered these honourable victories public. She had not told her sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor had she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond's state of mind; and she had had no better reason for her silence than that she didn't wish to speak. It was more romantic to say nothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of romance, she was as little disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she would have been to close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing of these discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister's career a strange anti-climax--an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel's silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to the frequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened very often it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her courage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people. Our young lady's courage, however, might have been taken as reaching its height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver things than spending the winter in Paris--Paris had sides by which it so resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose--and her close correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldness and wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away from the platform at the Euston Station on one of the last days of November, after the departure of the train that was to convey poor Lily, her husband and her children to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to regale; she was very conscious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of what was good for her, and her effort was constantly to find something that was good enough. To profit by the present advantage till the latest moment she had made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers. She would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow had asked her, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and she asked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the train move away; she kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative child who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and made separation an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked back into the foggy London street. The world lay before her--she could do whatever she chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the present her choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walk back from Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of a November afternoon had already closed in; the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked weak and red; our heroine was unattended and Euston Square was a long way from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a positive enjoyment of its dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order to get more sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obliging policeman easily set her right again. She was so fond of the spectacle of human life that she enjoyed even the aspect of gathering dusk in the London streets--the moving crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops, the flaring stalls, the dark, shining dampness of everything. That evening, at her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start in a day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touching at Florence--having gone first to Venice and then proceeded southward by Ancona. She accomplished this journey without other assistance than that of her servant, for her natural protectors were not now on the ground. Ralph Touchett was spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in the September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram from the Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliant correspondent a fresher field for her genius than the mouldering cities of Europe, and Henrietta was cheered on her way by a promise from Mr. Bantling that he would soon come over to see her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to apologise for not presenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt replied characteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated, were of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself never dealt in such articles. One either did the thing or one didn't, and what one "would" have done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the idea of a future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank, but (a rare case with Mrs. Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She easily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because she took it for a sign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there than formerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find a pretext for going to Rome, and derived some comfort from learning that he had not been guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her side, had not been a fortnight in Rome before she proposed to Madame Merle that they should make a little pilgrimage to the East. Madame Merle remarked that her friend was restless, but she added that she herself had always been consumed with the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two ladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest her in these countries, though Madame Merle continued to remark that even among the most classic sites, the scenes most calculated to suggest repose and reflexion, a certain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled rapidly and recklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup after cup. Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess circulating incognita, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel's invitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to the girl's uncountenanced state. She played her part with the tact that might have been expected of her, effacing herself and accepting the position of a companion whose expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however, had no hardships, and people who met this reserved though striking pair on their travels would not have been able to tell you which was patroness and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved on acquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on her friend, who had found her from the first so ample and so easy. At the end of an intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her better; her character had revealed itself, and the admirable woman had also at last redeemed her promise of relating her history from her own point of view--a consummation the more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related from the point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so far as it concerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she might say, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage, years before, of her youth and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who knew her only now would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in startling and lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person so eprouvee could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a considerable insight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mechanical, carried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso, or blanketed and bridled like the "favourite" of the jockey. She liked her as much as ever, but there was a corner of the curtain that never was lifted; it was as if she had remained after all something of a public performer, condemned to emerge only in character and in costume. She had once said that she came from a distance, that she belonged to the "old, old" world, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was the product of a different moral or social clime from her own, that she had grown up under other stars. She believed then that at bottom she had a different morality. Of course the morality of civilised persons has always much in common; but our young woman had a sense in her of values gone wrong or, as they said at the shops, marked down. She considered, with the presumption of youth, that a morality differing from her own must be inferior to it; and this conviction was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an occasional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person who had raised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was too high for the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives might, in certain lights, have been acquired at the court of some kingdom in decadence, and there were several in her list of which our heroine had not even heard. She had not heard of everything, that was very plain; and there were evidently things in the world of which it was not advantageous to hear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since it so affected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, "Heaven forgive her, she doesn't understand me!" Absurd as it may seem this discovery operated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay in which there was even an element of foreboding. The dismay of course subsided, in the light of some sudden proof of Madame Merle's remarkable intelligence; but it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence. Madame Merle had once declared her belief that when a friendship ceases to grow it immediately begins to decline--there being no point of equilibrium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affection, in other words, was impossible--it must move one way or the other. However that might be, the girl had in these days a thousand uses for her sense of the romantic, which was more active than it had ever been. I do not allude to the impulse it received as she gazed at the Pyramids in the course of an excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the broken columns of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point designated to her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as these emotions had remained. She came back by the last of March from Egypt and Greece and made another stay in Rome. A few days after her arrival Gilbert Osmond descended from Florence and remained three weeks, during which the fact of her being with his old friend Madame Merle, in whose house she had gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he should see her every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs. Touchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitation given long before, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Crescentini, Madame Merle on this occasion remaining in Rome. She found her aunt alone; her cousin was still at Corfu. Ralph, however, was expected in Florence from day to day, and Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was prepared to give him the most affectionate welcome.

Chapter 31

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady49.asp

Isabel comes back to Florence, but only a year later. During that year, she spends five months with her sister Lily and Lilys children and, briefly, Lilys husband. Lily finds herself disappointed in what Isabel has done with herself all this time. Lily was expecting to find Isabel the center of social life in Europe and she finds her still retiring and quiet. Isabel for her part, never speaks to her sister about the proposal of Lord Warburton or the protestation of love from Gilbert Osmond. It feels too romantic to have it all to herself. After she sees Lily and her family off at Euston Station, she feels exhilarated by a sense of freedom. She feels as if the "world lay before her." She writes to Madame Merle that she will come to Rome to spend some time. Ralph Touchett is spending the winter in Corfu and Henrietta Stackpole has been called back to the States. Mrs. Touchett, meanwhile in Florence, is happy to notice that Isabel isnt hurrying back to Florence and Gilbert Osmond and that he isnt hurrying to Rome to meet her there. After arriving in Rome, Isabel proposes a trip to the East, Athens and Constantinople. She travels "rapidly and recklessly." Madame Merle is her traveling companion, all expenses paid lavishly. After spending three months of traveling with Madame Merle, Isabel feels as if she knows her better. She has heard Madame Merles story. She was married to Monsieur Merle years before and he turned out to be an adventurer who seems to have behaved abominably. Isabel is surprise that Madame Merle can still be so interested in life after such an experience. She always feels that Madame Merle holds back something essential. She thinks of the older woman of having a different, and inferior, morality. Sometimes she catches her in a flash of cruelty or a lapse of candor. Sometimes she feels a sense of "vague dismay" and even a foreboding where Madame Merle is concerned. They return to Rome and Gilbert Osmond arrives from Florence and sees Isabel every day. At the end of April, Isabel returns to Florence and waits expectantly for Ralph to arrive. She hasnt seen him in almost a year.

Notes This chapter opens one year later, when Isabel returns to Florence, but then it back-tracks and relates what shes done during the year. It begins with her time spent with her sister Lily. The key feature of this time is that Isabel Archer is thinking of Gilbert Osmond almost constantly, though not telling her sister this. She thinks its more romantic to say nothing. She thinks that if she asked Lilys advice, it would be like shutting a rare romance novel. The chapter seems to function largely as a time marker. If gives the sense that Isabel Archer didnt just fall into Gilbert Osmonds arms, but will do so only after having done all the traveling she wants to do. The sense one gets is that Isabel is relishing freedom as much as possible before she resigns herself to a married existence. Freedom is the keynote of this chapter. When she leaves her sister in London, she walks alone back to her hotel and feels exhilarated by her sense of freedom. When she travels, "she travel rapidly and recklessly; she like a thirsty person draining cup after cup."

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_31_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 32

chapter 32

{"name": "Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady50.asp", "summary": "Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. She feels older after her travels, as if in some sense she is \"worth more.\" She has been dreading the scene she expects with Caspar Goodwood. He comes in \"straight, strong, and hard.\" He tells her he came as soon as he got her letter telling him she was engaged to marry Gilbert Osmond. She tells him only he and Madame Merle know of the engagement. She feels angry at points in the conversation. His questions about Gilbert Osmond irritate her. She tells him Gilbert Osmond is a nobody, from no where, who does nothing. Caspar says he came all the way to see her just so he could see her and hear her voice. He reminds her that she told him two years before that she would probably never marry and he had believed her sincerity. She says she couldnt have foreseen her choice then and insists that she never made him any promises. He tells her hed prefer that she never married than to marry another man. He admits his selfishness. Finally, he leaves and when he does, Isabel bursts into tears.", "analysis": "Notes In his usual oblique way, Henry James announces Isabel Archers engagement to Gilbert Osmond with a scene between her and the sad but stiff Caspar Goodwood. The oblique way pays off in several respects. First, the reader sees Isabel Archers ambivalence about Caspar Goodwood. She feels guilty for rejecting him. She feels as if she has betrayed him, though she knows that in a strict sense of things, she hasnt really done so. Second, the reader gets another description of Gilbert Osmond. This description is special since it is told to Caspar Goodwood, his exact opposite. Isabel says over and over again that Gilbert Osmond is a nothing, that he does nothing, that he thinks nothing of America, and that he is from nowhere. Such an odd description of ones finance warrants some attention. Why would someone of Isabels lively temperament be so taken with someone whom she describes as a nonentity? Perhaps the answer can be found in the contrast between Gilbert Osmond and Caspar Goodwood. Caspar Goodwood is often described as having such a forceful personality that Isabel feels weighed down by him, even oppressed by his presence. For someone who wants to exercise self-determination, a man who doesnt exert such a force, but is instead a vague gentlemen, who wants to make art out of life and stand picturesquely on his hill on the outskirts of Vienna with his perfect daughter at his side, is the more likely choice."}

It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood at the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any of the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past, but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene, and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she should say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What he would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing in the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all clearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked in no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much, and as if she were "worth more" for it, like some curious piece in an antiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her apprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his tray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and continued to gaze out of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she looked round. Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight, strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: "Poor fellow, what great things he's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his splendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" It gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tell you how I hoped you wouldn't come!" "I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat. Not only had he come, but he meant to settle. "You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, and generously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity. "No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?" "Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?" "Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express. These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral." "That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury me!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on her as a physical weight. "No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I could!" he candidly declared. "I thank you immensely." "I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man." "That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a real conviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right to be." "Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so. I don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellest things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've done I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall feel all my life." Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness, in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When did you leave New York?" He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago." "You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains." "I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had been able." "It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly smiled. "Not to you--no. But to me." "You gain nothing that I see." "That's for me to judge!" "Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And then, to change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole. He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young lady had been with him just before he left America. "She came to see you?" Isabel then demanded. "Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I had got your letter." "Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety. "Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do that. She'll hear it quick enough; she hears everything." "I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me," Isabel declared, trying to smile again. Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll come right out," he said. "On purpose to scold me?" "I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly." "I'm glad you tell me that," Isabel said. "I must prepare for her." Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last, raising them, "Does she know Mr. Osmond?" he enquired. "A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To which she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it will be soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old friend of Mr. Osmond's." "Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded. "I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends." He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions, doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert Osmond?" "Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not known for anything in particular." She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at her. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?" She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "He comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy." "You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?" "Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy." "Has he never gone back?" "Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. "He has no profession." "He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United States?" "He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents himself with Italy." "With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he added abruptly. "That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while her patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had done great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood; I'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him. You can't." "I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think he's great, though no one else thinks so." Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion, and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render perceptions she had never taken for fine. "Why do you always come back to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you." "Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were nothing else that they might discuss. "You see how little you gain," she accordingly broke out--"how little comfort or satisfaction I can give you." "I didn't expect you to give me much." "I don't understand then why you came." "I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are." "I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been pleasanter for each of us than this." "Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do. You'll be different then." "Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see." "That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly. "Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order to help you to resign yourself." "I shouldn't care if you did!" Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just quitted. "Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for you perhaps than for me." "I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said. "You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet." "It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up. She had felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy implications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights, reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed; and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused her: "I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!" "Yes, I know that," said Caspar. "I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose." "You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner that I pretty well believed it." She considered this an instant. "No one can be more surprised than myself at my present intention." "You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe it," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and that's partly why I came." "If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There's no mistake whatever." "I saw that as soon as I came into the room." "What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she asked with a certain fierceness. "I should like it better than this." "You're very selfish, as I said before." "I know that. I'm selfish as iron." "Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see you again." "Don't you call me reasonable now?" "I don't know what to say to you," she answered with sudden humility. "I shan't trouble you for a long time," the young man went on. He made a step towards the door, but he stopped. "Another reason why I came was that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having changed your mind." Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation? Do you think I'm bound to explain?" He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very positive. I did believe it." "So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?" "No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I wished. I've seen you." "How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the poverty of her presently replying. "If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be at your ease about it." He turned away, this time in earnest, and no hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them. At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shall leave Florence to-morrow," he said without a quaver. "I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Five minutes after he had gone out she burst into tears.

Chapter 32

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady50.asp

Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. She feels older after her travels, as if in some sense she is "worth more." She has been dreading the scene she expects with Caspar Goodwood. He comes in "straight, strong, and hard." He tells her he came as soon as he got her letter telling him she was engaged to marry Gilbert Osmond. She tells him only he and Madame Merle know of the engagement. She feels angry at points in the conversation. His questions about Gilbert Osmond irritate her. She tells him Gilbert Osmond is a nobody, from no where, who does nothing. Caspar says he came all the way to see her just so he could see her and hear her voice. He reminds her that she told him two years before that she would probably never marry and he had believed her sincerity. She says she couldnt have foreseen her choice then and insists that she never made him any promises. He tells her hed prefer that she never married than to marry another man. He admits his selfishness. Finally, he leaves and when he does, Isabel bursts into tears.

Notes In his usual oblique way, Henry James announces Isabel Archers engagement to Gilbert Osmond with a scene between her and the sad but stiff Caspar Goodwood. The oblique way pays off in several respects. First, the reader sees Isabel Archers ambivalence about Caspar Goodwood. She feels guilty for rejecting him. She feels as if she has betrayed him, though she knows that in a strict sense of things, she hasnt really done so. Second, the reader gets another description of Gilbert Osmond. This description is special since it is told to Caspar Goodwood, his exact opposite. Isabel says over and over again that Gilbert Osmond is a nothing, that he does nothing, that he thinks nothing of America, and that he is from nowhere. Such an odd description of ones finance warrants some attention. Why would someone of Isabels lively temperament be so taken with someone whom she describes as a nonentity? Perhaps the answer can be found in the contrast between Gilbert Osmond and Caspar Goodwood. Caspar Goodwood is often described as having such a forceful personality that Isabel feels weighed down by him, even oppressed by his presence. For someone who wants to exercise self-determination, a man who doesnt exert such a force, but is instead a vague gentlemen, who wants to make art out of life and stand picturesquely on his hill on the outskirts of Vienna with his perfect daughter at his side, is the more likely choice.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_32_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 33

chapter 33

{"name": "Chapter 33", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady51.asp", "summary": "After finishing crying, Isabel goes to tell her aunt of her engagement with Gilbert Osmond. Mrs. Touchett has guessed it. She immediately realizes she has been deceived by Madame Merle who promised to help prevent the engagement thereby keeping Mrs. Touchett from action. Mrs. Touchett says she might not have acted to prevent it, but perhaps Ralph would have had something to say. Mrs. Touchett asks Isabel why shes so interested in someone like Gilbert Osmond--\"theres nothing of him.\" Isabel responds, \"Then he cant hurt me.\" Ralph arrives two days later. Isabel knows he has been told and waits for him to bring the matter up, but he doesnt. He looks dreadful ill. She has never thought of his illness as being so dangerous as now. She dismisses his low opinion of her engagement--which she only guesses--as conventional. For her, all cousins are supposed to be critical of ones marriage. In the meantime, Isabel sees Gilbert Osmond every day. They meet each other in the Cascine, a park outside of Florence.", "analysis": "Notes This short chapter serves to give the reader Ralph Touchetts insight into the engagement of Isabel and Gilbert. He hates the news. It seems in fact to sicken him further. Yet he knows he cant say anything since it wont change Isabels mind and because it wont it would only cause problems between them. On the other hand, he also cant bring himself to congratulate her. So he goes for three days without saying anything to her. In regard to the Madame Merle-Gilbert Osmond plot, the chapter brings more to light. Mrs. Touchett is quite sure of the scheme and says as much to Isabel. In this way, the idea of the scheme is brought out in the open. Isabel rejects it now, but later will recall it and realize its true."}

Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased; Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the mid-day breakfast, and then she began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something to tell you." Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. "You needn't tell me; I know what it is." "I don't know how you know." "The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught. You're going to marry that man." "What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity. "Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond." "I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the principal thing he's known by?" "If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for him!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'm disappointed." "If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement you're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared with a sort of ardent coldness. "You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman's having had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, your attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she hadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him." "He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with a voluntary laugh. Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, to have made you like him so much." "I thought he even pleased YOU." "He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him." "Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl. "Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this that you refused Lord Warburton?" "Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since others have done so?" "Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There's nothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained. "Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel. "Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings, you should know." "I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?" "What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as they go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership you'll bring everything." "Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?" Isabel asked. "He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such things and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious. Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some other reason." Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that's valuable. I care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a little." "Give it to him then; but marry some one else." "His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a very pretty name. Have I such a fine one myself?" "All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen American names. Do you marry him out of charity?" "It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my duty to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don't remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can't talk about it." "I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle." "You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been very considerate." "It was not considerate--it was convenient," said Mrs. Touchett. "But I shall talk to Madame Merle." "I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good friend to me." "Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me." "What has she done to you?" "She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your engagement." "She couldn't have prevented it." "She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew she could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I didn't understand that she would play two at the same time." "I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel said; "that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and devoted." "Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me she was watching you only in order to interpose." "She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious, however, of the inadequacy of the explanation. "To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased to-day?" "I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obliged to reply. "If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by insincerity?" "She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you were marching away, and she was really beating the drum." "That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and even if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me." "No, but some one else would." "Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs. Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained her gaze rather than returned it. "Would you have listened to Ralph?" "Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond." "Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much for you." "I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it now, for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason." "He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it, and he argued the other way." "He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You don't accuse him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?" "He never pretended he'd prevent it." "I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," she presently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of my engagement." "Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall say nothing more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others." "That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better the announcement should come from you than from me." "I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on this the aunt and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence, however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an hour before. "From an old friend--an American gentleman," Isabel said with a colour in her cheek. "An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman who calls at ten o'clock in the morning." "It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this evening." "Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?" "He only arrived last night." "He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs. Touchett cried. "He's an American gentleman truly." "He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what Caspar Goodwood had done for her. Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs. Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was altogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and shuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was perhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than ever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own disabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with Ralph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his view of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness had become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they struck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be charming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him from all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of being exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful; he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to consent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally sick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when she had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal she had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had a dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility to feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying. Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people, and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was not pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of her affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not even prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for it would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always pretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it was a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was nothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things being equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any one, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should square with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was only because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted him Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the opposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only give her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had other employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the care. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must have seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing. After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman wearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through the form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily believe that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo Crescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had literally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked and humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the world in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the house like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden of the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head thrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the heart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could he say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it? To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the man to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only in the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have damned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to dissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope. Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself little at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere, as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved, and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness, during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady, joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while through the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.

Chapter 33

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady51.asp

After finishing crying, Isabel goes to tell her aunt of her engagement with Gilbert Osmond. Mrs. Touchett has guessed it. She immediately realizes she has been deceived by Madame Merle who promised to help prevent the engagement thereby keeping Mrs. Touchett from action. Mrs. Touchett says she might not have acted to prevent it, but perhaps Ralph would have had something to say. Mrs. Touchett asks Isabel why shes so interested in someone like Gilbert Osmond--"theres nothing of him." Isabel responds, "Then he cant hurt me." Ralph arrives two days later. Isabel knows he has been told and waits for him to bring the matter up, but he doesnt. He looks dreadful ill. She has never thought of his illness as being so dangerous as now. She dismisses his low opinion of her engagement--which she only guesses--as conventional. For her, all cousins are supposed to be critical of ones marriage. In the meantime, Isabel sees Gilbert Osmond every day. They meet each other in the Cascine, a park outside of Florence.

Notes This short chapter serves to give the reader Ralph Touchetts insight into the engagement of Isabel and Gilbert. He hates the news. It seems in fact to sicken him further. Yet he knows he cant say anything since it wont change Isabels mind and because it wont it would only cause problems between them. On the other hand, he also cant bring himself to congratulate her. So he goes for three days without saying anything to her. In regard to the Madame Merle-Gilbert Osmond plot, the chapter brings more to light. Mrs. Touchett is quite sure of the scheme and says as much to Isabel. In this way, the idea of the scheme is brought out in the open. Isabel rejects it now, but later will recall it and realize its true.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_33_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 34

chapter 34

{"name": "Chapter 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady52.asp", "summary": "Isabel gets home one morning after her drive to see Gilbert Osmond and finds Ralph in the garden. He seems asleep and as she is about to leave, he opens his eyes and says he wasnt sleeping but thinking of her. He tells her hes been trying to think of how to express himself properly about her engagement. He tells her he thinks she is going to be put into a cage, that she has changed immensely in the past year, that he had wanted her to have the chance to \"survey the whole field of life.\" He says that if she had told him sooner, he would have advised her to wait a little longer. He tells her he trusts her, but he doesnt trust Gilbert Osmond. Isabel defends Gilbert Osmond, saying he wants her to know everything and that is why she likes him. Ralph tells her shes \"running a grave risk.\" He tells her he had thought she would marry someone of more importance, someone with more energy and freedom. He finds Gilbert Osmond small, narrow, selfish, and a man who takes himself too seriously. Since he does so, he never thinks of himself in relation to other people. Isabel says Gilbert Osmond is the finest person she knows. Ralph says he had thought he would see he soar, but in seeing her fall like this, he is hurt as if he himself has fallen. Ralph tries hard to express Gilbert Osmonds sinister aspects without hurting Isabel or seeming petty. He asks Isabel if she has ever seen such an exquisite taste ruffled. He tells her she was \"meant for something better than to keep guard over the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante.\" Finally, he tells her he loves her, but loves her without hope. Isabel tells him she sometimes feels like kneeling at Mr. Touchetts grave in thanks for giving her the means to marry a poor man. She is sure Ralph is sincere, but feels that he is making a mistake in judgment. She says it is the absence of wealth and position and other attributes that pleases her so much in Gilbert Osmond. Ralph is sad at heart in hearing this. He admires Isabel for her fine good faith, but feels that she has invented a fine theory about Gilbert Osmond and is dressing his poverties out with honors. He walks Isabel inside and before she ascends to stairs, he looks at her again. He feels sick and ashamed. He tells her in parting that he feels \"terribly sold.\" He goes back out to the garden, refusing breakfast.", "analysis": "Notes The discussion between Isabel and Ralph is both sad and maddening. Isabel takes on a noble view of her situation, being in love with someone whose nobility only she recognizes. Ralph speaks straight-forwardly. He tells her everything he has honestly been feeling and she doesnt seem to hear any of it, the warnings or the high compliments. She instead reacts by being more noble in her loyalty to Gilbert Osmond and Ralph responds by admiring her more. In admiring her more, he feels her loss more."}

One morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour before luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the palace and, instead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the court, passed beneath another archway and entered the garden. A sweeter spot at this moment could not have been imagined. The stillness of noontide hung over it, and the warm shade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious caves. Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a statue of Terpsichore--a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated draperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light footstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turning away she stood for a moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his eyes; upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his own. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference she was not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to brood over. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the languor of his increased weakness, partly by worries connected with the property inherited from his father--the fruit of eccentric arrangements of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved and which, as she had told Isabel, now encountered opposition from the other partners in the bank. He ought to have gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence; he had not been there for months, and took no more interest in the bank than in the state of Patagonia. "I'm sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look too tired." "I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you." "Are you tired of that?" "Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I never arrive." "What do you wish to arrive at?" she put to him, closing her parasol. "At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your engagement." "Don't think too much of it," she lightly returned. "Do you mean that it's none of my business?" "Beyond a certain point, yes." "That's the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have found me wanting in good manners. I've never congratulated you." "Of course I've noticed that. I wondered why you were silent." "There have been a good many reasons. I'll tell you now," Ralph said. He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at her. He leaned back under the protection of Bernini, his head against his marble pedestal, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands laid upon the rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable; he hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she was usually sorry for them, but she was determined not to help Ralph to utter a word that should not be to the honour of her high decision. "I think I've hardly got over my surprise," he went on at last. "You were the last person I expected to see caught." "I don't know why you call it caught." "Because you're going to be put into a cage." "If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you," she answered. "That's what I wonder at; that's what I've been thinking of." "If you've been thinking you may imagine how I've thought! I'm satisfied that I'm doing well." "You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty beyond everything. You wanted only to see life." "I've seen it," said Isabel. "It doesn't look to me now, I admit, such an inviting expanse." "I don't pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial view of it and wanted to survey the whole field." "I've seen that one can't do anything so general. One must choose a corner and cultivate that." "That's what I think. And one must choose as good a corner as possible. I had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters, that you were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your silence put me off my guard." "It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about. Besides, I knew nothing of the future. It has all come lately. If you had been on your guard, however," Isabel asked, "what would you have done?" "I should have said 'Wait a little longer.'" "Wait for what?" "Well, for a little more light," said Ralph with rather an absurd smile, while his hands found their way into his pockets. "Where should my light have come from? From you?" "I might have struck a spark or two." Isabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as they lay upon her knee. The mildness of this movement was accidental, for her expression was not conciliatory. "You're beating about the bush, Ralph. You wish to say you don't like Mr. Osmond, and yet you're afraid." "Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I'm willing to wound HIM, yes--but not to wound you. I'm afraid of you, not of him. If you marry him it won't be a fortunate way for me to have spoken." "IF I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?" "Of course that seems to you too fatuous." "No," said Isabel after a little; "it seems to me too touching." "That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me." She stroked out her long gloves again. "I know you've a great affection for me. I can't get rid of that." "For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince you how intensely I want you to do well." "And how little you trust me!" There was a moment's silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. "I trust you, but I don't trust him," said Ralph. She raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. "You've said it now, and I'm glad you've made it so clear. But you'll suffer by it." "Not if you're just." "I'm very just," said Isabel. "What better proof of it can there be than that I'm not angry with you? I don't know what's the matter with me, but I'm not. I was when you began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought to be angry, but Mr. Osmond wouldn't think so. He wants me to know everything; that's what I like him for. You've nothing to gain, I know that. I've never been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have much reason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good advice; you've often done so. No, I'm very quiet; I've always believed in your wisdom," she went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a kind of contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be just; it touched Ralph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a creature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a moment he was absurdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had said. But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught a glimpse, as she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to advance in that direction. "I see you've some special idea; I should like very much to hear it. I'm sure it's disinterested; I feel that. It seems a strange thing to argue about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that if you expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You'll not move me an inch; it's too late. As you say, I'm caught. Certainly it won't be pleasant for you to remember this, but your pain will be in your own thoughts. I shall never reproach you." "I don't think you ever will," said Ralph. "It's not in the least the sort of marriage I thought you'd make." "What sort of marriage was that, pray?" "Well, I can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view of it, but I had a negative. I didn't think you'd decide for--well, for that type." "What's the matter with Mr. Osmond's type, if it be one? His being so independent, so individual, is what I most see in him," the girl declared. "What do you know against him? You know him scarcely at all." "Yes," Ralph said, "I know him very little, and I confess I haven't facts and items to prove him a villain. But all the same I can't help feeling that you're running a grave risk." "Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk's as grave as mine." "That's his affair! If he's afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he would." Isabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing a while at her cousin. "I don't think I understand you," she said at last coldly. "I don't know what you're talking about." "I believed you'd marry a man of more importance." Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a flame leaped into her face. "Of more importance to whom? It seems to me enough that one's husband should be of importance to one's self!" Ralph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physically speaking he proceeded to change it; he straightened himself, then leaned forward, resting a hand on each knee. He fixed his eyes on the ground; he had an air of the most respectful deliberation. "I'll tell you in a moment what I mean," he presently said. He felt agitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the discussion he wished to discharge his mind. But he wished also to be superlatively gentle. Isabel waited a little--then she went on with majesty. "In everything that makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may be nobler natures, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr. Osmond's is the finest I know; he's good enough for me, and interesting enough, and clever enough. I'm far more struck with what he has and what he represents than with what he may lack." "I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future," Ralph observed without answering this; "I had amused myself with planning out a high destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it. You were not to come down so easily or so soon." "Come down, you say?" "Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you. You seemed to me to be soaring far up in the blue--to be, sailing in the bright light, over the heads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud--a missile that should never have reached you--and straight you drop to the ground. It hurts me," said Ralph audaciously, "hurts me as if I had fallen myself!" The look of pain and bewilderment deepened in his companion's face. "I don't understand you in the least," she repeated. "You say you amused yourself with a project for my career--I don't understand that. Don't amuse yourself too much, or I shall think you're doing it at my expense." Ralph shook his head. "I'm not afraid of your not believing that I've had great ideas for you." "What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?" she pursued. "I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving on now. There's nothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person she likes," said poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic. "It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criticise, my dear cousin. I should have said that the man for you would have been a more active, larger, freer sort of nature." Ralph hesitated, then added: "I can't get over the sense that Osmond is somehow--well, small." He had uttered the last word with no great assurance; he was afraid she would flash out again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air of considering. "Small?" She made it sound immense. "I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!" "He has a great respect for himself; I don't blame him for that," said Isabel. "It makes one more sure to respect others." Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone. "Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one's relation to things--to others. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that." "I've chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he's excellent." "He's the incarnation of taste," Ralph went on, thinking hard how he could best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attributes without putting himself in the wrong by seeming to describe him coarsely. He wished to describe him impersonally, scientifically. "He judges and measures, approves and condemns, altogether by that." "It's a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite." "It's exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as his bride. But have you ever seen such a taste--a really exquisite one--ruffled?" "I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband's." At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. "Ah, that's wilful, that's unworthy of you! You were not meant to be measured in that way--you were meant for something better than to keep guard over the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!" Isabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stood for a moment looking at each other as if he had flung down a defiance or an insult. But "You go too far," she simply breathed. "I've said what I had on my mind--and I've said it because I love you!" Isabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She had a sudden wish to strike him off. "Ah then, you're not disinterested!" "I love you, but I love without hope," said Ralph quickly, forcing a smile and feeling that in that last declaration he had expressed more than he intended. Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness of the garden; but after a little she turned back to him. "I'm afraid your talk then is the wildness of despair! I don't understand it--but it doesn't matter. I'm not arguing with you; it's impossible I should; I've only tried to listen to you. I'm much obliged to you for attempting to explain," she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just sprung up had already subsided. "It's very good of you to try to warn me, if you're really alarmed; but I won't promise to think of what you've said: I shall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it yourself; you've done your duty, and no man can do more. I can't explain to you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn't if I could." She paused a moment and then went on with an inconsequence that Ralph observed even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of concession. "I can't enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond; I can't do it justice, because I see him in quite another way. He's not important--no, he's not important; he's a man to whom importance is supremely indifferent. If that's what you mean when you call him 'small,' then he's as small as you please. I call that large--it's the largest thing I know. I won't pretend to argue with you about a person I'm going to marry," Isabel repeated. "I'm not in the least concerned to defend Mr. Osmond; he's not so weak as to need my defence. I should think it would seem strange even to yourself that I should talk of him so quietly and coldly, as if he were any one else. I wouldn't talk of him at all to any one but you; and you, after what you've said--I may just answer you once for all. Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage--what they call a marriage of ambition? I've only one ambition--to be free to follow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they've passed away. Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he's not rich? That's just what I like him for. I've fortunately money enough; I've never felt so thankful for it as to-day. There have been moments when I should like to go and kneel down by your father's grave: he did perhaps a better thing than he knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man--a man who has borne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference. Mr. Osmond has never scrambled nor struggled--he has cared for no worldly prize. If that's to be narrow, if that's to be selfish, then it's very well. I'm not frightened by such words, I'm not even displeased; I'm only sorry that you should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I'm surprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when you see one--you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! He knows everything, he understands everything, he has the kindest, gentlest, highest spirit. You've got hold of some false idea. It's a pity, but I can't help it; it regards you more than me." Isabel paused a moment, looking at her cousin with an eye illumined by a sentiment which contradicted the careful calmness of her manner--a mingled sentiment, to which the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of having needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the nobleness and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralph said nothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, but she was highly solicitous; she was indifferent, but she was all in a passion. "What sort of a person should you have liked me to marry?" she asked suddenly. "You talk about one's soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one touches the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart in one's bosom, and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother has never forgiven me for not having come to a better understanding with Lord Warburton, and she's horrified at my contenting myself with a person who has none of his great advantages--no property, no title, no honours, no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor brilliant belongings of any sort. It's the total absence of all these things that pleases me. Mr. Osmond's simply a very lonely, a very cultivated and a very honest man--he's not a prodigious proprietor." Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything she said merited deep consideration; but in truth he was only half thinking of the things she said, he was for the rest simply accommodating himself to the weight of his total impression--the impression of her ardent good faith. She was wrong, but she believed; she was deluded, but she was dismally consistent. It was wonderfully characteristic of her that, having invented a fine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not for what he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as honours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father about wishing to put it into her power to meet the requirements of her imagination. He had done so, and the girl had taken full advantage of the luxury. Poor Ralph felt sick; he felt ashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with a low solemnity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion, and she closed it formally by turning away and walking back to the house. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into the court together and reached the big staircase. Here he stopped and Isabel paused, turning on him a face of elation--absolutely and perversely of gratitude. His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her. "Shall you not come up to breakfast?" she asked. "No; I want no breakfast; I'm not hungry." "You ought to eat," said the girl; "you live on air." "I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and take another mouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I told you last year that if you were to get into trouble I should feel terribly sold. That's how I feel to-day." "Do you think I'm in trouble?" "One's in trouble when one's in error." "Very well," said Isabel; "I shall never complain of my trouble to you!" And she moved up the staircase. Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed her with his eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walled court struck him and made him shiver, so that he returned to the garden to breakfast on the Florentine sunshine.

Chapter 34

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady52.asp

Isabel gets home one morning after her drive to see Gilbert Osmond and finds Ralph in the garden. He seems asleep and as she is about to leave, he opens his eyes and says he wasnt sleeping but thinking of her. He tells her hes been trying to think of how to express himself properly about her engagement. He tells her he thinks she is going to be put into a cage, that she has changed immensely in the past year, that he had wanted her to have the chance to "survey the whole field of life." He says that if she had told him sooner, he would have advised her to wait a little longer. He tells her he trusts her, but he doesnt trust Gilbert Osmond. Isabel defends Gilbert Osmond, saying he wants her to know everything and that is why she likes him. Ralph tells her shes "running a grave risk." He tells her he had thought she would marry someone of more importance, someone with more energy and freedom. He finds Gilbert Osmond small, narrow, selfish, and a man who takes himself too seriously. Since he does so, he never thinks of himself in relation to other people. Isabel says Gilbert Osmond is the finest person she knows. Ralph says he had thought he would see he soar, but in seeing her fall like this, he is hurt as if he himself has fallen. Ralph tries hard to express Gilbert Osmonds sinister aspects without hurting Isabel or seeming petty. He asks Isabel if she has ever seen such an exquisite taste ruffled. He tells her she was "meant for something better than to keep guard over the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante." Finally, he tells her he loves her, but loves her without hope. Isabel tells him she sometimes feels like kneeling at Mr. Touchetts grave in thanks for giving her the means to marry a poor man. She is sure Ralph is sincere, but feels that he is making a mistake in judgment. She says it is the absence of wealth and position and other attributes that pleases her so much in Gilbert Osmond. Ralph is sad at heart in hearing this. He admires Isabel for her fine good faith, but feels that she has invented a fine theory about Gilbert Osmond and is dressing his poverties out with honors. He walks Isabel inside and before she ascends to stairs, he looks at her again. He feels sick and ashamed. He tells her in parting that he feels "terribly sold." He goes back out to the garden, refusing breakfast.

Notes The discussion between Isabel and Ralph is both sad and maddening. Isabel takes on a noble view of her situation, being in love with someone whose nobility only she recognizes. Ralph speaks straight-forwardly. He tells her everything he has honestly been feeling and she doesnt seem to hear any of it, the warnings or the high compliments. She instead reacts by being more noble in her loyalty to Gilbert Osmond and Ralph responds by admiring her more. In admiring her more, he feels her loss more.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_34_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 35

chapter 35

{"name": "Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady53.asp", "summary": "Isabel never tells Gilbert Osmond of her family and friends opposition to the marriage. She feels as if in loving him, she is forced to break all her other ties. For his part, Gilbert Osmond is elated with his success. He feels that Madame Merle has given him an enormous gift in giving him Isabel Archer. She is intelligent enough to reflect back his own thoughts in a flattering way. Se is like a silver platter that reflects his ideas to perfection. One day as they are walking in he park, he mentions that he realizes her family disapproves of him. He says he has never strived for money and so they shouldnt think hes marrying Isabel for this reason. He tells her he is a better man for loving her. He says he used to want many things and had \"morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire.\" He says now a long summer afternoon of life awaits the two of them and they will have his charming daughter to entertain them. When he finally tells Pansy, she expresses her pleasure in having Isabel as a \"beautiful sister. \" One day Isabel meets pansy at the Countess Geminis. Pansy greets her sweetly, telling her shell be happy to have her as a stepmother. Isabel tells her she will always be kind to her and suddenly feels a sense of chill as if she realizes for a moment that some day Pansy will need her help. The Countess Gemini comes in and chatters on for a long time about her feelings in hearing about the news and her sense that Isabel will improve their family. She says she wants to tell Isabel some things about marriage and Pansy should leave the room. Isabel tells her she wants Pansy to stay because she doesnt want to hear anything Pansy cant hear.", "analysis": "Notes Isabel is isolated from all her usual sources of moral guidance. She seems to like this state of affairs at the moment. It makes her engagement to Gilbert Osmond even more romantic. Henry James relates only a bit of the kind of love talk she and Gilbert Osmond engage in during their walks in the park. He comes across as charming and loving and sweet. Isabel is also charmed by Pansy, whose innocence Isabel continues to admire. At one point, however, there is a note of foreboding when Isabel tells Pansy she will always be kind to her. She gets a sense that there will be a point at which Pansy will need such affection very much. This foreboding however is stifled like all the others. The reader notes it and sees Isabel note it but pass it by as is expected of anyone about to get married. When Isabel meets the Countess Gemini, it is clear that the Countess has been subdued by Madame Merle in her early intention of warming Isabel away from Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmonds machinations. She treats her to her usual flow of chatter. The last image of the chapter is of Isabel putting herself on the same plane as Pansy, asking to be left innocent of anything the Countess might want to relate to her of the horrors of marriage."}

Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself. One did other things to please other people; one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfaction was confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late, on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little free 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 Gilbert Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious, almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's right was always made of the wrong of some one else. The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however, made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions. He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness be all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one's thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred it to be freshened in the reproduction even as "words" by music. His egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this lady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little favour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her so completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in our fortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your money." "Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do you know what they think?" "You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course when 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 having the shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing think--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend I'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's yours--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've sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their business to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they should. 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 to be thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," he said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want a great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them. Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it properly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon awaits 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 you love to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty of admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're not 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 poor child to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It's all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring." They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one's energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in a year or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations, her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was giving. He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore a 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 the end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance had the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved. She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render, part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn't know," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectly natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it's the 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've brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way." He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that had struck Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occurs to me that you'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her," she said. "You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she may be jealous." "I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. I should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will come into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be." Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as it somehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it being more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told her 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 a beautiful sister!" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not cried, as he expected. "Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel. "Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her good manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see for yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person." The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whither Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been ushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her aunt 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 in company. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have given lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself while they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, the year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world. "Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him," said this excellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; I think you'll suit very well." "You think I shall suit YOU?" "You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will suit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not so quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than many others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She's always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when she comes 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 a delightful companion for papa." "For you too, I hope," Isabel said. "I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myself think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll be my model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will be very feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more than me. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be my stepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to be cruel; 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 to you." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need it had intervened with the effect of a chill. "Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned with her note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded! Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead and 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 of turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to a composition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect me to congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you care if I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being so clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell fibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be gained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as you wouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paper flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would be sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very glad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend I'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the way you're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and original, 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; and my 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 to talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to me for--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing what horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was enchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, you won'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 be better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and see you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms with Osmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid of you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, you won'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 can stand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir." "Let her stay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear nothing that Pansy may not!"

Chapter 35

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady53.asp

Isabel never tells Gilbert Osmond of her family and friends opposition to the marriage. She feels as if in loving him, she is forced to break all her other ties. For his part, Gilbert Osmond is elated with his success. He feels that Madame Merle has given him an enormous gift in giving him Isabel Archer. She is intelligent enough to reflect back his own thoughts in a flattering way. Se is like a silver platter that reflects his ideas to perfection. One day as they are walking in he park, he mentions that he realizes her family disapproves of him. He says he has never strived for money and so they shouldnt think hes marrying Isabel for this reason. He tells her he is a better man for loving her. He says he used to want many things and had "morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire." He says now a long summer afternoon of life awaits the two of them and they will have his charming daughter to entertain them. When he finally tells Pansy, she expresses her pleasure in having Isabel as a "beautiful sister. " One day Isabel meets pansy at the Countess Geminis. Pansy greets her sweetly, telling her shell be happy to have her as a stepmother. Isabel tells her she will always be kind to her and suddenly feels a sense of chill as if she realizes for a moment that some day Pansy will need her help. The Countess Gemini comes in and chatters on for a long time about her feelings in hearing about the news and her sense that Isabel will improve their family. She says she wants to tell Isabel some things about marriage and Pansy should leave the room. Isabel tells her she wants Pansy to stay because she doesnt want to hear anything Pansy cant hear.

Notes Isabel is isolated from all her usual sources of moral guidance. She seems to like this state of affairs at the moment. It makes her engagement to Gilbert Osmond even more romantic. Henry James relates only a bit of the kind of love talk she and Gilbert Osmond engage in during their walks in the park. He comes across as charming and loving and sweet. Isabel is also charmed by Pansy, whose innocence Isabel continues to admire. At one point, however, there is a note of foreboding when Isabel tells Pansy she will always be kind to her. She gets a sense that there will be a point at which Pansy will need such affection very much. This foreboding however is stifled like all the others. The reader notes it and sees Isabel note it but pass it by as is expected of anyone about to get married. When Isabel meets the Countess Gemini, it is clear that the Countess has been subdued by Madame Merle in her early intention of warming Isabel away from Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmonds machinations. She treats her to her usual flow of chatter. The last image of the chapter is of Isabel putting herself on the same plane as Pansy, asking to be left innocent of anything the Countess might want to relate to her of the horrors of marriage.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_35_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 36

chapter 36

{"name": "Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady54.asp", "summary": "In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier calls on Madame Merle to ask her to put in a good word for him with Gilbert Osmond. He wants to marry Pansy Osmond. He tells Madame Merle that he wants to speak to Mrs. Isabel Osmond about it also and feels that Mrs. Osmond will be a help to him. Madame Merle advises against his speaking to Mrs. Osmond since the Osmonds take opposite views from each other in everything. She mentions that Mrs. Osmond had a son two years ago who died when he was six months old. She intimates that he cant expect any dowry money from Mrs. Osmond, who will probably save it all for her own future children. She warns Mr. Rosier again not to consult with Mrs. Osmond, because in \"setting her going\" he will certainly spoil his chances. She tells him he should be friendly to Mrs. Osmond, though, since she doesnt get along well with her new friends and therefore needs all the old ones she can find. He leaves her house and fears that he has gone to the wrong person. He hadnt realized how naive he was being in thinking that just because she was charming with him when he met her in Paris, that Madame Merle would speak on his behalf to Mr. Osmond. He goes to Mrs. Osmonds \"evening\" which she has every Thursday evening. They live at the Palazzo Roccanera, the name of which reminds one of a fortress. He thinks of Pansy as being immured in this place as if it were a dungeon. When he first started coming here, he had noticed all the good things in the house. As a collector, he was extremely interested to see that the Osmonds have better Parisian things than the Parisians do. Tonight, though, he has realized that he must be serious since he has learned that he will encounter serious opposition to marrying Pansy.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter is set three years later. The reader finds out about Isabel Archer and Gilbert Osmonds marriage through innuendo. During the conversation between Edward Rosier and Madame Merle, we find out that Isabel and Gilbert Osmond are not a happy couple and that they seem to have been conducting a sort of a war since they got married. We learn that Isabel had a baby boy two years ago who died when he was six months old. We learn also that Isabel is given no family status by virtue of her marriage. Madame Merle tells Rosier that Gilbert Osmonds \"wife can scarcely be termed a member of family.\" Last, we learn that they have moved to Rome and set up house where Isabel entertains every Thursday evening and Gilbert slowly acquires more art for the house. In setting up the marriage in this way, that is, in retrospect, James steps past the need to describe Isabels realization that she was fooled into the marriage and her gradual acceptance of her sad fate as serving as nothing more than a money maker and a social hostess for her husband. The next time we see Isabel, we will see her radically more mature, someone whose eyes have been sadly opened to the depravity of people who were supposedly trustworthy and who has been forced to continue to live amongst them. In light of this insight on the readers part, the actual subject of the chapter--Edward Rosiers attempt to win approval to marry Pansy--is thrown into light. The suit for Pansys hand is doomed at the outset. Edward has an inkling of this when he suspects that he was impolitic to have gone to Madame Merle for help. In terms of plot development, this new twist seems to be here mainly to put Isabel into action. If she loves Pansy, perhaps she will do something to help her marry someone she loves. In doing so, she will have to stop submitting to her husbands rule."}

One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame Merle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face and a lady's maid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room and requested the favour of his name. "Mr. Edward Rosier," said the young man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear. The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered that he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of several winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits he might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this charming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him which changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to pay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the household angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate, he was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare his passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under bonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if he were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in the autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr. Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it on the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the young man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in November lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the brave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had at the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to a certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain to finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably finished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece. He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the bloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate. That he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods would have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame Merle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every style, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He had immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then "By Jove, she has some jolly good things!" he had yearningly murmured. The room was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression of faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved. Rosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before the fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately, as if he were smelling it. "It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good." "It's too good for this; you ought to wear it." "They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation." "Ah, but I can't wear mine," smiled the visitor. "I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to wear." His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. "You've some very good things." "Yes, but I hate them." "Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man quickly asked. "No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!" "I love my things," said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his recognitions. "But it's not about them, nor about yours, that I came to talk to you." He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: "I care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!" Madame Merle opened wide eyes. "Did you come to tell me that?" "I came to ask your advice." She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her large white hand. "A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice." "Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the case with a man in love. I've been in love before, and I know. But never so much as this time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what you think of my prospects. I'm afraid that for Mr. Osmond I'm not--well, a real collector's piece." "Do you wish me to intercede?" Madame Merle asked with her fine arms folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left. "If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to believe her father will consent." "You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you assume in rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize." "You've been very kind to me," said the young man. "That's why I came." "I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It's very rare now, and there's no telling what one may get by it." With which the left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave expression to the joke. But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently strenuous. "Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!" "I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse. Pardon me if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I must tell you, however, that I've not the marrying of Pansy Osmond." "I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate with her family, and I thought you might have influence." Madame Merle considered. "Whom do you call her family?" "Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere." "Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying her." "I'm sorry for that," said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. "I think Mrs. Osmond would favour me." "Very likely--if her husband doesn't." He raised his eyebrows. "Does she take the opposite line from him?" "In everything. They think quite differently." "Well," said Rosier, "I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my business. She's very fond of Pansy." "Yes, she's very fond of Pansy." "And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves her as if she were her own mother." "You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor child," said Madame Merle. "Have you declared your sentiments?" "Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. "Never till I've assured myself of those of the parents." "You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; you observe the proprieties." "I think you're laughing at me," the young man murmured, dropping back in his chair and feeling his small moustache. "I didn't expect that of you, Madame Merle." She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them. "You don't do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what I think." "I wouldn't agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for that," said Ned Rosier. "I'm glad, after all, that you've told me," Madame Merle went on. "Leave it to me a little; I think I can help you." "I said you were the person to come to!" her visitor cried with prompt elation. "You were very clever," Madame Merle returned more dryly. "When I say I can help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a little if it is." "I'm awfully decent, you know," said Rosier earnestly. "I won't say I've no faults, but I'll say I've no vices." "All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call vices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous? What have you got besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?" "I've a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year. With the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an income." "Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you live." "Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris." Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left. "It wouldn't be famous; you'd have to make use of the teacups, and they'd get broken." "We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything pretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty as she one can afford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but muslin--without the sprig," said Rosier reflectively. "Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much obliged to you at any rate for that theory." "It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enter into it. She understands all that; that's why I love her." "She's a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful. But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing." Rosier scarce demurred. "I don't in the least desire that he should. But I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man." "The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune." "Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do something." "For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!" Madame Merle exclaimed with a laugh. "I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it." "Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably prefer to keep her money for her own children." "Her own children? Surely she has none." "She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago, six months after his birth. Others therefore may come." "I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendid woman." Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. "Ah, about her there's much to be said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactly made out that you're a parti. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income. "Pardon me, I think it may be," said Rosier quite lucidly. "You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!" "I think you underrate me." "You're not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame Merle, "of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a combination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at, but there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline to believe he can do better." "HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know," Rosier added eagerly. "She does--I know it." "Ah," cried the young man, "I said you were the person to come to." "But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her," Madame Merle went on. "In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you say, we're an innocent couple. How did YOU know it?" "I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I'll find out for you." Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. "You say that rather coldly. Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be." "I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages." "Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to Mrs. Osmond." "Gardez-vous-en bien!" And Madame Merle was on her feet. "Don't set her going, or you'll spoil everything." Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess HAD been after all the right person to come to. "I don't think I understand you. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to succeed." "Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you not to multiply points of difference between them." Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which he concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner's "best set" came to his assistance. "I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr. Osmond so very much!" he exclaimed. "No, but you should consider HER. You say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?" "Not for the world." "Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken a few soundings." "Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I'm in love." "Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're not to heed what I say?" "You're very kind; I'll be very good," the young man promised. "But I'm afraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard," he added in his mild voice as he went to the door. Madame Merle gave a short laugh. "It has been said before. But his wife isn't easy either." "Ah, she's a splendid woman!" Ned Rosier repeated, for departure. He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected constantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his mind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her de confiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms, gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had indeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration among the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance (Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt rather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had appeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss Osmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like her to believe it. It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's, Mrs. Osmond having an "evening"--she had taken the Thursday of each week--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of civility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure overlooking a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure, but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in a kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name, which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which was mentioned in "Murray" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague survey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio in the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the wide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on settling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough, and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels he could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details of the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up there to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very strong in "good things." It was a taste of Osmond's own--not at all of hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when, after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even better "French" than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a large collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his greatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice. Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own. For "advice" read "cash," he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert Osmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season confirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented himself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls of the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme seriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted a gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took everything comfortable for granted.

Chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady54.asp

In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier calls on Madame Merle to ask her to put in a good word for him with Gilbert Osmond. He wants to marry Pansy Osmond. He tells Madame Merle that he wants to speak to Mrs. Isabel Osmond about it also and feels that Mrs. Osmond will be a help to him. Madame Merle advises against his speaking to Mrs. Osmond since the Osmonds take opposite views from each other in everything. She mentions that Mrs. Osmond had a son two years ago who died when he was six months old. She intimates that he cant expect any dowry money from Mrs. Osmond, who will probably save it all for her own future children. She warns Mr. Rosier again not to consult with Mrs. Osmond, because in "setting her going" he will certainly spoil his chances. She tells him he should be friendly to Mrs. Osmond, though, since she doesnt get along well with her new friends and therefore needs all the old ones she can find. He leaves her house and fears that he has gone to the wrong person. He hadnt realized how naive he was being in thinking that just because she was charming with him when he met her in Paris, that Madame Merle would speak on his behalf to Mr. Osmond. He goes to Mrs. Osmonds "evening" which she has every Thursday evening. They live at the Palazzo Roccanera, the name of which reminds one of a fortress. He thinks of Pansy as being immured in this place as if it were a dungeon. When he first started coming here, he had noticed all the good things in the house. As a collector, he was extremely interested to see that the Osmonds have better Parisian things than the Parisians do. Tonight, though, he has realized that he must be serious since he has learned that he will encounter serious opposition to marrying Pansy.

Notes This chapter is set three years later. The reader finds out about Isabel Archer and Gilbert Osmonds marriage through innuendo. During the conversation between Edward Rosier and Madame Merle, we find out that Isabel and Gilbert Osmond are not a happy couple and that they seem to have been conducting a sort of a war since they got married. We learn that Isabel had a baby boy two years ago who died when he was six months old. We learn also that Isabel is given no family status by virtue of her marriage. Madame Merle tells Rosier that Gilbert Osmonds "wife can scarcely be termed a member of family." Last, we learn that they have moved to Rome and set up house where Isabel entertains every Thursday evening and Gilbert slowly acquires more art for the house. In setting up the marriage in this way, that is, in retrospect, James steps past the need to describe Isabels realization that she was fooled into the marriage and her gradual acceptance of her sad fate as serving as nothing more than a money maker and a social hostess for her husband. The next time we see Isabel, we will see her radically more mature, someone whose eyes have been sadly opened to the depravity of people who were supposedly trustworthy and who has been forced to continue to live amongst them. In light of this insight on the readers part, the actual subject of the chapter--Edward Rosiers attempt to win approval to marry Pansy--is thrown into light. The suit for Pansys hand is doomed at the outset. Edward has an inkling of this when he suspects that he was impolitic to have gone to Madame Merle for help. In terms of plot development, this new twist seems to be here mainly to put Isabel into action. If she loves Pansy, perhaps she will do something to help her marry someone she loves. In doing so, she will have to stop submitting to her husbands rule.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_36_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady55.asp", "summary": "Edward Rosier enters the Osmonds house and begins looking for Pansy Osmond. He doesnt find her in the first room and goes to the next room where he finds Mr. Osmond. Mr. Osmond snubs him by offering only two fingers of his left hand when Rosier holds his hand out for a handshake. They briefly discuss their collecting. Osmond says hes tired of collection and Rosier asks if he wants to sell anything. Osmond says no and then adds, \"Ive nothing I wish to match.\" Rosier understands the implication and realizes Madame Merle has already spoken to him. He finds Mrs. Osmond in the next room. She tells him she wants him to go and speak to a young woman who is awkwardly sitting alone in another room. He tells her she should get her husband to speak to this young woman and she says her husband wont oblige her in such favors. He tells her he isnt interested in seeing anyone but Pansy. He finds the young woman and Pansy is with her. He is so taken with Pansy that he sits fidgeting during the conversation wiping the perspiration from his forehead. He thinks Pansy is a perfect jeune fille especially since he doesnt want a French but an American jeune fille. He is sure Pansy has never read a newspaper, has never walked alone with a man, has read nothing more of novels than perhaps Sir Walter Scot, and has never seen a comedy of manners. He rankles at the memory of Mr. Osmond giving him only two fingers of his left hand in place of a handshake. He asks Pansy to come with him to another room to show it to him. They get to the next room which is empty, decorated by Mr. Osmond in a style Rosier finds distasteful. He tells Pansy he comes only to see her. In doing so, he is going against Madame Merles warning not to speak to Pansy. He feels \"the intoxication of a rupture with authority.\" Pansy tells him she likes him. He finds her \"ineffably passive.\" Meanwhile in the other room, Madame Merle has entered. She comes and sits down for a chat with Gilbert Osmond in the middle of the room. She asks where Pansy is and Gilbert tells her shes in the other room with Rosier and that he has been rude to Rosier. He says he is bored by the problem of dealing with Rosier. Madame Merle says Pansy has thought a lot about Rosier but she knows Gilbert cares nothing about what Pansy thinks about. He says he doesnt in fact care. He says that is why he educated her the way she did: so she would act in such a circumstance exactly in the way he wants her to. Madame Merle says he should keep Rosier on hand since he might be useful. Gilbert refuses to do so, telling her to do it herself. They see that Rosier and Pansy are coming out of the room opposite. Madame Merle says its clear from their looks that he has spoken to her and that he intends to confess. Osmond gets up and glances sharply at Pansy then walks away. Pansy greets Madame Merle and then leaves. Madame Merle scolds Rosier for going against her advice and tells him to come to her house the next afternoon. Rosier is desperate. He finds Mrs. Osmond who tells him she can do nothing to help him, that he is not rich enough for Pansy according to her husband. Rosier feels offended at being so ill-treated. Isabel indicates that she wishes she could help him, but that she will be powerless to do so.", "analysis": "Notes The situation is an evening at the Osmonds and the narrative treatment of it is as if it were a tableaux. A tableau is a kind of stage performance in which the actors dont speak but act out their parts in a way that conveys the meaning. The dialogue is less important than the implication of the position of the players. Rosier comes in looking for Pansy. He is snubbed by Gilbert Osmond. He takes Pansy aside and they exchange words that indicate they care for each other. They come back in and their looks show what theyve been discussing. Meanwhile, Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond have had their own private talk in public. They have discussed and essentially dispensed with the subject of Pansy and Rosier. Madame Merle indicates to Rosier that he has fumbled seriously and dismisses him. He rushes to Isabel who insists on her powerlessness. Then he leaves. This is the second view weve gotten of Isabels marriage and it is as distanced as the first view. Here, Isabel is shown as the social organizer of Gilbert Osmonds house. She speaks hardly at all and when she does, it is to insist on her inability to control or influence her husband. The scene is quite sinister. Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond are clearly running things as they wish them to be done."}

Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here Mrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place to-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it contained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers. Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without changing his attitude. "How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about." "Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully. Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so efficiently looked at. "Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like it," he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there, but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond, having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without help, and then in a moment, "I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte to-day," he said. Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his boot-sole, "I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!" he returned. "I hope you're not losing your interest?" "In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest." Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. "You're not thinking of parting with a--a piece or two?" "No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier," said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor. "Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked brightly. "Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match." Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of assurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could murmur; and he knew his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the adjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thought of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it was based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that secret of a "lustre" beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering, which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him to recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately taken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the picture of a gracious lady. "You see I'm very regular," he said. "But who should be if I'm not?" "Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But we mustn't indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady." "Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obliging; but this was not what he had come for. "She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to." Rosier hesitated a moment. "Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He's within six feet of her." Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. "She's not very lively, and he doesn't like dull people." "But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!" "I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so obliging." "No, he's not--to me." And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled. "That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women. "So I tell him," she said, still smiling. "You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond. "That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady." "Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The simple truth is I'm dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond." "Ah," said Isabel, turning away, "I can't help you there!" Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink, whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable of occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last, however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond as ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at nineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out the part; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style; and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted. Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed were happy enough. "No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique," he used to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had the style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye. It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier, who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, and one couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing light on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed of--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had never looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune fille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men, nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but he was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater importance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house. There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his guard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy; it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in love with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl in so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before; he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poor Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond the one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow; there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the very temple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture; he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the other maiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was frightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured him she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed for that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go and look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He had been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was of the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he didn't really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He therefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre. "Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like I'll show you." She was not in the least frightened. "That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind," Rosier murmured. They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. "It's not for winter evenings; it's more for summer," she said. "It's papa's taste; he has so much." He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. He looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation. "Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?" he asked. "Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said Pansy--"and for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows everything." Rosier was silent a little. "There's one thing I'm sure he knows!" he broke out presently. "He knows that when I come here it's, with all respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who's so charming--it's really," said the young man, "to see you!" "To see me?" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes. "To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated, feeling the intoxication of a rupture with authority. Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not needed to make her face more modest. "I thought it was for that." "And it was not disagreeable to you?" "I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said Pansy. "I was afraid of offending you." "You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel had kissed her. "You like me then, Pansy?" Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy. "Yes--I like you." They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clock was perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation from without. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him the very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her hand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted, still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something ineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; now anything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waiting for him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever; but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree. Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his heart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without a question. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow Empire salottino. She had known it was for her he came, and yet like what a perfect little lady she had carried it off! "You're very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe that there was after all such a thing as hospitality. She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. "Did you say papa knows?" "You told me just now he knows everything." "I think you must make sure," said Pansy. "Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!" Rosier murmured in her ear; whereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of consistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate. The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered. How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, for she neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor dressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest thing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more striking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master of the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these two--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the commonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening. "He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared," Osmond said. "And where's Pansy?" "In the other room. There are several people there." "He's probably among them," said Madame Merle. "Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone. Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to the eighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say to him that I've told you what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly." "Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more--which is exactly what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal." "But you don't hate it." "It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing's a great bore. There's no hurry." "I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over." "No, don't do that. He'll hang on." "If I discourage him he'll do the same." "Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain--which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably hold his tongue and go in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a donkey." "Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?" "Oh, he's a nuisance--with his eternal majolica." Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. "He's a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand francs!" "It's misery--'genteel' misery," Osmond broke in. "It's not what I've dreamed of for Pansy." "Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her." "Do you believe him?" Osmond asked absentmindedly. "Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don't suppose you consider that that matters." "I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has thought of him." "That opinion's more convenient," said Madame Merle quietly. "Has she told you she's in love with him?" "For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?" Madame Merle added in a moment. Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while before him. "This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what I educated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come up she should do what I prefer." "I'm not afraid that she'll not do it." "Well then, where's the hitch?" "I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful." "I can't keep him. Keep him yourself." "Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day." Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her father. "He has spoken to her," Madame Merle went on to Osmond. Her companion never turned his head. "So much for your belief in his promises. He ought to be horsewhipped." "He intends to confess, poor little man!" Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, turning away. Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not more intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly smile. "You're very late," the young creature gently said. "My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be." Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it off his mind, "I've spoken to her!" he whispered. "I know it, Mr. Rosier." "Did she tell you?" "Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five." She was severe, and in the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation. He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor the place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady was Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. "You said just now you wouldn't help me," he began to Mrs. Osmond. "Perhaps you'll feel differently when you know--when you know--!" Isabel met his hesitation. "When I know what?" "That she's all right." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, that we've come to an understanding." "She's all wrong," said Isabel. "It won't do." Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush testified to his sense of injury. "I've never been treated so," he said. "What is there against me, after all? That's not the way I'm usually considered. I could have married twenty times." "It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once, comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not rich enough for Pansy." "She doesn't care a straw for one's money." "No, but her father does." "Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man. Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatly arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He searched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to Isabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a rude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of him. "I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago," he began. "But you must remember my situation." "I don't remember what you said," she answered coldly. "Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me." She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: "It's not that I won't; I simply can't!" Her manner was almost passionate. "If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of your husband save as an angel." "The inducement's great," said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked, and he took himself off.

Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady55.asp

Edward Rosier enters the Osmonds house and begins looking for Pansy Osmond. He doesnt find her in the first room and goes to the next room where he finds Mr. Osmond. Mr. Osmond snubs him by offering only two fingers of his left hand when Rosier holds his hand out for a handshake. They briefly discuss their collecting. Osmond says hes tired of collection and Rosier asks if he wants to sell anything. Osmond says no and then adds, "Ive nothing I wish to match." Rosier understands the implication and realizes Madame Merle has already spoken to him. He finds Mrs. Osmond in the next room. She tells him she wants him to go and speak to a young woman who is awkwardly sitting alone in another room. He tells her she should get her husband to speak to this young woman and she says her husband wont oblige her in such favors. He tells her he isnt interested in seeing anyone but Pansy. He finds the young woman and Pansy is with her. He is so taken with Pansy that he sits fidgeting during the conversation wiping the perspiration from his forehead. He thinks Pansy is a perfect jeune fille especially since he doesnt want a French but an American jeune fille. He is sure Pansy has never read a newspaper, has never walked alone with a man, has read nothing more of novels than perhaps Sir Walter Scot, and has never seen a comedy of manners. He rankles at the memory of Mr. Osmond giving him only two fingers of his left hand in place of a handshake. He asks Pansy to come with him to another room to show it to him. They get to the next room which is empty, decorated by Mr. Osmond in a style Rosier finds distasteful. He tells Pansy he comes only to see her. In doing so, he is going against Madame Merles warning not to speak to Pansy. He feels "the intoxication of a rupture with authority." Pansy tells him she likes him. He finds her "ineffably passive." Meanwhile in the other room, Madame Merle has entered. She comes and sits down for a chat with Gilbert Osmond in the middle of the room. She asks where Pansy is and Gilbert tells her shes in the other room with Rosier and that he has been rude to Rosier. He says he is bored by the problem of dealing with Rosier. Madame Merle says Pansy has thought a lot about Rosier but she knows Gilbert cares nothing about what Pansy thinks about. He says he doesnt in fact care. He says that is why he educated her the way she did: so she would act in such a circumstance exactly in the way he wants her to. Madame Merle says he should keep Rosier on hand since he might be useful. Gilbert refuses to do so, telling her to do it herself. They see that Rosier and Pansy are coming out of the room opposite. Madame Merle says its clear from their looks that he has spoken to her and that he intends to confess. Osmond gets up and glances sharply at Pansy then walks away. Pansy greets Madame Merle and then leaves. Madame Merle scolds Rosier for going against her advice and tells him to come to her house the next afternoon. Rosier is desperate. He finds Mrs. Osmond who tells him she can do nothing to help him, that he is not rich enough for Pansy according to her husband. Rosier feels offended at being so ill-treated. Isabel indicates that she wishes she could help him, but that she will be powerless to do so.

Notes The situation is an evening at the Osmonds and the narrative treatment of it is as if it were a tableaux. A tableau is a kind of stage performance in which the actors dont speak but act out their parts in a way that conveys the meaning. The dialogue is less important than the implication of the position of the players. Rosier comes in looking for Pansy. He is snubbed by Gilbert Osmond. He takes Pansy aside and they exchange words that indicate they care for each other. They come back in and their looks show what theyve been discussing. Meanwhile, Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond have had their own private talk in public. They have discussed and essentially dispensed with the subject of Pansy and Rosier. Madame Merle indicates to Rosier that he has fumbled seriously and dismisses him. He rushes to Isabel who insists on her powerlessness. Then he leaves. This is the second view weve gotten of Isabels marriage and it is as distanced as the first view. Here, Isabel is shown as the social organizer of Gilbert Osmonds house. She speaks hardly at all and when she does, it is to insist on her inability to control or influence her husband. The scene is quite sinister. Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond are clearly running things as they wish them to be done.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_37_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 38

chapter 38

{"name": "Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady56.asp", "summary": "Edward Rosier goes to see Madame Merle the next day and is surprised that she doesnt scold him for going against her advice. She tells him to be very patient and to visit Pansy only on Thursday evenings when everyone else does. He agrees. The next Thursday he enters the Osmonds and greets Mr. Osmond who tells him he is glad to see he can take a hint. He adds that he sets a \"great price on daughter.\" He tells Edward that Pansy never gave him her pledge of love and that she will not marry him. Lord Warburton enters and greets Mr. Osmond who chats with him. Meanwhile, Rosier goes to speak briefly to Isabel who tells him Pansy has not given up on him as Mr. Osmond has asserted. He notices Isabel change color and sees that Mr. Osmond is approaching with Lord Warburton. They greet each other warmly and after a brief time of conversation, Osmond leaves them to talk alone. Warburton tells Isabel she has changed a bit since he last saw her in Rome. She says shes changed a good deal. He says he has come to Rome with Ralph Touchett who is in a very bad way and has decided unaccountably to spend the winter in Catania, Sicily against the advice of all the medical authorities. Ralph wanted to stop in Rome on the way. Isabel is alarmed but Warburton tells her she should go see Ralph in the morning, that when he left him that night, Ralph had said he was happy. Isabel tells Warburton she has heard that he has been doing good things with his reform plans. He tells her he keeps up a constant debate with Ralph, who is a conservative. She sees that he is contented with his life and realizes he has had the luxury of a man to plunge himself into his work. He asks her if shes happy and she says she is very happy after asking him if he really thinks she would tell him if she werent. He compliments her on her house and she says its all Osmonds doing. She says, \"Ive no ideas. I can never propose anything.\" Isabel wants to introduce him to some of her guests and he says he only wants to speak to her. Then he notices Pansy and says he wouldnt mind meeting her. Isabel tells him who Pansy is. Warburton tells Isabel she hasnt changed after all. Isabel says marriage has changed her a great deal. Warburton says he does wish to marry. Meanwhile, Edward Rosier is speaking to Pansy who is busy pouring tea. She assures him that she hasnt forgotten him as her father said she had. She says she wont give him up, but that shell appeal to Mrs. Osmond for help. He says Mrs. Osmond can do nothing since shes afraid of Mr. Osmond, and Pansy says Mrs. Osmond isnt afraid of anyone.", "analysis": "Notes The character of Pansy is given a bit more fullness in this chapter. Hitherto she has seemed almost vacant. Here, she seems almost vacant as well, but she does say some fairly surprising things. She seems to have a plan to get to marry the man she loves and she plans to use Isabel as an ally. Here, Isabel is finally given more than just a few lines. James has made a very gradual approach to describing Isabel in her present state in the last few chapters. Here, she speaks to Lord Warburton and seems more of her old self, caring for Ralph and hoping for good things for her old friend Lord Warburton. With the entry of Lord Warburton just at the moment when Gilbert Osmond is fending off Edward Rosier, the suitor with insufficient income for his daughter, it seems clear that James is setting up a new plot complication. Gilbert Osmond will likely set his sights on Lord Warburton for his daughter."}

He went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let him off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop there till something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher expectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his daughter a portion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it wouldn't be a miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy her father, he might depend on that; so nothing was to be gained by precipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a sort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of itself--it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own situation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world, and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly declared, one couldn't have everything one wanted; she had learned that lesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert Osmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter dropped for a few weeks and would himself write when he should have anything to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear. "He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn't like it at all," said Madame Merle. "I'm perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!" "If you do that he'll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to me." "As little as possible? Who's to measure the possibility?" "Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world, but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about Pansy. I'll see that she understands everything. She's a calm little nature; she'll take it quietly." Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was advised, and awaited another Thursday evening before returning to Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that though he went early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual, was in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so that, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him. "I'm glad that you can take a hint," Pansy's father said, slightly closing his keen, conscious eyes. "I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be." "You took it? Where did you take it?" It seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he waited a moment, asking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to. "Madame Merle gave me, as I understood it, a message from you--to the effect that you declined to give me the opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain my wishes to you." And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly. "I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to Madame Merle?" "I asked her for an opinion--for nothing more. I did so because she had seemed to me to know you very well." "She doesn't know me so well as she thinks," said Osmond. "I'm sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for hope." Osmond stared into the fire a moment. "I set a great price on my daughter." "You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wishing to marry her?" "I wish to marry her very well," Osmond went on with a dry impertinence which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired. "Of course I pretend she'd marry well in marrying me. She couldn't marry a man who loves her more--or whom, I may venture to add, she loves more." "I'm not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter loves"--and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile. "I'm not theorising. Your daughter has spoken." "Not to me," Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping his eyes to his boot-toes. "I have her promise, sir!" cried Rosier with the sharpness of exasperation. As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted some attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement had subsided; then he said, all undisturbed: "I think she has no recollection of having given it." They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had uttered these last words the master of the house turned round again to the room. Before Rosier had time to reply he perceived that a gentleman--a stranger--had just come in, unannounced, according to the Roman custom, and was about to present himself to his host. The latter smiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face and a large, fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman. "You apparently don't recognise me," he said with a smile that expressed more than Osmond's. "Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you." Rosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond in his path. He gave his hostess no greeting--he was too righteously indignant, but said to her crudely: "Your husband's awfully cold-blooded." She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. "You can't expect every one to be as hot as yourself." "I don't pretend to be cold, but I'm cool. What has he been doing to his daughter?" "I've no idea." "Don't you take any interest?" Rosier demanded with his sense that she too was irritating. For a moment she answered nothing; then, "No!" she said abruptly and with a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word. "Pardon me if I don't believe that. Where's Miss Osmond?" "In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there." Rosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden by intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely given to her occupation. "What on earth has he done to her?" he asked again imploringly. "He declares to me she has given me up." "She has not given you up," Isabel said in a low tone and without looking at him. "Ah, thank you for that! Now I'll leave her alone as long as you think proper!" He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware that Osmond was coming toward her accompanied by the gentleman who had just entered. He judged the latter, in spite of the advantage of good looks and evident social experience, a little embarrassed. "Isabel," said her husband, "I bring you an old friend." Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend's, not perfectly confident. "I'm very happy to see Lord Warburton," she said. Rosier turned away and, now that his talk with her had been interrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He had a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond wouldn't notice what he did. Isabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased to observe him. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felt a pleasure or a pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her, was plainly quite sure of his own sense of the matter; though his grey eyes had still their fine original property of keeping recognition and attestation strictly sincere. He was "heavier" than of yore and looked older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly. "I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said; "I've but just arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I've lost no time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you were at home on Thursdays." "You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England," Osmond remarked to his wife. "It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we're greatly flattered," Isabel said. "Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horrible inns," Osmond went on. "The hotel seems very good; I think it's the same at which I saw you four years since. You know it was here in Rome that we first met; it's a long time ago. Do you remember where I bade you good-bye?" his lordship asked of his hostess. "It was in the Capitol, in the first room." "I remember that myself," said Osmond. "I was there at the time." "Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry that, somehow or other, it became almost a dismal memory, and I've never cared to come back till to-day. But I knew you were living here," her old friend went on to Isabel, "and I assure you I've often thought of you. It must be a charming place to live in," he added with a look, round him, at her established home, in which she might have caught the dim ghost of his old ruefulness. "We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmond observed with propriety. "Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England since then. Till a month ago I really supposed my travels over." "I've heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who had already, with her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken the measure of what meeting him again meant for her. "I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete blank." "Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He appeared to think his duties as a host now terminated--he had performed them so conscientiously. Nothing could have been more adequate, more nicely measured, than his courtesy to his wife's old friend. It was punctilious, it was explicit, it was everything but natural--a deficiency which Lord Warburton, who, himself, had on the whole a good deal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. "I'll leave you and Mrs. Osmond together," he added. "You have reminiscences into which I don't enter." "I'm afraid you lose a good deal!" Lord Warburton called after him, as he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious. "I'm really very glad to see you." "It's very pleasant. You're very kind." "Do you know that you're changed--a little?" She just hesitated. "Yes--a good deal." "I don't mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the better?" "I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to YOU," she bravely returned. "Ah well, for me--it's a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn't be something to show for it." They sat down and she asked him about his sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He answered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments she saw--or believed she saw--that he would press with less of his whole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's manner was certainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or like her at least, to know him for such. "There's something I must tell you without more delay," he resumed. "I've brought Ralph Touchett with me." "Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great. "He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed." "I'll go to see him," she immediately said. "That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea you hadn't seen much of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a--a little more formal. That's why I hesitated--like an awkward Briton." "I'm as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why has he come to Rome?" The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp. "Because he's very far gone, Mrs. Osmond." "Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificial climate." "Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed; the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it into his head to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it--neither did the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know, is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania. He said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish, I made up my mind to come with him. I'm acting as--what do you call it in America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph's very moderate now. We left England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He can't keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the cold. He has got rather a good man, but I'm afraid he's beyond human help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some sharp young doctor; but he wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchett to decide on going to America." Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. "My aunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When the date comes round she starts; I think she'd have started if Ralph had been dying." "I sometimes think he IS dying," Lord Warburton said. Isabel sprang up. "I'll go to him then now." He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his words. "I don't mean I thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day, in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of our reaching Rome--he's very fond of Rome, you know--gave him strength. An hour ago, when I bade him goodnight, he told me he was very tired, but very happy. Go to him in the morning; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was coming here; I didn't decide to till after we had separated. Then I remembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very Thursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell you he's here, and let you know you had perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he said he hadn't written to you." There was no need of Isabel's declaring that she would act upon Lord Warburton's information; she looked, as she sat there, like a winged creature held back. "Let alone that I wanted to see you for myself," her visitor gallantly added. "I don't understand Ralph's plan; it seems to me very wild," she said. "I was glad to think of him between those thick walls at Gardencourt." "He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company." "You went to see him; you've been extremely kind." "Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton. "We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things. Every one speaks of you as a great statesman, and I'm perpetually seeing your name in the Times, which, by the way, doesn't appear to hold it in reverence. You're apparently as wild a radical as ever." "I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me. Touchett and I have kept up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way from London. I tell him he's the last of the Tories, and he calls me the King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal appearance, every sign of the brute. So you see there's life in him yet." Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she abstained from asking them all. She would see for herself on the morrow. She perceived that after a little Lord Warburton would tire of that subject--he had a conception of other possible topics. She was more and more able to say to herself that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she was able to say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old, such an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resisted and reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new trouble. But she was now reassured; she could see he only wished to live with her on good terms, that she was to understand he had forgiven her and was incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This was not a form of revenge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to punish her by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justice to believe it had simply occurred to him that she would now take a good-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. It was the resignation of a healthy, manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never fester. British politics had cured him; she had known they would. She gave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are always free to plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course spoke of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he even went so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as a very jolly time. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her marriage and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond's acquaintance--since he could hardly be said to have made it on the other occasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage in her history, but he didn't apologise to her for this. The only thing he implied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was very much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly, after a short pause which he had occupied in smiling, as he looked about him, like a person amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of guesses-- "Well now, I suppose you're very happy and all that sort of thing?" Isabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remark struck her almost as the accent of comedy. "Do you suppose if I were not I'd tell you?" "Well, I don't know. I don't see why not." "I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy." "You've got an awfully good house." "Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit--it's my husband's." "You mean he has arranged it?" "Yes, it was nothing when we came." "He must be very clever." "He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel. "There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a taste of your own." "I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can never propose anything." "Do you mean you accept what others propose?" "Very willingly, for the most part." "That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something." "It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in a few small ways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to introduce you to some of these people." "Oh, please don't; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face." "The one talking to the rosy young man? That's my husband's daughter." "Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!" "You must make her acquaintance." "In a moment--with pleasure. I like looking at her from here." He ceased to look at her, however, very soon; his eyes constantly reverted to Mrs. Osmond. "Do you know I was wrong just now in saying you had changed?" he presently went on. "You seem to me, after all, very much the same." "And yet I find it a great change to be married," said Isabel with mild gaiety. "It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven't gone in for that." "It rather surprises me." "You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry," he added more simply. "It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising--after which she reflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she was hardly the person to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined the pang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having contributed then to the facility. Edward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottoman beside Pansy's tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her about trifles, and she asked him who was the new gentleman conversing with her stepmother. "He's an English lord," said Rosier. "I don't know more." "I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea." "Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you." "Don't speak so loud every one will hear," said Pansy. "They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only thought in life was the wish the kettle would boil." "It has just been filled; the servants never know!"--and she sighed with the weight of her responsibility. "Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn't mean what you said a week ago." "I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean what I say to you." "He told me you had forgotten me." "Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed smile. "Then everything's just the very same?" "Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe." "What has he done to you?" "He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he forbade me to marry you." "You needn't mind that." "Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa." "Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?" She raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a moment; then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths. "I love you just as much." "What good will that do me?" "Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, "I don't know that." "You disappoint me," groaned poor Rosier. She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. "Please don't talk any more." "Is this to be all my satisfaction?" "Papa said I was not to talk with you." "Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!" "I wish you'd wait a little," said the girl in a voice just distinct enough to betray a quaver. "Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my life away." "I'll not give you up--oh no!" Pansy went on. "He'll try and make you marry some one else." "I'll never do that." "What then are we to wait for?" She hesitated again. "I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll help us." It was in this manner that she for the most part designated her stepmother. "She won't help us much. She's afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Of your father, I suppose." Pansy shook her little head. "She's not afraid of any one. We must have patience." "Ah, that's an awful word," Rosier groaned; he was deeply disconcerted. Oblivious of the customs of good society, he dropped his head into his hands and, supporting it with a melancholy grace, sat staring at the carpet. Presently he became aware of a good deal of movement about him and, as he looked up, saw Pansy making a curtsey--it was still her little curtsey of the convent--to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond had introduced.

Chapter 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady56.asp

Edward Rosier goes to see Madame Merle the next day and is surprised that she doesnt scold him for going against her advice. She tells him to be very patient and to visit Pansy only on Thursday evenings when everyone else does. He agrees. The next Thursday he enters the Osmonds and greets Mr. Osmond who tells him he is glad to see he can take a hint. He adds that he sets a "great price on daughter." He tells Edward that Pansy never gave him her pledge of love and that she will not marry him. Lord Warburton enters and greets Mr. Osmond who chats with him. Meanwhile, Rosier goes to speak briefly to Isabel who tells him Pansy has not given up on him as Mr. Osmond has asserted. He notices Isabel change color and sees that Mr. Osmond is approaching with Lord Warburton. They greet each other warmly and after a brief time of conversation, Osmond leaves them to talk alone. Warburton tells Isabel she has changed a bit since he last saw her in Rome. She says shes changed a good deal. He says he has come to Rome with Ralph Touchett who is in a very bad way and has decided unaccountably to spend the winter in Catania, Sicily against the advice of all the medical authorities. Ralph wanted to stop in Rome on the way. Isabel is alarmed but Warburton tells her she should go see Ralph in the morning, that when he left him that night, Ralph had said he was happy. Isabel tells Warburton she has heard that he has been doing good things with his reform plans. He tells her he keeps up a constant debate with Ralph, who is a conservative. She sees that he is contented with his life and realizes he has had the luxury of a man to plunge himself into his work. He asks her if shes happy and she says she is very happy after asking him if he really thinks she would tell him if she werent. He compliments her on her house and she says its all Osmonds doing. She says, "Ive no ideas. I can never propose anything." Isabel wants to introduce him to some of her guests and he says he only wants to speak to her. Then he notices Pansy and says he wouldnt mind meeting her. Isabel tells him who Pansy is. Warburton tells Isabel she hasnt changed after all. Isabel says marriage has changed her a great deal. Warburton says he does wish to marry. Meanwhile, Edward Rosier is speaking to Pansy who is busy pouring tea. She assures him that she hasnt forgotten him as her father said she had. She says she wont give him up, but that shell appeal to Mrs. Osmond for help. He says Mrs. Osmond can do nothing since shes afraid of Mr. Osmond, and Pansy says Mrs. Osmond isnt afraid of anyone.

Notes The character of Pansy is given a bit more fullness in this chapter. Hitherto she has seemed almost vacant. Here, she seems almost vacant as well, but she does say some fairly surprising things. She seems to have a plan to get to marry the man she loves and she plans to use Isabel as an ally. Here, Isabel is finally given more than just a few lines. James has made a very gradual approach to describing Isabel in her present state in the last few chapters. Here, she speaks to Lord Warburton and seems more of her old self, caring for Ralph and hoping for good things for her old friend Lord Warburton. With the entry of Lord Warburton just at the moment when Gilbert Osmond is fending off Edward Rosier, the suitor with insufficient income for his daughter, it seems clear that James is setting up a new plot complication. Gilbert Osmond will likely set his sights on Lord Warburton for his daughter.

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Portrait of a Lady.chapter 39

chapter 39

{"name": "Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady57.asp", "summary": "Ralph hasnt seem much of Isabel since shes been married. He realizes that the discussion he had with her when he found out she was engaged has nearly destroyed their friendship. He had attended the wedding. It was very small. Only he, Mrs. Touchett, Pansy, and Countess Gemini attended. Madame Merle sent excuses from Rome. Henrietta Stackpole had been out of the country at the time, but she wrote to tell Isabel she would only have tried to prevent the marriage. She showed up a few months after the marriage and drove Gilbert Osmond to tell his wife that she was just too much and that he thought of their friendship as a monstrosity. Isabel had been disappointed in her new husbands lack of a sense of humor in taking Henrietta Stackpole. Ralph didnt see Isabel for almost two years after her marriage. He saw her six months after her son died. Her letters never revealed anything of import. Meanwhile, Mrs. Touchett had almost severed all ties to Madame Merle. She had told Madame Merle her opinion of Madame Merles deception and Madame Merle had gotten offended and taken a high tone. Ralph, for his part, has felt stupid all this time for having spoken his mind to Isabel and putting such a distance between them. When he saw her after all that time, he noticed that she seemed to do everything faster. She had given up her love of debate. He felt that \"The free, keep girl had become quite another person; what he saw was a fine lady who was supposed to represent something.\" He knew she was supposed to represent nothing other than Mr. Osmond. Ralph thinks of Mr. Osmond as a man who keeps everything within limits. He could see how Gilbert Osmond \"adjusted, regulated, animated their manner of life.\" He sees that Gilbert Osmond acts disdainfully of the world but really wants nothing more than its attention. His life is nothing more than a pose. Gilbert Osmond had made a fuss about Isabel receiving Ralph when he had last seen her. He had realized this and left Rome to spare causing her any trouble. Isabel had been wondering what fine principle had been keeping Ralph alive all his time. She didnt know that what was keeping him alive was his desire to see what she would make of her husband. He felt that she had not finished with what she would do in the world and he was fascinated to find out. He had suddenly decided to go to Sicily after having spent all his time at Gardencourt where he has been dreadfully ill. When Lord Warburton speaks to him one evening, Ralph tells him he has decided to stay in Rome and forgo the visit to Sicily for the winter. Warburton is concerned for his health. Ralph tells him he wants to stay near Isabel. He says last time he was in Rome he thought it was his duty to leave in order to help Isabel. Now he feels that its his duty to stay in Rome and defend her. He wonders why Warburton has come to Rome with him, aside from his concern for Ralphs health. He asks Warburton if his interest in staying in Rome has anything to do with Pansy Osmond. Warburton admits that he is interested in Pansy as a wife despite their more than twenty year difference in age. He wonders what Isabel will think of it. Ralph is embarrassed to wonder if Warburton is interested in Pansy as a means to get close to Isabel. Warburton is offended at the thought.", "analysis": "Notes The interest of Lord Warburton in Pansy Osmond complicates the plot just enough to give Ralph Touchett a good show. Isabel has already half promised to help Pansy get the man she wants, the less than impressive Edward Rosier. Its clear that Gilbert Osmond will be happy for Lord Warburton as a son-in-law and will use Isabels old connection with him in gaining her compliance. Isabel will have to show that she is not hindering Warburtons engagement to Pansy for personal reasons. If Ralph is staying alive just to see what Isabel will do with herself now that shes stuck in her marriage, he has arrived in Rome just in time."}

It will probably not surprise the reflective reader that Ralph Touchett should have seen less of his cousin since her marriage than he had done before that event--an event of which he took such a view as could hardly prove a confirmation of intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we know, and after this had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him to resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations. That discussion had made a difference--the difference he feared rather than the one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl's zeal in carrying out her engagement, but it had come dangerously near to spoiling a friendship. No reference was ever again made between them to Ralph's opinion of Gilbert Osmond, and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence they managed to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was a difference, as Ralph often said to himself--there was a difference. She had not forgiven him, she never would forgive him: that was all he had gained. She thought she had forgiven him; she believed she didn't care; and as she was both very generous and very proud these convictions represented a certain reality. But whether or no the event should justify him he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was of the sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife she could never again be his friend. If in this character she should enjoy the felicity she expected, she would have nothing but contempt for the man who had attempted, in advance, to undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the other hand his warning should be justified the vow she had taken that he should never know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as to make her hate him. So dismal had been, during the year that followed his cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future; and if his meditations appear morbid we must remember he was not in the bloom of health. He consoled himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed) beautifully, and was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united to Mr. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of June. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of celebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicity was what she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided, in spite of Osmond's professed willingness to make a journey of any length, that this characteristic would be best embodied in their being married by the nearest clergyman in the shortest time. The thing was done therefore at the little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of Mrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the Countess Gemini. That severity in the proceedings of which I just spoke was in part the result of the absence of two persons who might have been looked for on the occasion and who would have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle had been invited, but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had written a gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been invited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by Mr. Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her profession; but she had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame Merle's, intimating that, had she been able to cross the Atlantic, she would have been present not only as a witness but as a critic. Her return to Europe had taken place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel in the autumn, in Paris, when she had indulged--perhaps a trifle too freely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to Isabel that she had taken a step which put a barrier between them. "It isn't in the least that you've married--it is that you have married HIM," she had deemed it her duty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen, much more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of his hesitations and compunctions. Henrietta's second visit to Europe, however, was not apparently to have been made in vain; for just at the moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel that he really must object to that newspaper-woman, and Isabel had answered that it seemed to her he took Henrietta too hard, the good Mr. Bantling had appeared upon the scene and proposed that they should take a run down to Spain. Henrietta's letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she had yet published, and there had been one in especial, dated from the Alhambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,' which generally passed for her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband's not seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even wondered if his sense of fun, or of the funny--which would be his sense of humour, wouldn't it?--were by chance defective. Of course she herself looked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing to grudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond had thought their alliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn't imagine what they had in common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow tourist was simply the most vulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned. Against this latter clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an ardour that had made him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his wife's tastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked to know people who were as different as possible from herself. "Why then don't you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman?" Osmond had enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid her washerwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much. Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that had followed her marriage; the winter that formed the beginning of her residence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo, where he had been joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him to England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she couldn't induce him to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at San Remo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter; but late in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome. It was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face with Isabel; his desire to see her again was then of the keenest. She had written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing he wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she was making of her life, and his mother had simply answered that she supposed she was making the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination that communes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no intimacy with her niece, whom she rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to be living in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still remained of the opinion that her marriage had been a shabby affair. It had given her no pleasure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she was sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, she rubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always to minimise the contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her think of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs. Touchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been talked of before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person of Madame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs. Touchett had undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had told her, without circumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part; and Madame Merle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to think no one worth it, and who had performed the miracle of living, more or less, for several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no symptom of irritation--Madame Merle now took a very high tone and declared that this was an accusation from which she couldn't stoop to defend herself. She added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour had been only too simple, that she had believed only what she saw, that she saw Isabel was not eager to marry and Osmond not eager to please (his repeated visits had been nothing; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top and he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to herself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown dust in her companion's eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event--she was unprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had played any part in it, double or single, was an imputation against which she proudly protested. It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude, and of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming seasons, that Madame Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months in England, where her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had done her a wrong; there are some things that can't be forgiven. But Madame Merle suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite in her dignity. Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the girl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the game. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would always wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in her union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should fall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in order to know Isabel's real situation. At present, however, she neither taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was justified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was something fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was not an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an advertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to say about it than she could say to Ralph. It belonged to the past, moreover; it had occurred six months before and she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning. She appeared to be leading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken of as having a "charming position." He observed that she produced the impression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed, among many people, to be a privilege even to know her. Her house was not open to every one, and she had an evening in the week to which people were not invited as a matter of course. She lived with a certain magnificence, but you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive it; for there was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even to admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in all this, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabel had no faculty for producing studied impressions. She struck him as having a great love of movement, of gaiety, of late hours, of long rides, of fatigue; an eagerness to be entertained, to be interested, even to be bored, to make acquaintances, to see people who were talked about, to explore the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain of the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was much less discrimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of development on which he had been used to exercise his wit. There was a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity in some of her experiments, which took him by surprise: it seemed to him that she even spoke faster, moved faster, breathed faster, than before her marriage. Certainly she had fallen into exaggerations--she who used to care so much for the pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight in good-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she never looked so charming as when in the genial heat of discussion she received a crushing blow full in the face and brushed it away as a feather), she appeared now to think there was nothing worth people's either differing about or agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was indifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was greater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had gained no great maturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a brilliancy in her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence to her beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity had bitten her? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent head sustained a majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become quite another person; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed to represent something. What did Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself; and he could only answer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond. "Good heavens, what a function!" he then woefully exclaimed. He was lost in wonder at the mystery of things. He recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at every turn. He saw how he kept all things within limits; how he adjusted, regulated, animated their manner of life. Osmond was in his element; at last he had material to work with. He always had an eye to effect, and his effects were deeply calculated. They were produced by no vulgar means, but the motive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior with a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense of exclusion, to make people believe his house was different from every other, to impart to the face that he presented to the world a cold originality--this was the ingenious effort of the personage to whom Isabel had attributed a superior morality. "He works with superior material," Ralph said to himself; "it's rich abundance compared with his former resources." Ralph was a clever man; but Ralph had never--to his own sense--been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that under the guise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived exclusively for the world. Far from being its master as he pretended to be, he was its very humble servant, and the degree of its attention was his only measure of success. He lived with his eye on it from morning till night, and the world was so stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything he did was pose--pose so subtly considered that if one were not on the lookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man who lived so much in the land of consideration. His tastes, his studies, his accomplishments, his collections, were all for a purpose. His life on his hill-top at Florence had been the conscious attitude of years. His solitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his good manners, his bad manners, were so many features of a mental image constantly present to him as a model of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's curiosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feel great, ever, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most directly to please himself was his marrying Miss Archer; though in this case indeed the gullible world was in a manner embodied in poor Isabel, who had been mystified to the top of her bent. Ralph of course found a fitness in being consistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had suffered for it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little sketch of its articles for what they may at the time have been worth. It was certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to his theory--even the fact that during the month he spent in Rome at this period the husband of the woman he loved appeared to regard him not in the least as an enemy. For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not that he had the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none at all. He was Isabel's cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill--it was on this basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper enquiries, asked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter climates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not necessary; but his manner had always the urbanity proper to conscious success in the presence of conscious failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward the end, a sharp inward vision of Osmond's making it of small ease to his wife that she should continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not jealous--he had not that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But he made Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was still left; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so when his suspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he had deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation: she had been constantly wondering what fine principle was keeping him alive. She had decided that it was his love of conversation; his conversation had been better than ever. He had given up walking; he was no longer a humorous stroller. He sat all day in a chair--almost any chair would serve, and was so dependent on what you would do for him that, had not his talk been highly contemplative, you might have thought he was blind. The reader already knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and the reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What kept Ralph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen enough of the person in the world in whom he was most interested: he was not yet satisfied. There was more to come; he couldn't make up his mind to lose that. He wanted to see what she would make of her husband--or what her husband would make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and he was determined to sit out the performance. His determination had held good; it had kept him going some eighteen months more, till the time of his return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such an air of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, though more accessible to confusions of thought in the matter of this strange, unremunerative--and unremunerated--son of hers than she had ever been before, had, as we have learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant land. If Ralph had been kept alive by suspense it was with a good deal of the same emotion--the excitement of wondering in what state she should find him--that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day after Lord Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome. She spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits. Gilbert Osmond called on him punctually, and on their sending their carriage for him Ralph came more than once to Palazzo Roccanera. A fortnight elapsed, at the end of which Ralph announced to Lord Warburton that he thought after all he wouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna. They had left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney, was lighting a cigar, which he instantly removed from his lips. "Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?" "Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the sofa, all shamelessly. "Do you mean you'll return to England?" "Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome." "Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough." "It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been." Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as if trying to see it. "You've been better than you were on the journey, certainly. I wonder how you lived through that. But I don't understand your condition. I recommend you to try Sicily." "I can't try," said poor Ralph. "I've done trying. I can't move further. I can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charybdis! I don't want to die on the Sicilian plains--to be snatched away, like Proserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian shades." "What the deuce then did you come for?" his lordship enquired. "Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really doesn't matter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies, I've swallowed all climates. As I'm here I'll stay. I haven't a single cousin in Sicily--much less a married one." "Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?" "I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here Mrs. Osmond will bury me. But I shall not die here." "I hope not." Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflectively. "Well, I must say," he resumed, "for myself I'm very glad you don't insist on Sicily. I had a horror of that journey." "Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you in my train." "I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone." "My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this," Ralph cried. "I should have gone with you and seen you settled," said Lord Warburton. "You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man." "Then I should have come back here." "And then you'd have gone to England." "No, no; I should have stayed." "Well," said Ralph, "if that's what we are both up to, I don't see where Sicily comes in!" His companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last, looking up, "I say, tell me this," he broke out; "did you really mean to go to Sicily when we started?" "Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first. Did you come with me quite--platonically?" "I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad." "I suspect we've each been playing our little game." "Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here a while." "Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign Affairs." "I've seen him three times. He's very amusing." "I think you've forgotten what you came for," said Ralph. "Perhaps I have," his companion answered rather gravely. These two were gentlemen of a race which is not distinguished by the absence of reserve, and they had travelled together from London to Rome without an allusion to matters that were uppermost in the mind of each. There was an old subject they had once discussed, but it had lost its recognised place in their attention, and even after their arrival in Rome, where many things led back to it, they had kept the same half-diffident, half-confident silence. "I recommend you to get the doctor's consent, all the same," Lord Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval. "The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help it." "What then does Mrs. Osmond think?" Ralph's friend demanded. "I've not told her. She'll probably say that Rome's too cold and even offer to go with me to Catania. She's capable of that." "In your place I should like it." "Her husband won't like it." "Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you're not bound to mind his likings. They're his affair." "I don't want to make any more trouble between them," said Ralph. "Is there so much already?" "There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make the explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife's cousin." "Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row if you stop here?" "That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I was in Rome, and then I thought it my duty to disappear. Now I think it's my duty to stop and defend her." "My dear Touchett, your defensive powers--!" Lord Warburton began with a smile. But he saw something in his companion's face that checked him. "Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice question," he observed instead. Ralph for a short time answered nothing. "It's true that my defensive powers are small," he returned at last; "but as my aggressive ones are still smaller Osmond may after all not think me worth his gunpowder. At any rate," he added, "there are things I'm curious to see." "You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?" "I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply interested in Mrs. Osmond." "So am I. But not as I once was," Lord Warburton added quickly. This was one of the allusions he had not hitherto found occasion to make. "Does she strike you as very happy?" Ralph enquired, emboldened by this confidence. "Well, I don't know; I've hardly thought. She told me the other night she was happy." "Ah, she told YOU, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling. "I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she might have complained to." "Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it--what she HAS done--and she knows it. She'll complain to you least of all. She's very careful." "She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again." "I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of YOUR duty." "Ah no," said Lord Warburton gravely; "none!" "Permit me to ask," Ralph went on, "whether it's to bring out the fact that you don't mean to make love to her that you're so very civil to the little girl?" Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood before the fire, looking at it hard. "Does that strike you as very ridiculous?" "Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her." "I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when a girl of that age has pleased me more." "She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine." "Of course there's the difference in our ages--more than twenty years." "My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?" "Perfectly serious--as far as I've got." "I'm very glad. And, heaven help us," cried Ralph, "how cheered-up old Osmond will be!" His companion frowned. "I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't propose for his daughter to please HIM." "He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same." "He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship. "As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position is that people needn't be fond of you at all to wish to be connected with you. Now, with me in such a case, I should have the happy confidence that they loved me." Lord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doing justice to general axioms--he was thinking of a special case. "Do you judge she'll be pleased?" "The girl herself? Delighted, surely." "No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond." Ralph looked at him a moment. "My dear fellow, what has she to do with it?" "Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy." "Very true--very true." And Ralph slowly got up. "It's an interesting question--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her." He stood there a moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. "I hope, you know, that you're very--very sure. The deuce!" he broke off. "I don't know how to say it." "Yes, you do; you know how to say everything." "Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among Miss Osmond's merits her being--a--so near her stepmother isn't a leading one?" "Good heavens, Touchett!" cried Lord Warburton angrily, "for what do you take me?"

Chapter 39

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Ralph hasnt seem much of Isabel since shes been married. He realizes that the discussion he had with her when he found out she was engaged has nearly destroyed their friendship. He had attended the wedding. It was very small. Only he, Mrs. Touchett, Pansy, and Countess Gemini attended. Madame Merle sent excuses from Rome. Henrietta Stackpole had been out of the country at the time, but she wrote to tell Isabel she would only have tried to prevent the marriage. She showed up a few months after the marriage and drove Gilbert Osmond to tell his wife that she was just too much and that he thought of their friendship as a monstrosity. Isabel had been disappointed in her new husbands lack of a sense of humor in taking Henrietta Stackpole. Ralph didnt see Isabel for almost two years after her marriage. He saw her six months after her son died. Her letters never revealed anything of import. Meanwhile, Mrs. Touchett had almost severed all ties to Madame Merle. She had told Madame Merle her opinion of Madame Merles deception and Madame Merle had gotten offended and taken a high tone. Ralph, for his part, has felt stupid all this time for having spoken his mind to Isabel and putting such a distance between them. When he saw her after all that time, he noticed that she seemed to do everything faster. She had given up her love of debate. He felt that "The free, keep girl had become quite another person; what he saw was a fine lady who was supposed to represent something." He knew she was supposed to represent nothing other than Mr. Osmond. Ralph thinks of Mr. Osmond as a man who keeps everything within limits. He could see how Gilbert Osmond "adjusted, regulated, animated their manner of life." He sees that Gilbert Osmond acts disdainfully of the world but really wants nothing more than its attention. His life is nothing more than a pose. Gilbert Osmond had made a fuss about Isabel receiving Ralph when he had last seen her. He had realized this and left Rome to spare causing her any trouble. Isabel had been wondering what fine principle had been keeping Ralph alive all his time. She didnt know that what was keeping him alive was his desire to see what she would make of her husband. He felt that she had not finished with what she would do in the world and he was fascinated to find out. He had suddenly decided to go to Sicily after having spent all his time at Gardencourt where he has been dreadfully ill. When Lord Warburton speaks to him one evening, Ralph tells him he has decided to stay in Rome and forgo the visit to Sicily for the winter. Warburton is concerned for his health. Ralph tells him he wants to stay near Isabel. He says last time he was in Rome he thought it was his duty to leave in order to help Isabel. Now he feels that its his duty to stay in Rome and defend her. He wonders why Warburton has come to Rome with him, aside from his concern for Ralphs health. He asks Warburton if his interest in staying in Rome has anything to do with Pansy Osmond. Warburton admits that he is interested in Pansy as a wife despite their more than twenty year difference in age. He wonders what Isabel will think of it. Ralph is embarrassed to wonder if Warburton is interested in Pansy as a means to get close to Isabel. Warburton is offended at the thought.

Notes The interest of Lord Warburton in Pansy Osmond complicates the plot just enough to give Ralph Touchett a good show. Isabel has already half promised to help Pansy get the man she wants, the less than impressive Edward Rosier. Its clear that Gilbert Osmond will be happy for Lord Warburton as a son-in-law and will use Isabels old connection with him in gaining her compliance. Isabel will have to show that she is not hindering Warburtons engagement to Pansy for personal reasons. If Ralph is staying alive just to see what Isabel will do with herself now that shes stuck in her marriage, he has arrived in Rome just in time.

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all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_39_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 40

chapter 40

{"name": "Chapter 40", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady58.asp", "summary": "Since Isabels marriage, Madame Merle has been almost constantly absent from Rome. Isabel had at first wished things were different since she wished to have Madame Merles advice about how to cope with her unhappiness. \" Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what I was that she was pretending to live for. \" She admired Madame Merles habit of making of herself all surface. Nowadays, however, she has lost the desire to learn Madame Merles trick. She believes she should keep her troubles to herself. She has found Madame Merle annoying in her overly fastidious insistence that she be discreet in terms of her relationship with the Osmonds. Madame Merle has told her that she must be on her guard so that Isabel wont become jealous of her and Mr. Osmond. Isabel is very surprised by this idea. She thinks she would have to be happy with Gilbert in order to be jealous of him. Isabel has had three years to think about Mrs. Touchetts accusation that Madame Merle arranged her marriage to Gilbert Osmond. Isabel has decides that she must take responsibility for her own mistake. Madame Merle might have pushed Osmond into it, but she feels that she herself made the choice as a free person. She feels that theres no way to repair the mistake but to accept it. One day, when Ralph had been in Rome for a month, Isabel returns home from a walk with Pansy. She spends all her time with Pansy and loves being with her. She finds her \"ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile.\" Isabel takes walks almost every day. When she returns from this one, she has a shock. She receives an \"impression. \" When she walks into the room, she sees Madame Merle is with her husband. They dont hear her approach so she has a moment to see them as they are when they arent on their guard. She is shocked to see that they are staring at each other silently in a pose of intimacy. She is more surprised to see that Gilbert is sitting while Madame Merle is standing. When they see her, Gilbert jumps up and leaves quickly. Madame Merle stays to talk with Isabel. She wants to tell Isabel she needs help getting rid of Edward Rosier who keeps bothering her to help with his marriage suit to Pansy. Isabel is ironic and distant. Madame Merle notices it. Madame Merle says she doesnt know \"what mysterious connection may have discovered between and Pansy\" but he is pleading with her to help him. She doesnt think hes the best husband for Pansy and so doesnt want to see him any more. She says she is washing her hands of the matter. Isabel tells her she cant be honestly washing her hands of the matter since she shows herself to be much too interested; that is, she doesnt want Pansy to marry Rosier. Madame Merle says Rosier is now jealous of Lord Warburton. Isabel is surprised at this. Madame Merle wants Isabel to speak to Pansy of Lord Warburton. Isabel refuses to intervene in any way. When Isabel mentions that Lord Warburton has already spoken to her of his affection for Pansy, Madame Mere exclaims that she is surprised Isabel hasnt spoken to Osmond of it. She realizes she has said too much and blushes. Isabel says Warburton will speak to Osmond on his own behalf. Madame Merle indicates that Isabel should try to get Warburton to speak to Pansy. Isabel again refuses to intervene. Madame Merle indicates that she knows Warburton once proposed marriage to Isabel even though Isabel herself never revealed this. Isabel says she thinks Warburton would be a good husband for Pansy. She adds the request that Madame Merle be kind to Rosier when she sends him away.", "analysis": "Notes Henry James is famous for his subtle depiction of drawing room dynamics. The social codes that are unspoken but remarkably well observed, the deep meaning of gestures, slight departures from prescribed manners, significant looks, and such like are the matter of his most exquisite descriptions. In this chapter, an extraordinarily important plot development happens not in some external action, but in nothing more than a perception. Isabel Archer walks into the room and notices that her husband and Madame Merle are in the same room together and not speaking. She realizes in an instant that it takes a great deal of intimacy to be in the room with someone, stare into that persons eyes, and be silent. The second element of the scene that startles her into recognition is that Madame Merle is standing while Gilbert Osmond is sitting. As the host to the guest, this relationship demands just the opposite. Standing there means that Madame Merle is much more at home in Gilbert Osmonds home than her supposedly distant relationship to him would warrant. The result of this recognition also partakes of the Jamesian subtlety. Instead of breaking the social code and speaking to the two of them, Isabel responds with control and reserve. She merely speaks somewhat coldly and ironically to Madame Merle. Shes clearly holding her opinions about Pansys marriage to herself."}

Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore. Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other: there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of having 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 renewed acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done since her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this lady'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 herself beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel, considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to her perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always "quiet." But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent. She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of their affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel. "I MUST be on my guard," she said; "I might so easily, without suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman you might be jealous. You're not a silly woman; I know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined not to get into trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's made before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn't likely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so much less attractive than I was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn't belong to me, you wouldn't make that reflection; you'd simply say I was forgetting certain differences. I'm determined not to forget them. Certainly a good friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn't suspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, in the least; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myself uncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently prove 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 should be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be your husband's." Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's theory that Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage. We know how she had at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond's marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer's. That was the work of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint had been not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her duplicity: she had brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such guilt would not have been great, to Isabel's mind; she couldn't make a crime of Madame Merle's having been the producing cause of the most important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly straightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk, this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. "Don't you like Madame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him. "She thinks a great deal of you." "I'll tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. "I liked her once better 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 makes for 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 were also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as acute 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 as thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had a hand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of her titles to consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an immediate horror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me let me not be unjust," she said; "let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible; it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had they 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 been summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself. There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it. One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been right, for all that, in taking her precautions. One day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in Rome Isabel came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for Pansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her life that had the rightness of the young creature's attachment or the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft presence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more than an affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side her sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated as a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we must look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was a direct admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she now perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her own grossness of vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so extraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It was the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to interfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs. Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her company; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay composed all of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any provocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion. The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel's society than in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to Isabel's propositions and which might have implied that she could have thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions, and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked toward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances, for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy. Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome parts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken to drive for the first time. On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with a shorter undulation beside her father's wife, who afterwards, on their return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond's rich devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were unaware 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 their colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from the 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 struck Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing, face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a walk 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 I waited 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 something extraordinary to bring you to this house." "And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay away, 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 last thing 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 has to let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however, that I've come to-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to get rid of a trouble of my own--to make it over to you. I've been talking to your husband about it." "I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles." "Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It's about 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 a week, 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 you didn't." "How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter." "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 a little 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 me dry, 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 mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings." "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's attractive?" "The dearest little person possible--but very limited." "She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's not unlimited." "No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one's pocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders." Her humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor. "He's very kind, very honest," she presently added; "and he's not such a fool as he seems." "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 of the 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 wash your 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 the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before. Only this time the latter saw nothing. "Ask him the next time, and you'll see." "I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let him know that he's not welcome." "Ah yes," said Madame Merle, "I forgot that--though it's the burden of his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same," she went on, "Osmond doesn't dislike him so much as he thinks." She had got up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not opening 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've preached patience, have said that his case isn't desperate if he'll only hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his head 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. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair. "Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in Lord Warburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle went on. Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. "It's true--there's nothing 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 Merle added, "you've had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton's behaviour than I." "I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my stepdaughter very much." Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. "Likes her, you mean--as Mr. Rosier means?" "I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know that 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; Lord Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself." Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been thinking 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 really very 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 ever known!" Isabel exclaimed. Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. "Ah, a moment ago 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 Pansy deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier I 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 expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be closed to him." And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an inconsequent 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 to him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord Warburton." "You had better wait till he asks her." "If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially," said Madame Merle in 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 by way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very little; 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 to exult 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 Lord Warburton, 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 you wouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of helping him to marry some one else." Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a moment she said, reasonably and gently enough: "I should be very glad indeed if, as regards Pansy, it could be arranged." Upon which her companion, who seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.

Chapter 40

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Since Isabels marriage, Madame Merle has been almost constantly absent from Rome. Isabel had at first wished things were different since she wished to have Madame Merles advice about how to cope with her unhappiness. " Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what I was that she was pretending to live for. " She admired Madame Merles habit of making of herself all surface. Nowadays, however, she has lost the desire to learn Madame Merles trick. She believes she should keep her troubles to herself. She has found Madame Merle annoying in her overly fastidious insistence that she be discreet in terms of her relationship with the Osmonds. Madame Merle has told her that she must be on her guard so that Isabel wont become jealous of her and Mr. Osmond. Isabel is very surprised by this idea. She thinks she would have to be happy with Gilbert in order to be jealous of him. Isabel has had three years to think about Mrs. Touchetts accusation that Madame Merle arranged her marriage to Gilbert Osmond. Isabel has decides that she must take responsibility for her own mistake. Madame Merle might have pushed Osmond into it, but she feels that she herself made the choice as a free person. She feels that theres no way to repair the mistake but to accept it. One day, when Ralph had been in Rome for a month, Isabel returns home from a walk with Pansy. She spends all her time with Pansy and loves being with her. She finds her "ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile." Isabel takes walks almost every day. When she returns from this one, she has a shock. She receives an "impression. " When she walks into the room, she sees Madame Merle is with her husband. They dont hear her approach so she has a moment to see them as they are when they arent on their guard. She is shocked to see that they are staring at each other silently in a pose of intimacy. She is more surprised to see that Gilbert is sitting while Madame Merle is standing. When they see her, Gilbert jumps up and leaves quickly. Madame Merle stays to talk with Isabel. She wants to tell Isabel she needs help getting rid of Edward Rosier who keeps bothering her to help with his marriage suit to Pansy. Isabel is ironic and distant. Madame Merle notices it. Madame Merle says she doesnt know "what mysterious connection may have discovered between and Pansy" but he is pleading with her to help him. She doesnt think hes the best husband for Pansy and so doesnt want to see him any more. She says she is washing her hands of the matter. Isabel tells her she cant be honestly washing her hands of the matter since she shows herself to be much too interested; that is, she doesnt want Pansy to marry Rosier. Madame Merle says Rosier is now jealous of Lord Warburton. Isabel is surprised at this. Madame Merle wants Isabel to speak to Pansy of Lord Warburton. Isabel refuses to intervene in any way. When Isabel mentions that Lord Warburton has already spoken to her of his affection for Pansy, Madame Mere exclaims that she is surprised Isabel hasnt spoken to Osmond of it. She realizes she has said too much and blushes. Isabel says Warburton will speak to Osmond on his own behalf. Madame Merle indicates that Isabel should try to get Warburton to speak to Pansy. Isabel again refuses to intervene. Madame Merle indicates that she knows Warburton once proposed marriage to Isabel even though Isabel herself never revealed this. Isabel says she thinks Warburton would be a good husband for Pansy. She adds the request that Madame Merle be kind to Rosier when she sends him away.

Notes Henry James is famous for his subtle depiction of drawing room dynamics. The social codes that are unspoken but remarkably well observed, the deep meaning of gestures, slight departures from prescribed manners, significant looks, and such like are the matter of his most exquisite descriptions. In this chapter, an extraordinarily important plot development happens not in some external action, but in nothing more than a perception. Isabel Archer walks into the room and notices that her husband and Madame Merle are in the same room together and not speaking. She realizes in an instant that it takes a great deal of intimacy to be in the room with someone, stare into that persons eyes, and be silent. The second element of the scene that startles her into recognition is that Madame Merle is standing while Gilbert Osmond is sitting. As the host to the guest, this relationship demands just the opposite. Standing there means that Madame Merle is much more at home in Gilbert Osmonds home than her supposedly distant relationship to him would warrant. The result of this recognition also partakes of the Jamesian subtlety. Instead of breaking the social code and speaking to the two of them, Isabel responds with control and reserve. She merely speaks somewhat coldly and ironically to Madame Merle. Shes clearly holding her opinions about Pansys marriage to herself.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_40_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 41

chapter 41

{"name": "Chapter 41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady59.asp", "summary": "That evening Osmond brings the matter of Lord Warburton and Pansy up with Isabel for the first time. She is sitting alone in the drawing room. She had been there earlier with Pansy and Lord Warburton. Lord Warburton had come in earlier. Isabel says little to him because she wants to give him the chance to talk to Pansy. Isabel is wanting to please her husband. She knows he wants this marriage and she wants to act as the good wife in facilitating it. Shes a little surprised that Lord Warburton is so interested in Pansy since there is \"always a little of the doll about her,\" but Isabel decides that theres no accounting for mens taste. She wonders about how Pansy will take the departure of Rosier. She thinks Pansy is too trained in submission to put up much of a fuss. She thinks Pansy will cling to anyone who is put before her. Isabel hears only good things in the intercourse between Warburton and Pansy. He doesnt condescend to her but talks to her of matters in the world that concern him. Isabel wonders if she should take the great step of leaving them alone for about thirty minutes. She wants to take her husbands view and she thinks he would like this. However, something holds her back and she remains in the room. After Lord Warburton leaves, Pansy says nothing about him and Isabel remains silent as well. When she is alone, Osmond comes in. Isabel watches his face covertly. She has gotten in the habit of looking at him when he isnt aware she is. She does so in order to gauge his mood and sentiments. She wants to have some warning of what hes going to say before he says it. She has so often in the past been taken by surprise. She wants to be able to respond with exactly the right words to whatever he says. After a while, he asks if Lord Warburton has been there and what the details of his visit were. In their conversation, there are several moments of near argument. Isabel tells him shes trying to take his part in this. He thinks she is trying to quarrel with him. She tells him that on the contrary shes trying to live in peace. He pushes the point and she doesnt take the bait. They discuss the fact that he has sent Rosier away and she asks him if he wants Pansy to marry Lord Warburton. She knows this question is perilous since it might make him feel humiliated. He has so often said that Pansy just has to sit quietly and any number of suitable men will come along. Now he has to admit that he wants a particular man for his daughter. He does so. Isabel tells him Warburton has already spoken to her. He cant imagine why she hasnt told him this information. She tells him that from the way they live, she hasnt had the opportunity. He implies that she should speak to Warburton to hurry him along in proposing to Pansy. He tells her she can bring this about since she once refused Warburton; because of that she has power over him. He leaves the room telling her hes counting on her.", "analysis": "Notes Isabels earnest desire to be a good wife is sad and touching here. Despite how she has suffered in her marriage, she wants to remove herself from the ugliness of it enough to retain a moral standing. This is the same moral attitude she had in theory before she was tested, before she was married. She thought that she had only had happiness and wanted to have some kind of difficulty or suffering so she could prove to herself that she would remain good and noble. Now the situation has come to her and she is trying to follow through on her idealism in her reality."}

Osmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time; coming very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had spent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged his books and which he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to be at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour. Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if she mightn't leave the room. She had come little by little to think well of the idea of Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was unhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by theory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself of the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as opposed to doing. To "do"--it hardly mattered what--would therefore be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her husband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife's limpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was so sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her duty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely, and with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming girl. It was a little "weird" he should--being what he was; but there was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any one--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been looking for. Still, who could say what men ever were looking for? They looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when they saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for HER it might seem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different; but he had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if he had, he had completely got over it, and it was natural that, as that affair had failed, he should think something of quite another sort might succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed their path! At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men--as sure as if she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men; the young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and she would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress. It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this difficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied in poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her as rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under deprecation--since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in a very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes, she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier--especially as she seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel without a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation most interesting--he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy had been of the rightest and easiest--Isabel noticed that for herself, as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a patronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but quite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which she followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough for attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be kind--he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been as simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy, however, in spite of HER simplicity, really did understand, and was glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry, the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society. She looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with sweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded her, was better than Mr. Rosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken of her--the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased. It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was trying as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded after a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all she couldn't rise to it; something held her and made this impossible. It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience, and Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common genius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed--a sense that she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered if she had prevented something which would have happened if she had absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she pronounced--always mentally--that when their distinguished visitor should wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel studiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that she could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her transparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through. She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to Osmond's face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert observation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts, to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever things she might have said. But she had learned caution--learned it in a measure from her husband's very countenance. It was the same face she had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating, on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown slightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one as very distinguished. "Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked. "Yes, he stayed half an hour." "Did he see Pansy?" "Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her." "Did he talk with her much?" "He talked almost only to her." "It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?" "I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I've waited for you to give it a name." "That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond answered after a moment. "I've determined, this time, to try and act as you'd like. I've so often failed of that." Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. "Are you trying to quarrel with me?" "No, I'm trying to live at peace." "Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself." "What do you call it when you try to make me angry?" Isabel asked. "I don't try; if I've done so it has been the most natural thing in the world. Moreover I'm not in the least trying now." Isabel smiled. "It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be angry again." "That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good." "No--it's not good." She pushed away the book she had been reading and took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table. "That's partly why I've not spoken to you about this business of my daughter's," Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most frequent with him. "I was afraid I should encounter opposition--that you too would have views on the subject. I've sent little Rosier about his business." "You were afraid I'd plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven't you noticed that I've never spoken to you of him?" "I've never given you a chance. We've so little conversation in these days. I know he was an old friend of yours." "Yes; he's an old friend of mine." Isabel cared little more for him than for the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it was true that he was an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to extenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which fortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they were in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion of tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they belonged to her unmarried life. "But as regards Pansy," she added in a moment, "I've given him no encouragement." "That's fortunate," Osmond observed. "Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little." "There's no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell you, I've turned him out." "Yes; but a lover outside's always a lover. He's sometimes even more of one. Mr. Rosier still has hope." "He's welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton." "Should you like that?" Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her. The intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady Warburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But that was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should have put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's constant intimation that for him nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal with the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter had only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore a lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord Warburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might not be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary implications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his wife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she was face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost invented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating, would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of her question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was terribly capable of humiliating her--all the more so that he was also capable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an almost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a small opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great one. Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. "I should like it extremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has another advantage: he's an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for him to come into the family. It's very odd Pansy's admirers should all be your old friends." "It's natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they see Pansy. Seeing her it's natural they should fall in love with her." "So I think. But you're not bound to do so." "If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad," Isabel went on frankly. "He's an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won't sit perfectly still. If she loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!" Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire. "Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked in a moment with a certain tenderness of tone. "She wishes above all to please," he added. "To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps." "No, to please me." "Me too a little, I think," said Isabel. "Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like." "If you're sure of that, it's very well," she went on. "Meantime," said Osmond, "I should like our distinguished visitor to speak." "He has spoken--to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to him to believe she could care for him." Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, "Why didn't you tell me that?" he asked sharply. "There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the first chance that has offered." "Did you speak to him of Rosier?" "Oh yes, a little." "That was hardly necessary." "I thought it best he should know, so that, so that--" And Isabel paused. "So that what?" "So that he might act accordingly." "So that he might back out, do you mean?" "No, so that he might advance while there's yet time." "That's not the effect it seems to have had." "You should have patience," said Isabel. "You know Englishmen are shy." "This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU." She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to her. "I beg your pardon; he was extremely so," she returned. He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy's tapestry. "You must have a great deal of influence with him," Osmond went on at last. "The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point." This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said to herself. "Why should I have influence?" she asked. "What have I ever done to put him under an obligation to me?" "You refused to marry him," said Osmond with his eyes on his book. "I must not presume too much on that," she replied. He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire with his hands behind him. "Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think that over and remember how much I count on you." He waited a little, to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently strolled out of the room.

Chapter 41

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady59.asp

That evening Osmond brings the matter of Lord Warburton and Pansy up with Isabel for the first time. She is sitting alone in the drawing room. She had been there earlier with Pansy and Lord Warburton. Lord Warburton had come in earlier. Isabel says little to him because she wants to give him the chance to talk to Pansy. Isabel is wanting to please her husband. She knows he wants this marriage and she wants to act as the good wife in facilitating it. Shes a little surprised that Lord Warburton is so interested in Pansy since there is "always a little of the doll about her," but Isabel decides that theres no accounting for mens taste. She wonders about how Pansy will take the departure of Rosier. She thinks Pansy is too trained in submission to put up much of a fuss. She thinks Pansy will cling to anyone who is put before her. Isabel hears only good things in the intercourse between Warburton and Pansy. He doesnt condescend to her but talks to her of matters in the world that concern him. Isabel wonders if she should take the great step of leaving them alone for about thirty minutes. She wants to take her husbands view and she thinks he would like this. However, something holds her back and she remains in the room. After Lord Warburton leaves, Pansy says nothing about him and Isabel remains silent as well. When she is alone, Osmond comes in. Isabel watches his face covertly. She has gotten in the habit of looking at him when he isnt aware she is. She does so in order to gauge his mood and sentiments. She wants to have some warning of what hes going to say before he says it. She has so often in the past been taken by surprise. She wants to be able to respond with exactly the right words to whatever he says. After a while, he asks if Lord Warburton has been there and what the details of his visit were. In their conversation, there are several moments of near argument. Isabel tells him shes trying to take his part in this. He thinks she is trying to quarrel with him. She tells him that on the contrary shes trying to live in peace. He pushes the point and she doesnt take the bait. They discuss the fact that he has sent Rosier away and she asks him if he wants Pansy to marry Lord Warburton. She knows this question is perilous since it might make him feel humiliated. He has so often said that Pansy just has to sit quietly and any number of suitable men will come along. Now he has to admit that he wants a particular man for his daughter. He does so. Isabel tells him Warburton has already spoken to her. He cant imagine why she hasnt told him this information. She tells him that from the way they live, she hasnt had the opportunity. He implies that she should speak to Warburton to hurry him along in proposing to Pansy. He tells her she can bring this about since she once refused Warburton; because of that she has power over him. He leaves the room telling her hes counting on her.

Notes Isabels earnest desire to be a good wife is sad and touching here. Despite how she has suffered in her marriage, she wants to remove herself from the ugliness of it enough to retain a moral standing. This is the same moral attitude she had in theory before she was tested, before she was married. She thought that she had only had happiness and wanted to have some kind of difficulty or suffering so she could prove to herself that she would remain good and noble. Now the situation has come to her and she is trying to follow through on her idealism in her reality.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_42_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 43

chapter 43

{"name": "Chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady62.asp", "summary": "Three nights later, Isabel accompanies Pansy to a ball. She acts as Pansys guardian, holding her flowers for her and watching her dance. At one point when Pansy goes to dance, Edward Rosier approaches looking grim. He asks for one of Pansys flowers and after hesitating, Isabel lets him choose one. She tells him she isnt \"in love with him for Pansy.\" When Pansy heads back towards them, Isabel asks him to leave, telling him Mr. Osmond has forbidden Pansy to dance with him. He waits until he sees Pansy see him and then he leaves. In his manner of leaving, Isabel realizes how in love he is. Pansy goes back out on the next dance and Lord Warburton arrives. Isabel is again struck by the fact that \"a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid,\" as he calls Pansy. He tells Isabel that being with her must have been a very good thing for Pansy. Isabel jokes, \"Ah yes, if she isnt the rose she has lived near it.\" Warburton says, \"We all try to live as near it as we can.\" When Pansy returns to them, Isabel helps her with a tear in her dress, all the while wondering if Lord Warburton is still trying to be with her. Pansy goes back out to dance and Lord Warburton remains to talk with Isabel. She tells him she had thought he would have asked Pansy to dance the cotillion, a dance that takes thirty minutes, but instead she finds out he has asked Pansy to dance the quadrille, a group dance. He says he didnt ask Pansy for the cotillion because he thought he would have a chance to talk with Isabel for the time. When the cotillion comes, Lord Warburton asks Isabel to come sit with him in an adjoining room. She knows shes not supposed to leave Pansy out of her sight, but she wants to find out for sure what Lord Warburton is up to. On the way, they run into Edward Rosier who is looking wretched. Lord Warburton has forgotten who he is. Isabel tells him Rosier is his rival. Lord Warburton is shocked at this. He fells sorry for Edward Roseir for being rejected by Gilbert Osmond when he has a respectable income and seems to be a nice man. Isabel says Gilbert has larger ideas. He finds out also that Isabel has already told him that Pansy has feelings for Rosier. He blushes that he hadnt taken this into account. Isabel tells him hes not in love. After some talk, he tells her he cant pretend to be as he once was. They look at each other for a long time, then Isabel tells him he should do whatever comes into his head and leaves. Outside, after talking to some people, she runs into Rosier again and tells him she has some comfort for him. She tells him she will do what she can for him. When she gets outside to her carriage with Pansy later that evening, Lord Warburton sees them off. She tells him not to forget to send the letter he has written to Gilbert Osmond.", "analysis": "Notes Isabel seems to have made a turn in this chapter. She has turned back from her idea of pleasing Gilbert by encouraging Lord Warburton to marry Pansy. She has done so because she realizes Lord Warburton is not in love with Pansy but is instead still in love with her. Its not clear yet what her plan of action will be, but it is clear that she will become Rosiers ally."}

Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her father she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought this unlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual and kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her bouquet very tight and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time. She made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward Rosier. He stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a look of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would have made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom a hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly: "It's all pansies; it must be hers!" Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold." "May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked. "No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back." "I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly. But may I not at least have a single flower?" Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the bouquet. "Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you." "Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower. "Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the world!" "I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I wish to show her that I believe in her still." "It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you." "And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs. Osmond," said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. "You know our acquaintance goes back very far--quite into the days of our innocent childhood." "Don't make me out too old," Isabel patiently answered. "You come back to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused you on the spot." "Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere Parisian trifler!" "I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy." "Very good; I see. You pity me--that's all." And Edward Rosier looked all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud to show that the deficiency struck him as general. Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world--young love struggling with adversity. "Would you really be very kind to her?" she finally asked in a low tone. He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "You pity me; but don't you pity HER a little?" "I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life." "It will depend on what you call life!" Mr. Rosier effectively said. "She won't enjoy being tortured." "There'll be nothing of that." "I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see." "I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's coming back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg you to go away." Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love. Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers; whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at play than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however, she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening; she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then "Where's the little maid?" he asked. It was in this manner that he had formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond. "She's dancing," said Isabel. "You'll see her somewhere." He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. "She sees me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked. "Are you not dancing?" "As you see, I'm a wall-flower." "Won't you dance with me?" "Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid." "One needn't prevent the other--especially as she's engaged." "She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher." "She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her with his eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me a smile." He stood there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement, which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. "I should like to dance with you," he went on in a moment, turning back to Isabel; "but I think I like even better to talk with you." "Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen oughtn't to waltz." "Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss Osmond?" "Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply like a piece of kindness--as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you dance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own." "And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?" "No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands." "The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it." "Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel. "I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've always to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?" "I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here." He was silent a little. "You're wonderfully good to her," he said suddenly. Isabel stared a little and smiled. "Can you imagine one's not being?" "No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a great deal for her." "I've taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still. "And I've seen that she has proper clothes." "Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked to her, advised her, helped her to develop." "Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it." She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a certain visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete hilarity. "We all try to live as near it as we can," he said after a moment's hesitation. Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted; there was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She felt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in his approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of nature. Yet for all that it didn't suit her that he should be too near her, that he should take too much of her good-will for granted. She was afraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the first and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which were fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became apparent that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself to Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and they were in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way connected--a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it was others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared, he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious, made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back into right relations with things the better. He immediately began to talk to Pansy--on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan, to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's duenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd. After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. "She has promised to dance with me later," he said. "I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the cotillion." At this he looked a little awkward. "No, I didn't ask her for that. It's a quadrille." "Ah, you're not clever!" said Isabel almost angrily. "I told her to keep the cotillion in case you should ask for it." "Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. "Of course I will if you like." "If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it--!" "I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her book." Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined to ask him to remove them. She didn't do so, however; she only said to him, after a minute, with her own raised: "Please let me understand." "Understand what?" "You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my stepdaughter. You've not forgotten it!" "Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning." "Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had heard from you." Lord Warburton stammered a little. "I--I didn't send my letter." "Perhaps you forgot THAT." "No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to write, you know. But I shall send it to-night." "At three o'clock in the morning?" "I mean later, in the course of the day." "Very good. You still wish then to marry her?" "Very much indeed." "Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?" And as her companion stared at this enquiry Isabel added: "If she can't dance with you for half an hour how will she be able to dance with you for life?" "Ah," said Lord Warburton readily, "I'll let her dance with other people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you--that you--" "That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing." "Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet corner where we may sit down and talk." "Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you're much too considerate of me." When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord Warburton's favour. "After all I don't care to dance," he said; "it's a barbarous amusement: I'd much rather talk." And he intimated that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for--a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him, though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant, however; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing. "Certainly not, if I can't dance with HER!" he answered. "You had better go away then," said Isabel with the manner of good counsel. "I shall not go till she does!" And he let Lord Warburton pass without giving him a look. This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him somewhere before. "It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy." "Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad." "He has reason. My husband won't listen to him." "What's the matter with him?" Lord Warburton enquired. "He seems very harmless." "He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever." Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young fellow." "So he is, but my husband's very particular." "Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How much money has he got?" he then ventured to ask. "Some forty thousand francs a year." "Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know." "So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas." "Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really an idiot, the young man?" "An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years old I myself was in love with him." "He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord Warburton rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, "Don't you think we might sit here?" he asked. "Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as our friends came in. "It's very kind of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier," Isabel said. "He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I wondered what ailed him." "You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought even for a rival." Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. "A rival! Do you call him my rival?" "Surely--if you both wish to marry the same person." "Yes--but since he has no chance!" "I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It shows imagination." "You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her with an uncertain eye. "I think you mean you're laughing at me for it." "Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh at." "Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do you suppose one could do for him?" "Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you to imagine that yourself," Isabel said. "Pansy too would like you for that." "Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already." "Very much, I think." He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. "Well then, I don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him?" A quick blush sprang to his brow. "You told me she would have no wish apart from her father's, and as I've gathered that he would favour me--!" He paused a little and then suggested "Don't you see?" through his blush. "Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that it would probably take her very far." "That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord Warburton. "Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silent for some moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music reached them with its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last she said: "But it hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a man would wish to be indebted for a wife." "I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!" "Yes, of course you must think that." "I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course." "No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry you, and I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're not in love." "Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!" Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you sit here with me. But that's not how you strike me." "I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what makes it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable than Miss Osmond?" "No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons." "I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons." "Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't care a straw for them." "Ah, really in love--really in love!" Lord Warburton exclaimed, folding his arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a little. "You must remember that I'm forty-two years old. I won't pretend I'm as I once was." "Well, if you're sure," said Isabel, "it's all right." He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking before him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned quickly to his friend. "Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?" She met his eyes, and for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to be satisfied she saw something that satisfied her; she saw in his expression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own account--that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a hope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know. Not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying her step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely personal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they were conscious of at the moment. "My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, "you may do, so far as I'm concerned, whatever comes into your head." And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room, where, within her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they had been looking for her. While she talked with them she found herself regretting she had moved; it looked a little like running away--all the more as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, however, and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that when, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward Rosier still planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. "You did right not to go away. I've some comfort for you." "I need it," the young man softly wailed, "when I see you so awfully thick with him!" "Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't be much, but what I can I'll do." He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has suddenly brought you round?" "The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!" she answered, smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it approached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if she had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a little air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by a movement of her finger, murmured gently: "Don't forget to send your letter to her father!"

Chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady62.asp

Three nights later, Isabel accompanies Pansy to a ball. She acts as Pansys guardian, holding her flowers for her and watching her dance. At one point when Pansy goes to dance, Edward Rosier approaches looking grim. He asks for one of Pansys flowers and after hesitating, Isabel lets him choose one. She tells him she isnt "in love with him for Pansy." When Pansy heads back towards them, Isabel asks him to leave, telling him Mr. Osmond has forbidden Pansy to dance with him. He waits until he sees Pansy see him and then he leaves. In his manner of leaving, Isabel realizes how in love he is. Pansy goes back out on the next dance and Lord Warburton arrives. Isabel is again struck by the fact that "a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid," as he calls Pansy. He tells Isabel that being with her must have been a very good thing for Pansy. Isabel jokes, "Ah yes, if she isnt the rose she has lived near it." Warburton says, "We all try to live as near it as we can." When Pansy returns to them, Isabel helps her with a tear in her dress, all the while wondering if Lord Warburton is still trying to be with her. Pansy goes back out to dance and Lord Warburton remains to talk with Isabel. She tells him she had thought he would have asked Pansy to dance the cotillion, a dance that takes thirty minutes, but instead she finds out he has asked Pansy to dance the quadrille, a group dance. He says he didnt ask Pansy for the cotillion because he thought he would have a chance to talk with Isabel for the time. When the cotillion comes, Lord Warburton asks Isabel to come sit with him in an adjoining room. She knows shes not supposed to leave Pansy out of her sight, but she wants to find out for sure what Lord Warburton is up to. On the way, they run into Edward Rosier who is looking wretched. Lord Warburton has forgotten who he is. Isabel tells him Rosier is his rival. Lord Warburton is shocked at this. He fells sorry for Edward Roseir for being rejected by Gilbert Osmond when he has a respectable income and seems to be a nice man. Isabel says Gilbert has larger ideas. He finds out also that Isabel has already told him that Pansy has feelings for Rosier. He blushes that he hadnt taken this into account. Isabel tells him hes not in love. After some talk, he tells her he cant pretend to be as he once was. They look at each other for a long time, then Isabel tells him he should do whatever comes into his head and leaves. Outside, after talking to some people, she runs into Rosier again and tells him she has some comfort for him. She tells him she will do what she can for him. When she gets outside to her carriage with Pansy later that evening, Lord Warburton sees them off. She tells him not to forget to send the letter he has written to Gilbert Osmond.

Notes Isabel seems to have made a turn in this chapter. She has turned back from her idea of pleasing Gilbert by encouraging Lord Warburton to marry Pansy. She has done so because she realizes Lord Warburton is not in love with Pansy but is instead still in love with her. Its not clear yet what her plan of action will be, but it is clear that she will become Rosiers ally.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_43_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 44

chapter 44

{"name": "Chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady63.asp", "summary": "The bored Countess Gemini is happily surprised with a visit from Henrietta Stackpole whom she remembered from her connection to Isabel. She has just received an invitation to visit her brother and Isabel in Rome. Since she is always eager to visit Rome and sad to be kept away from it by reason of a lack of funds, she is very excited about the trip. Henrietta tells her she plans to go see Isabel in Rome because she has been alarmed by Isabels letters. Her letters say nothing much and it is in their emptiness that Henrietta reads Isabels unhappiness. She is shocked when the Countess relates the gossip to her that Lord Warburton is hanging around Isabel in Rome with a romantic interest. After a short time of conversation, both women realize they dont like the other very much. Henrietta leaves the Countesss house and goes to leave a note at Caspar Goodwoods hotel that he should meet her that evening. She then goes to the Tribune to see her favorite work of art, a Corregio of Mary playing with the baby Jesus. At the door, she is surprised to find Caspar Goodwood. She tells him she wants to ask him a favor. He is reluctant to talk to her since she always brings up Mrs. Osmond, but he is too much of a gentleman to deny her. She asks him to reconsider if it is a good idea that he go to Rome to see Isabel. She asks him to be a true friend, not a selfish friend. He says he will go to Rome. She tells him shes leaving the next day. He doesnt want to travel with her, but he is too much of a gentleman to \"insult an unprotected woman\" by not putting himself out for her. He offers to accompany her and she takes this as a matter of course.", "analysis": "Notes It seems that whenever James wants to bring out all of Isabels qualities or send her into action, he gathers around her a cast of characters who are conducive to action. These are, firstly, Henrietta Stackpole, Caspar Goodwood, but also Lord Warburton and Ralph Touchett. This chapter serves mainly as a set-up for further action. In it we learn that Caspar Goodwood still thinks a good deal of Isabel, though he doesnt like to admit it, that Henrietta Stackpole also thinks a good deal of Isabel and has now proposed to save her in some way."}

The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say. Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter's. They are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one had heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had greatly increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't want her--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the same, for after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. It was her husband who wouldn't let her, and the money question was always a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel's personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really clever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was constantly expecting that Isabel would "look down" on her, and she as constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband's sister, however; she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably pink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess's spiritual principle, a little loose nut that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst species--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she had given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to the Countess's going again to Rome; but at the period with which this history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts--if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious--of putting her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped. Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the card of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription "Henrietta C. Stackpole." The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she didn't remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's; the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received an impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in distant countries--in the character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of her "Creole" ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations. "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 44

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The bored Countess Gemini is happily surprised with a visit from Henrietta Stackpole whom she remembered from her connection to Isabel. She has just received an invitation to visit her brother and Isabel in Rome. Since she is always eager to visit Rome and sad to be kept away from it by reason of a lack of funds, she is very excited about the trip. Henrietta tells her she plans to go see Isabel in Rome because she has been alarmed by Isabels letters. Her letters say nothing much and it is in their emptiness that Henrietta reads Isabels unhappiness. She is shocked when the Countess relates the gossip to her that Lord Warburton is hanging around Isabel in Rome with a romantic interest. After a short time of conversation, both women realize they dont like the other very much. Henrietta leaves the Countesss house and goes to leave a note at Caspar Goodwoods hotel that he should meet her that evening. She then goes to the Tribune to see her favorite work of art, a Corregio of Mary playing with the baby Jesus. At the door, she is surprised to find Caspar Goodwood. She tells him she wants to ask him a favor. He is reluctant to talk to her since she always brings up Mrs. Osmond, but he is too much of a gentleman to deny her. She asks him to reconsider if it is a good idea that he go to Rome to see Isabel. She asks him to be a true friend, not a selfish friend. He says he will go to Rome. She tells him shes leaving the next day. He doesnt want to travel with her, but he is too much of a gentleman to "insult an unprotected woman" by not putting himself out for her. He offers to accompany her and she takes this as a matter of course.

Notes It seems that whenever James wants to bring out all of Isabels qualities or send her into action, he gathers around her a cast of characters who are conducive to action. These are, firstly, Henrietta Stackpole, Caspar Goodwood, but also Lord Warburton and Ralph Touchett. This chapter serves mainly as a set-up for further action. In it we learn that Caspar Goodwood still thinks a good deal of Isabel, though he doesnt like to admit it, that Henrietta Stackpole also thinks a good deal of Isabel and has now proposed to save her in some way.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_44_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 45

chapter 45

{"name": "Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady64.asp", "summary": "Isabel goes to see Ralph the next day. She is very worried lately about Gilberts opposition to her seeing so much of Ralph. She sees as much of him as she can without causing Gilbert to forbid it. She knows Gilbert wants her away from Ralph because \"he wished her to have no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle of freedom.\" Isabel wants very much to avoid an open rift with Gilbert. She believes in the sanctity of marriage and doesnt want to be forced to choose between abandoning the dying Ralph and betraying her promise. At Ralphs she tells him right away that she wants to ask him something. He guesses what she wants to know and tells her it is true that Lord Warburton is in love. Then after some questioning, he reveals that he doesnt mean Warburton is in love with Pansy, but with Isabel. Ralph takes it all lightly and suddenly Isabel bursts out with \"Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!\" Its the first time shes asked for help and he feels as thought the gap between them suddenly disappeared. He says, \"How unhappy you must be!\" She acts like she didnt hear him. Isabel returns to the subject at hand and says she imagines that Lord Warburton will just let the matter of Pansy drop and, since he hasnt said anything to Pansy about his plans of marrying her, he can just leave with honor in tact. Ralph half listens to her. He wants her to tell him of her difficult marriage and wishes very much to let her know that he is quite aware of the very difficult position she is in with Osmond in terms of these marriage proposals. He finally tells her that Osmond will treat this news of Warburtons withdrawal as her doing, and he will accuse her of putting an end to it out of jealousy. She blushes intensely and tells him hes not kind. He tells her to be frank with him and she will see. Instead she prepares to leave. She goes straight home and to Pansys room. She finds the task before her very distasteful and very perilous, but she wants to get it over with. She finds Pansy waiting for dinner. Pansy begs her for advice. Isabel says she should obey her father completely in everything. Pansy tells Isbel that the only thing in life she wants is to marry Edward Rosier. She says she wont go against her father's wishes and will instead remain single. Isabel implies that Osmond doesnt want this but wants her instead to marry someone else. Isabel intimates that Osmond wants her to marry Warburton. Pansy is happy about his because she says there is no danger that Warburton will ask her to marry him. She doesnt want to tell her father this because Warburtons presence will block another candidate from coming in to woo her. Isabel is amazed at how clear thinking Pansy is. She returns to the thought that she must be loyal to Osmond no matter what. She tells Pansy that her father will insist that she marry an nobleman. Pansy answers that to her Rosier looks noble.", "analysis": "Notes Isabels interviews with Ralph and Pansy indicate that, though she is preparing the ground, she doesnt plan to break with Gilbert in going against his wishes. She seems naive in her attempt to act according to her conscience at the same time that she tries to follow Gilberts plan to marry Pansy to his choice of a husbands even if its against her will."}

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 Hotel 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. She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I want you to answer me a question. It's about Lord Warburton." "I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever. "Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it." "Oh, I don't say I can do that." "You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal of observation of him." "Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!" "Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature." "Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar," said Ralph with an air of private amusement. "To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?" "Very much, I think. I can make that out." "Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness. Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with mystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed." Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully. "It's after all no business of mine." "You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a moment: "May I enquire what you're talking about?" Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants, of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you that before, without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?" "Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively. "But you said just now he did." Ralph waited a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond." Isabel shook her head gravely. "That's nonsense, you know." "Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine." "That would be very tiresome." She spoke, as she flattered herself, with much subtlety. "I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has denied it." "It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you that he's in love with Pansy?" "He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, of course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh." "Does he really think it?" "Ah, what Warburton really thinks--!" said Ralph. Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried abruptly and passionately. It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a moment: "How unhappy you must be!" He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. "When I talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense," she said with a quick smile. "The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments! The matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't undertake to see him through." "He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph. Isabel debated. "Yes--but he has not always succeeded." "Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?" "It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll let the matter drop." "He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph. "I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it's cruel to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up." "Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburton isn't obliged to mind that." "No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy if she were to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea seems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him. He has the merit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance that Lord Warburton isn't." "He'd be very good to her," said Ralph. "He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not said a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow with perfect propriety." "How would your husband like that?" "Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain satisfaction himself." "Has he commissioned you to obtain it?" Ralph ventured to ask. "It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's--an older friend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in his intentions." "Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?" Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are you pleading his cause?" "Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your stepdaughter's husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!" said Ralph, smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest your husband should think you haven't pushed him enough." Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knows me well enough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intention of pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to justify myself!" she said lightly. Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage desire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she should be held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It could only take the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of it--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It little mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not deceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcely mattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why did she seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention? Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her? How could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her humorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to be mentioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of her trouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was bound to consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," he said in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce understood, "You'll find yourselves thinking very differently," he continued. "That may easily happen, among the most united couples!" She took up her parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. "It's a matter we can hardly quarrel about, however," she added; "for almost all the interest is on his side. That's very natural. Pansy's after all his daughter--not mine." And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye. Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him without his letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an opportunity to lose. "Do you know what his interest will make him say?" he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--not discouragingly--and he went on. "It will make him say that your want of zeal is owing to jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face made him afraid. "To jealousy?" "To jealousy of his daughter." She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind," she said in a voice that he had never heard on her lips. "Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered. But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going to the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was always in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty patience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait. At present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room fire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, in accordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought up and which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so that the room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in Palazzo Roccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy's virginal bower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling. Its diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of humanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel, the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel had a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply as possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself against betraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or at least too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to have guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after she had moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the fire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a cushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her stepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own lips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she desired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke it. The girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and indeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of a disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest; Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabel had yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of the effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with her pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half in submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness of the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. When Isabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what might have been going on in relation to her getting married, but that her silence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire to leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer and nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep longing, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she begged her to advise her now. "It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don't know how I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get his advice and, above all, you must act on it." At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. "I think I should like your advice better than papa's," she presently remarked. "That's not as it should be," said Isabel coldly. "I love you very much, but your father loves you better." "It isn't because you love me--it's because you're a lady," Pansy answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. "A lady can advise a young girl better than a man." "I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's wishes." "Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that." "But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for your own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try to learn from you what you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act accordingly." Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything I want?" she asked. "Before I say yes I must know what such things are." Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow it. "Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced. "Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the same extreme attention in her clear little face. "You must think of something else then," Isabel went on; but Pansy, sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the least success. "You think of those who think of you," she said with a faint smile. "I know Mr. Rosier thinks of me." "He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has expressly requested he shouldn't." "He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM." "You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps; but there's none for you." "I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she were praying to the Madonna. "I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with unusual frigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you think of him?" "No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right." "Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!" Isabel hypocritically cried. Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences of disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance that she would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And she announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of course was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning. She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This might seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness toward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only the sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite intimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even by marrying him. "Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said Isabel. "Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large." "How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myself so little money; why should I look for a fortune?" "Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." With which Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on her own, almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light of the girl's preference. "What should you like me to do?" her companion softly demanded. The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous vagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in your power to give your father." "To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?" For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then she heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention seemed to make. "Yes--to marry some one else." The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubting her sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting up from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small hands unclasped and then quavered out: "Well, I hope no one will ask me!" "There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready to ask you." "I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy. "It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed." "If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!" Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment looking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown you great attention," she resumed; "of course you know it's of him I speak." She found herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more crudely than she had intended. "He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean that he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken." "Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely." Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warburton won't propose simply to please papa." "Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went on mechanically. "How can I encourage him?" "I don't know. Your father must tell you that." Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if she were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's no danger--no danger!" she declared at last. There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her believing it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt accused of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that there was a danger. But she didn't; she only said--in her embarrassment rather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, most friendly. "Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what I like him for." "Why then is the difficulty so great?" "I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want--what did you say I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry, and he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's the meaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you very much, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' I think that's very kind, very noble," Pansy went on with deepening positiveness. "That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't care for me either. Ah no, there's no danger." Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy's wisdom--began almost to retreat before it. "You must tell your father that," she remarked reservedly. "I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered. "You oughtn't to let him have false hopes." "Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa won't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me," said the child very lucidly. There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility. Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that she herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock. Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond, that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she retired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have done her utmost. "Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a nobleman." Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for Isabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!" she remarked very gravely.

Chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady64.asp

Isabel goes to see Ralph the next day. She is very worried lately about Gilberts opposition to her seeing so much of Ralph. She sees as much of him as she can without causing Gilbert to forbid it. She knows Gilbert wants her away from Ralph because "he wished her to have no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle of freedom." Isabel wants very much to avoid an open rift with Gilbert. She believes in the sanctity of marriage and doesnt want to be forced to choose between abandoning the dying Ralph and betraying her promise. At Ralphs she tells him right away that she wants to ask him something. He guesses what she wants to know and tells her it is true that Lord Warburton is in love. Then after some questioning, he reveals that he doesnt mean Warburton is in love with Pansy, but with Isabel. Ralph takes it all lightly and suddenly Isabel bursts out with "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" Its the first time shes asked for help and he feels as thought the gap between them suddenly disappeared. He says, "How unhappy you must be!" She acts like she didnt hear him. Isabel returns to the subject at hand and says she imagines that Lord Warburton will just let the matter of Pansy drop and, since he hasnt said anything to Pansy about his plans of marrying her, he can just leave with honor in tact. Ralph half listens to her. He wants her to tell him of her difficult marriage and wishes very much to let her know that he is quite aware of the very difficult position she is in with Osmond in terms of these marriage proposals. He finally tells her that Osmond will treat this news of Warburtons withdrawal as her doing, and he will accuse her of putting an end to it out of jealousy. She blushes intensely and tells him hes not kind. He tells her to be frank with him and she will see. Instead she prepares to leave. She goes straight home and to Pansys room. She finds the task before her very distasteful and very perilous, but she wants to get it over with. She finds Pansy waiting for dinner. Pansy begs her for advice. Isabel says she should obey her father completely in everything. Pansy tells Isbel that the only thing in life she wants is to marry Edward Rosier. She says she wont go against her father's wishes and will instead remain single. Isabel implies that Osmond doesnt want this but wants her instead to marry someone else. Isabel intimates that Osmond wants her to marry Warburton. Pansy is happy about his because she says there is no danger that Warburton will ask her to marry him. She doesnt want to tell her father this because Warburtons presence will block another candidate from coming in to woo her. Isabel is amazed at how clear thinking Pansy is. She returns to the thought that she must be loyal to Osmond no matter what. She tells Pansy that her father will insist that she marry an nobleman. Pansy answers that to her Rosier looks noble.

Notes Isabels interviews with Ralph and Pansy indicate that, though she is preparing the ground, she doesnt plan to break with Gilbert in going against his wishes. She seems naive in her attempt to act according to her conscience at the same time that she tries to follow Gilberts plan to marry Pansy to his choice of a husbands even if its against her will.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/46.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_45_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 46

chapter 46

{"name": "Chapter 46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady65.asp", "summary": "Lord Warburton stays away from the Osmonds for four days. Gilbert Osmond finally asks Isabel what has happened to him. Isabel realizes that Gilbert is accusing her of being untrustworthy and he says just that. As they are talking, Lord Warburton is announced. He is clearly unhappy to find Gilbert there, but he recovers and stays to chat for a while. He says he is on his way home to England and wanted to come by to say good-bye to them and Pansy. When he keeps staying, it becomes obvious that he wants to speak to Isabel alone. Gilbert leaves the room. Warburton tells her he wants to see Pansy. They agree that it is best that it will be the last time since he doesnt care enough for Pansy and she doesnt care for him. Pansy comes in and accepts Warburtons good words with grace. Then he leaves. Pansy thanks Isabel for being her guardian angel. She says her father just came to get her and kissed her tenderly on the head. She thinks Isabel spoke to him about Pansy. Isabel assures her that she had nothing to do with Gilberts behavior. She realizes it is part of Gilberts idea of himself. Even in defeat, he can play the role of the magnanimous father. That evening they go out to dinner and then to an entertainment. When they get back, Pansy goes to bed and Gilbert asks Isabel to remain in the parlor to talk to him. He tells her he believes she is trying to humiliate him. He says it is obvious that she had played him for a fool in making him want Lord Warburton as a son in law and them pushing Lord Warburton away. Isabel is fascinated at the working of his \"morbid passion.\" She denies his accusations, but to no effect. Isabel looks like an angel of disdain as she gets up to leave. As she leaves, she says, \"Poor little Pansy!\"", "analysis": "Notes The ugly scene between Isabel and Gilbert only confirms what the reader has been led to expect. At Lord Warburtons withdrawal, Gilbert has blamed Isabel of maneuvering to get him away. Henry James ahs set up the characters of Gilbert and Isabel carefully enough that their response to this latest change is predictable. The scene shows Gilbert as a cruel man who seems to believe his own fantasies about the depravity of Isabel and it shows Isabel trying to remain true to her most noble image of herself."}

Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband said nothing to her about having received a letter from him. She couldn't fail to observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that, though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four days he alluded to his absence. "What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a tradesman with a bill?" "I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Friday at the German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you." "He has never written to me." "So I supposed, from your not having told me." "He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's making no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five days to indite a letter. "Does he form his words with such difficulty?" "I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've never had a letter from him." "Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate correspondence." She answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up again. "When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you say to him?" he asked. She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it. "Did you believe there was a danger of that?" "As you say, he's an odd fish." "Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to remind him." "Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded. "I've no objection whatever." "You expect too much of me." "Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you." "I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel. "My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment." "Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself! If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them yourself." For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: "That won't be easy, with you working against me." Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence. That effect had never been so marked as now. "I think you accuse me of something very base," she returned. "I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've no doubt you've the finest ideas about it." "I told you I would do what I could," she went on. "Yes, that gained you time." It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him beautiful. "How much you must want to make sure of him!" she exclaimed in a moment. She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I want it immensely." At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress; a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element of good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn't known what was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. "No," he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm only on the point of going." And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled to England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. "I'm awfully sorry to leave poor Touchett!" he ended by exclaiming. For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could only fancy how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where they were the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them. Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it expressive. "You had better take poor Touchett with you," she heard her husband say, lightly enough, in a moment. "He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton answered. "I shouldn't advise him to travel just now." He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon see them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the autumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such pleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and intelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what a good time she had had there and if she didn't want to try it again. Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really very good. Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't they come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn't asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the people they must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a country she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England to be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he liked good-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he hadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things one wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply from a sense that one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled one's wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond. He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her instead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh. If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He would do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's power to frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion. She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he treated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond's cleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present appearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was simply a part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpressive exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on this prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to irradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he treated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his own advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so perfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an inward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not the faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any satisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction; she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same time she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton. Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it was something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back in his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers and suppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they were addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had kept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be able to look as if the leave-taker's movements had no relation to his own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance was in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position was after all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't leave Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short of fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe. Osmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that they should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success Pansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but left Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration. Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little figure marching up the middle of it. Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good taste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish to say just the last word of all to the ladies. "I've a letter to write before dinner," he said; "you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's disengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of course when you come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you about the English expedition: she decides all those things." The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, "Your husband's very angry"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh, don't be anxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!" It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend showed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair, handling two or three of the objects that were near him. "I hope he'll make Miss Osmond come," he presently remarked. "I want very much to see her." "I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel. "So am I. She doesn't care for me." "No, she doesn't care for you." "I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with inconsequence: "You'll come to England, won't you?" "I think we had better not." "Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have come to Lockleigh once, and you never did?" "Everything's changed since then," said Isabel. "Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we're concerned. To see you under my roof"--and he hung fire but an instant--"would be a great satisfaction." She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred. They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in, already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek. She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his face with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears. "I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye." "Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled. "And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy." "Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered. He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You ought to be very happy--you've got a guardian angel." "I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person whose certainties were always cheerful. "Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should ever fail you, remember--remember--" And her interlocutor stammered a little. "Think of me sometimes, you know!" he said with a vague laugh. Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone. When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different. "I think you ARE my guardian angel!" she exclaimed very sweetly. Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the most your good friend." "You're a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with me." "I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering. "He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a very kind kiss." "Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!" She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't put himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him before going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his daughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was a partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she would remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak. "I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a moment. "I should like to know--so that I may know how to act." "Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired." "Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not, however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair. The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. "I think you're trying to humiliate me," Osmond went on. "It's a most absurd undertaking." "I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned. "You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully." "What is it that I've managed?" "You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again." And he stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of thought. "If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come back you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under none whatever." "That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I don't mean he'll come from a sense of duty." "There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome." "Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible." And Osmond began to walk about again. "However, about that perhaps there's no hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea of his that we should go to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I think I should try to persuade you." "It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel. "I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told me so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was right. Pansy ought to see England." "I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel. "But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond continued; "and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked. "I think you very strange." "You don't understand me." "No, not even when you insult me." "I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine. It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own hands." "Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very tired of his name." "You shall hear it again before we've done with it." She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange, too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in what light he saw himself justified. "I might say to you that I judge you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse me." "Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words plain enough?" "On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it." "You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get him out of the way." "I think I see what you mean," said Isabel. "Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband demanded. "I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him." "You stopped it on the way," said Osmond. Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!" she exclaimed in a long murmur. "I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've placed me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed." "Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel said. "That has nothing to do with the matter." "And he doesn't care for Pansy." "That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet. The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you." "Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend to such things yourself." He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you were very fond of my daughter." "I've never been more so than to-day." "Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that perhaps is natural." "Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle that stood on one of the tables. "Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?" "I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another opportunity to try to stupefy me." "It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high." "Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.

Chapter 46

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady65.asp

Lord Warburton stays away from the Osmonds for four days. Gilbert Osmond finally asks Isabel what has happened to him. Isabel realizes that Gilbert is accusing her of being untrustworthy and he says just that. As they are talking, Lord Warburton is announced. He is clearly unhappy to find Gilbert there, but he recovers and stays to chat for a while. He says he is on his way home to England and wanted to come by to say good-bye to them and Pansy. When he keeps staying, it becomes obvious that he wants to speak to Isabel alone. Gilbert leaves the room. Warburton tells her he wants to see Pansy. They agree that it is best that it will be the last time since he doesnt care enough for Pansy and she doesnt care for him. Pansy comes in and accepts Warburtons good words with grace. Then he leaves. Pansy thanks Isabel for being her guardian angel. She says her father just came to get her and kissed her tenderly on the head. She thinks Isabel spoke to him about Pansy. Isabel assures her that she had nothing to do with Gilberts behavior. She realizes it is part of Gilberts idea of himself. Even in defeat, he can play the role of the magnanimous father. That evening they go out to dinner and then to an entertainment. When they get back, Pansy goes to bed and Gilbert asks Isabel to remain in the parlor to talk to him. He tells her he believes she is trying to humiliate him. He says it is obvious that she had played him for a fool in making him want Lord Warburton as a son in law and them pushing Lord Warburton away. Isabel is fascinated at the working of his "morbid passion." She denies his accusations, but to no effect. Isabel looks like an angel of disdain as she gets up to leave. As she leaves, she says, "Poor little Pansy!"

Notes The ugly scene between Isabel and Gilbert only confirms what the reader has been led to expect. At Lord Warburtons withdrawal, Gilbert has blamed Isabel of maneuvering to get him away. Henry James ahs set up the characters of Gilbert and Isabel carefully enough that their response to this latest change is predictable. The scene shows Gilbert as a cruel man who seems to believe his own fantasies about the depravity of Isabel and it shows Isabel trying to remain true to her most noble image of herself.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_46_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady66.asp", "summary": "Henrietta Stackpole tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood is in Rome. Madame Merle has left Rome for a short trip. Her departure has set Isabel thinking once again of her relationship with Gilbert. Isabel has an inkling that Madame Merle is very dangerous. She also feels such a dread at the thought that she will suddenly realize something about the two of them that she often pushes the thoughts away. Isabel also spends time worrying over the thought of Caspar Goodwood in her mind. She feels that he is the only person in her life whom she has wronged. She has thought about him over the past few years and has always had an impression that he is a lonely man. She thinks of him now as one of a group of people to whom she could appeal if she were in trouble. She finds Henrietta Stackpole changed. She has \"grown vague.\" Still, Isabel realizes that Henrietta Stackpole has come to Rome in the dead of winter just because she suspected that Isabel is sad. As soon as they first spoke, she asked Isabel is she was wretched and Isabel told her yes, she was. Henrietta wants to know why Isabel wont just leave Osmond. Isabel says she would rather die that let everyone know of her mistake. She says shell always be ashamed. Gilbert for his part is not happy that so many of Isabels intimates are in town. He doesnt like Ralph at all. He finds Henrietta Stackpole monstrous. Yet he finds a way to like Caspar Goodwood and impress him even. Isabel wants to find a way to get Goodwood out of the way, so she asks him to do her the favor of visiting Ralph. He does so and finds in Ralph a pleasant friend. Ralph has been having a wonderful time with Henrietta Stackpole who visits him every day and has come to like him immensely. Isabel hopes that when the weather gets warmer, Caspar Goodwood will take Ralph back to England. She ahs a horror that hell die in his hotel instead of where he should, at Gardencourt. When she thinks of Gardencourt, tears come to her eyes. It has become something of a sacred place to her. As the chapter closes, Isabel finds that the Countess Gemini has arrived in her house, Edward Rosier has returned to Rome after a mysterious absence and has commenced to writing long letters to Pansy, and Madame Merle has returned with the impertinent question, \"What did you do with Lord Warburton?\"", "analysis": "Notes This chapter brings all the most important people of Isabels past aside from Lord Warburton together. Isabel gets Caspar Goodwood to visit Ralph and Henrietta takes this duty on herself and becomes fast friends with him. The chapter has the feel of being prelude to some action. Here, we get caught up on their characters which have been absent for so long in the narrative. Later, they will perhaps be put into play."}

It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton's departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some importance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her friend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve. Isabel's imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when the charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness of respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage, had had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she remembered rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then he had been the most discordant survival of her earlier time--the only one in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her that morning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it was like a collision between vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist, no hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer wide. He had bumped against her prow, however, while her hand was on the tiller, and--to complete the metaphor--had given the lighter vessel a strain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It had been horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm that (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only person with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she couldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried with rage, after he had left her, at--she hardly knew what: she tried to think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had done his best to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent, and yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a violence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted three or four days. The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord Warburton's; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive, uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could never say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith in Mr. Goodwood's compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton factory was not a compensation for anything--least of all for having failed to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what he had--save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If he extended his business--that, to the best of her belief, was the only form exertion could take with him--it would be because it was an enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in memory or in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston--her imagination was all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had more than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband about him--never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man's disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her, she had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs could have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come to the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that, considering his grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone. Nevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him. It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him; even after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her that particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had the assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault. She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace with the world--to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to her from time to time that there was an account still to be settled with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day on terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was coming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for him than for any one else to make out--since he WOULD make it out, as over a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort--the intimate disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had invested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only a part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her stress. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he spent several days without coming to see her. Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw herself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been superficial--the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather enriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been humorously criticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still marked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had put up no shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her opinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite unchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had never been vague; though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had managed to be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason for everything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn't for a moment pretend that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her independence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to it. "It's nothing to come to Europe," she said to Isabel; "it doesn't seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay at home; this is much more important." It was not therefore with a sense of doing anything very important that she treated herself to another pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so little. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the other's fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satisfactions just now were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still have been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified in having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large concessions with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all abatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however, that she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this confidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not in the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of being wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph, nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak. "Yes, I'm wretched," she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible. "What does he do to you?" Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor. "He does nothing. But he doesn't like me." "He's very hard to please!" cried Miss Stackpole. "Why don't you leave him?" "I can't change that way," Isabel said. "Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that you've made a mistake. You're too proud." "I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my mistake. I don't think that's decent. I'd much rather die." "You won't think so always," said Henrietta. "I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one's deeds. I married him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impossible to do anything more deliberate. One can't change that way," Isabel repeated. "You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don't mean to say you like him." Isabel debated. "No, I don't like him. I can tell you, because I'm weary of my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce it on the housetops." Henrietta gave a laugh. "Don't you think you're rather too considerate?" "It's not of him that I'm considerate--it's of myself!" Isabel answered. It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to a young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal roof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta that as Osmond didn't like her she couldn't invite her to dine, but they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly to drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated authoress with a respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should remember everything one said. "I don't want to be remembered that way," Miss Stackpole declared; "I consider that my conversation refers only to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits there, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring them out some day against me." She could not teach herself to think favourably of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of personal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even uncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a little the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her, so that he might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immediate acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong--it being in effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held to his credit, and yet he held to his objections--all of which were elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice, so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself off. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife's friends; he took occasion to call Isabel's attention to it. "You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make a new collection," he said to her one morning in reference to nothing visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived the remark of all brutal abruptness. "It's as if you had taken the trouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common with. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited ass--besides his being the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably tiresome that one can't tell him so; one must spare him on account of his health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's so desperately ill there's only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can't say much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it, the cool insolence of that performance was something rare! He comes and looks at one's daughter as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and almost thinks he'll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a lease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he doesn't think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a piano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month's lodging in the poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn't a nerve in one's body that she doesn't set quivering. You know I never have admitted that she's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of a new steel pen--the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel pen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see her, but I hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can't get rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone in which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give you great comfort. I don't like at all to think she talks about me--I feel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat." Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time. Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must have been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs. Touchett's door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed just as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour of his cravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a strangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and more overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached high enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back after him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like a February sky. Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him considerable attention. She didn't know how much he had enjoyed it, but she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn't the same man when he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his eyes and shown him that England wasn't everything. He had been very much liked in most places, and thought extremely simple--more simple than the English were commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him affected; she didn't know whether they meant that his simplicity was an affectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all the chambermaids were farmers' daughters--or all the farmers' daughters were chambermaids--she couldn't exactly remember which. He hadn't seemed able to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much for him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of everything--as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one he had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest; he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled together from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting cities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted to know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of geography--had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to confess at last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent some pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea--that you could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans, nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was the biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England, hunting--"hunting round" Henrietta called it. These amusements were those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of the ancient regime. They didn't agree about that, but that was what she liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been swept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered on the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking all round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it now; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was determined that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight. The mystery about that other one had never been explained. Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she would be at home at six o'clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what he was coming for--what good he expected to get of it. He had presented himself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise, who would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel's hospitality, however, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at least that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he had come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the very simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come for his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction with a good deal of eagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the ghost of this gentleman's ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome for his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his heartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were at an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but he had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe he was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence, though he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light upon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general topics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before, "Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn't talk." He spoke a good deal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is, how much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert; it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband still held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of not inviting them. To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early; he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every now and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about him; she thought he might know that she didn't know what to do with him. But she couldn't call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was only extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made a man very different from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with HIM. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering herself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of women. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any personal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed probable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case he had an irresistible need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of this principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy to a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry her, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would have been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper air. He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't easy at first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished to; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was very original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English portmanteau,--he had plenty of straps and buckles which would never wear out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the Campagna and devoted much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly in the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to him one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And then she added smiling: "I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you." "You're the person in the world who has most right," he answered. "I've given you assurances that I've never given any one else." The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt. Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the Hotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular change had in fact occurred in this lady's relations with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit--always under the conviction that they were great enemies. "Oh yes, we're intimate enemies," Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely--as freely as the humour of it would allow--of coming to worry him to death. In reality they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should never have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had always done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent fellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about everything, that is, but Isabel--a topic as to which Ralph always had a thin forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved a great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their inevitable difference of view--Ralph having amused himself with taking the ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli. Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after he had been left alone with his host he found there were various other matters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had just gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole's merits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither, after the first allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond--a theme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very sorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant man, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done. There was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris. It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr. Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this, and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in one of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the dark ivy would cluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster; for several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The Countess Gemini arrived from Florence--arrived with her trunks, her dresses, her chatter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the unholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been away somewhere,--no one, not even Pansy, knew where,--reappeared in Rome and began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame Merle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: "What on earth did you do with Lord Warburton?" As if it were any business of hers!

Chapter 47

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady66.asp

Henrietta Stackpole tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood is in Rome. Madame Merle has left Rome for a short trip. Her departure has set Isabel thinking once again of her relationship with Gilbert. Isabel has an inkling that Madame Merle is very dangerous. She also feels such a dread at the thought that she will suddenly realize something about the two of them that she often pushes the thoughts away. Isabel also spends time worrying over the thought of Caspar Goodwood in her mind. She feels that he is the only person in her life whom she has wronged. She has thought about him over the past few years and has always had an impression that he is a lonely man. She thinks of him now as one of a group of people to whom she could appeal if she were in trouble. She finds Henrietta Stackpole changed. She has "grown vague." Still, Isabel realizes that Henrietta Stackpole has come to Rome in the dead of winter just because she suspected that Isabel is sad. As soon as they first spoke, she asked Isabel is she was wretched and Isabel told her yes, she was. Henrietta wants to know why Isabel wont just leave Osmond. Isabel says she would rather die that let everyone know of her mistake. She says shell always be ashamed. Gilbert for his part is not happy that so many of Isabels intimates are in town. He doesnt like Ralph at all. He finds Henrietta Stackpole monstrous. Yet he finds a way to like Caspar Goodwood and impress him even. Isabel wants to find a way to get Goodwood out of the way, so she asks him to do her the favor of visiting Ralph. He does so and finds in Ralph a pleasant friend. Ralph has been having a wonderful time with Henrietta Stackpole who visits him every day and has come to like him immensely. Isabel hopes that when the weather gets warmer, Caspar Goodwood will take Ralph back to England. She ahs a horror that hell die in his hotel instead of where he should, at Gardencourt. When she thinks of Gardencourt, tears come to her eyes. It has become something of a sacred place to her. As the chapter closes, Isabel finds that the Countess Gemini has arrived in her house, Edward Rosier has returned to Rome after a mysterious absence and has commenced to writing long letters to Pansy, and Madame Merle has returned with the impertinent question, "What did you do with Lord Warburton?"

Notes This chapter brings all the most important people of Isabels past aside from Lord Warburton together. Isabel gets Caspar Goodwood to visit Ralph and Henrietta takes this duty on herself and becomes fast friends with him. The chapter has the feel of being prelude to some action. Here, we get caught up on their characters which have been absent for so long in the narrative. Later, they will perhaps be put into play.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_49_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 50

chapter 50

{"name": "Chapter 50", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady71.asp", "summary": "Isabel likes to take the Countess Gemini with her on trips around Rome because it gives her sister-in-law something other than the sexual affairs of the women in Florence as a topic of conversation. While they are at the Coliseum one day, Isabel wanders off alone while the Countess and Pansy go exploring. She is greeted by Edward Rosier, who tells her he has sold his bibelots for fifty thousand dollars. He thinks this sacrifice will make him a good candidate for Pansys hand in Gilbert Osmonds eyes. Isabel tells him it wont help because Gilbert Osmond wants Pansy to marry a noble. He sees Pansy and the Countess approaching. He says he wants to speak to the Countess. Isabel advises him against it, saying she has no influence with her brother. Isabel goes to intercept Pansy who drops her eyes when she sees Rosier. She doesnt glance back to look at him when shes being led away. The Countess remains behind so long that Isabel has to send the footman to go and get her. A week later Isabel finds Pansy waiting for her in her room. She says her father has said she will go to the convent for a while. He has told her the world is bad for her. Isabel is surprised that she hasnt been told of these plans. Madame Catharine will be coming for Pansy in a short while. When Pansy is gone, Isabel goes into the room where Osmond is. She has forbidden herself from every asking him questions. She only says she will miss Pansy very much. Gilbert tells her why he sent Pansy to the convent. He wants to keep her innocent and he wants her to think about something and think of it in the right way. Isabel is amazed at how far Gilbert will go in his schemes. He will even go so far as to play \"theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter.\" Isabel understands this last move on Gilberts part as having been designed for her own benefit. Gilbert had \"wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary.\" Isabel knows Pansy has been frightened by this move. That night at dinner, the Countess talks to Gilbert about Pansys \"banishment.\" She tells him its obvious that all his reasons are only covers for the real purpose of getting Pansy away from Mr. Rosier. She thinks Gilbert is getting Pansy away from the Countess. Gilbert says it would be much simpler just to banish her, the Countess, instead of banishing his daughter.", "analysis": "Notes Two things occur in this chapter. First, Edward Rosier comes back to Rome with the news that he is $50,000 richer because he has sold his collection of bibelots. Second, Osmond sends Pansy to the convent for two weeks. In Isabels eyes, he does so to scare Pansy and Isabel into realizing that he is in complete control and is capable of acting ruthlessly. Gilbert Osmond will treat his daughter as he does everyone else in his life, as an instrument for his pleasure. The expectation this chapter seems intent on setting up has to do not with Gilbert, but with Isabel. If she wont act against Gilbert for her own happiness, will she do so for Pansys."}

As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if they had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense, though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respect that she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from the vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents' guest might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mild afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together, but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to bellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed) bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the Countess often asked more from one's attention than she gave in return; and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of travertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in the immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of swallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with a certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose. Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon a broken block. "It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all my bibelots!" Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I've sold them by auction at the Hotel Drouot," he went on. "The sale took place three days ago, and they've telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent." "I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things." "I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think me rich enough now?" "Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently. "For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I think of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop for the sale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would have killed me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my pocket, and he can't say I'm poor!" the young man exclaimed defiantly. "He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond had never said this before. Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without my bibelots I'm nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That's what they told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn't seen HER!" "My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel very kindly. "You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't." And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons still have the perversity to think him diminutive. "I know what happened here while I was away," he went on; "What does Mr. Osmond expect after she has refused Lord Warburton?" Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman." "What other nobleman?" "One that he'll pick out." Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket. "You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at me." "I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom. Now you had better go away." "I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions had returned from their excursion. "You must really go away," she said quickly. "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier murmured in a voice strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by a happy thought: "Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desire to be presented to her." Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence with her brother." "Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier faced the Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in conversation with a very pretty young man. "I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she left him. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short, with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to the carriage," she said gently. "Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. And she went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced himself, while the Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eye a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's. There shone out of each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal of the child with her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" she affectionately said. "Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. "Did you show your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?" Isabel asked at last. "Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased." "And you're not tired, I hope." "Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired." The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not to wait--she would come home in a cab! About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted themselves with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her; she got up from her low chair. "Pardon my taking the liberty," she said in a small voice. "It will be the last--for some time." Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited, frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabel exclaimed. "I'm going to the convent." "To the convent?" Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment, perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel nevertheless pressed her. "Why are you going to the convent?" "Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every now and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little seclusion--a little reflexion." Pansy spoke in short detached sentences, as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph of self-control: "I think papa's right; I've been so much in the world this winter." Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a larger meaning than the girl herself knew. "When was this decided?" she asked. "I've heard nothing of it." "Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't be too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at a quarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a few weeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being educated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effect of diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. I shall be very quiet and think a great deal." Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck. "Think of ME sometimes." "Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very different from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself. Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long, tender kiss. Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head, "En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed. It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after he had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: she spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. "I shall miss Pansy very much." He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I had thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under the arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books and her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there's just to be a certain little sense of sequestration. She'll have time to think, and there's something I want her to think about." Osmond spoke deliberately, reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost into pictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he went on: "The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great institution; we can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential need in families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a school of repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world," he added; "I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This one's very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way." Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her husband's desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point of playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She could not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood it better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill into Isabel's heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough. The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination, and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of her husband's genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket of flowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently, in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel. "It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent so many pretty reasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at once that you want to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered that I think very well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you've made up your mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company for Pansy." Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured. "My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece of gallantry, "I don't know anything about your convictions, but if I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to banish YOU."

Chapter 50

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady71.asp

Isabel likes to take the Countess Gemini with her on trips around Rome because it gives her sister-in-law something other than the sexual affairs of the women in Florence as a topic of conversation. While they are at the Coliseum one day, Isabel wanders off alone while the Countess and Pansy go exploring. She is greeted by Edward Rosier, who tells her he has sold his bibelots for fifty thousand dollars. He thinks this sacrifice will make him a good candidate for Pansys hand in Gilbert Osmonds eyes. Isabel tells him it wont help because Gilbert Osmond wants Pansy to marry a noble. He sees Pansy and the Countess approaching. He says he wants to speak to the Countess. Isabel advises him against it, saying she has no influence with her brother. Isabel goes to intercept Pansy who drops her eyes when she sees Rosier. She doesnt glance back to look at him when shes being led away. The Countess remains behind so long that Isabel has to send the footman to go and get her. A week later Isabel finds Pansy waiting for her in her room. She says her father has said she will go to the convent for a while. He has told her the world is bad for her. Isabel is surprised that she hasnt been told of these plans. Madame Catharine will be coming for Pansy in a short while. When Pansy is gone, Isabel goes into the room where Osmond is. She has forbidden herself from every asking him questions. She only says she will miss Pansy very much. Gilbert tells her why he sent Pansy to the convent. He wants to keep her innocent and he wants her to think about something and think of it in the right way. Isabel is amazed at how far Gilbert will go in his schemes. He will even go so far as to play "theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter." Isabel understands this last move on Gilberts part as having been designed for her own benefit. Gilbert had "wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary." Isabel knows Pansy has been frightened by this move. That night at dinner, the Countess talks to Gilbert about Pansys "banishment." She tells him its obvious that all his reasons are only covers for the real purpose of getting Pansy away from Mr. Rosier. She thinks Gilbert is getting Pansy away from the Countess. Gilbert says it would be much simpler just to banish her, the Countess, instead of banishing his daughter.

Notes Two things occur in this chapter. First, Edward Rosier comes back to Rome with the news that he is $50,000 richer because he has sold his collection of bibelots. Second, Osmond sends Pansy to the convent for two weeks. In Isabels eyes, he does so to scare Pansy and Isabel into realizing that he is in complete control and is capable of acting ruthlessly. Gilbert Osmond will treat his daughter as he does everyone else in his life, as an instrument for his pleasure. The expectation this chapter seems intent on setting up has to do not with Gilbert, but with Isabel. If she wont act against Gilbert for her own happiness, will she do so for Pansys.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/51.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_50_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 51

chapter 51

{"name": "Chapter 51", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady72.asp", "summary": "Isabel gets news from Mrs. Touchett that Ralph is dying quickly. She asks Isabel to come. Isabel goes to see Gilbert to tell him of the news. Gilbert acts bored by it. Then he asks why she must go to Gardencourt. He says he was already abundantly generous with her in letting her spend so much time with Ralph in Rome when he visited. Now he will not let her go to England. He accuses Isabel of going to England not to see Ralph but to take revenge on himself. Isabel denies that she is thinking of revenge. Osmond tells her he does know about revenge and that she shouldnt make him show her. He tells her that if she leaves Rome it will be deliberate and calculated opposition. Isabel tells him that she recognizes his opposition as malignant. He tells her they must present a social face of being inseparable as a couple. Isabel asks him what it means if she defies him. Will it mean that he will not expect her to come back? He is clearly shocked at this idea. He asks her if she is out of her mind. She tells him she wants to know what it is if it isnt to be a rupture of their marriage. He tells her he wont argue with her and he picks his brush back up and starts to look at his painting again. Isabel leaves the room and runs into the Countess. She tells her about Ralphs condition and Gilberts order that she must not leave Rome. The Countess tries to encourage her to leave. Isabel gets up and leaves the room when the Countess goes into her usual flippant manner. She goes to her room and sits thinking for the next hour. She feels overwhelmed by the marriage vows she took, which she thinks she will be breaking if she leaves for England. She lays her head down on a pillow in despair. The Countess comes in and tells her she wants to tell her something. She says her first sister-in-law never had any children. She says Pansys mother is Madame Merle. Gilbert had made up the story that his first wife had died in childbirth. In actuality, he had been carrying on an affair with Madame Merle from the beginning of his marriage. Madame Merles husband had long since left her, so when she got pregnant, she couldnt say it was her husbands child. Gilberts wife had recently died, so they concocted the story that she had died in childbirth and that Gilbert had been so devastated by her death that he had put Pansy in a convent to be raised by nuns. Then he had moved from Naples to Florence. No one had ever questioned their story. They are no longer lovers. Gilbert had gotten bored with her obsession with being careful not to get caught. Madame Merle had wanted Isabel to be Pansys mother because she knew Pansy didnt like her and she knew Pansy needed money that Isabel would most likely give her for a dowry. Isabel wonders why Madame Merle and Gilbert had never married. According to Countess Gemini, Madame Merle had never loved Gilbert \"in that way. \" She had been very ambitious to marry very well. She had also worried that people would put it together and realize that she was Pansys mother. Isabel says she has wondered about Madame Merle's stake in Pansy. She realized it the day Madame Merle showed her extreme disappointment when Lord Warburton withdrew. Isabel feels sorry for Madame Merle and for Gilberts first wife who was betrayed so early in her marriage. Countess Gemini asks Isabel if she will now give up her journey to England. Isabel feel sick. She says she must see Ralph. She says this with \"infinite sadness.\"", "analysis": "Notes Isabel finally learns all the truth of Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmonds relationship in this chapter. She learns not only that they are Pansys biological parents, but all the reasons they enacted the scheme to make everyone think Osmonds first wife had died in childbirth. The revelation of this truth is perfectly aligned with the character portraits Henry James has already drawn of Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond. Madame Merle cares only about appearances. She has been ambitious for a very high marriage for herself and since she has not succeeded in this, she has transferred her ambitions to Pansy. For his part, Gilbert seems to continue in the pose of being bored by all of it, tired of Madame Merle and ready to disregard her despite all she has done for him. Both people are represented as being depraved in highly social ways. They care only about what is thought of them. They will do anything, make instruments of innocent people, to accomplish a good public image. Their motives have nothing to do with love or passion. They are only motivated by social success. Isabels next move seems determined. Gilbert has told her that she must not leave him to go see Ralph. She feels she must see Ralph at his dying hour. Going to English seems as if it will inevitably kill her marriage publicly. However, Isabel still has Pansy to think of. Despite the fact that she has been used for her money, she will still feel it necessary to help Pansy not only with money but with her own submission to social propriety. This news will not necessarily, then, set her free from Gilbert."}

The Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity of her tenure of her brother's hospitality. A week after this incident Isabel received a telegram from England, dated from Gardencourt and bearing the stamp of Mrs. Touchett's authorship. "Ralph cannot last many days," it ran, "and if convenient would like to see you. Wishes me to say that you must come only if you've not other duties. Say, for myself, that you used to talk a good deal about your duty and to wonder what it was; shall be curious to see whether you've found it out. Ralph is really dying, and there's no other company." Isabel was prepared for this news, having received from Henrietta Stackpole a detailed account of her journey to England with her appreciative patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive, but she had managed to convey him to Gardencourt, where he had taken to his bed, which, as Miss Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave again. She added that she had really had two patients on her hands instead of one, inasmuch as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly use, was quite as ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Touchett. Afterwards she wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to Mrs. Touchett, who had just returned from America and had promptly given her to understand that she didn't wish any interviewing at Gardencourt. Isabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralph came to Rome, letting her know of his critical condition and suggesting that she should lose no time in returning to Europe. Mrs. Touchett had telegraphed an acknowledgement of this admonition, and the only further news Isabel received from her was the second telegram I have just quoted. Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then, thrusting it into her pocket, she went straight to the door of her husband's study. Here she again paused an instant, after which she opened the door and went in. Osmond was seated at the table near the window with a folio volume before him, propped against a pile of books. This volume was open at a page of small coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that he had been copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A box of water-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had already transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the delicate, finely-tinted disk. His back was turned toward the door, but he recognised his wife without looking round. "Excuse me for disturbing you," she said. "When I come to your room I always knock," he answered, going on with his work. "I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin's dying." "Ah, I don't believe that," said Osmond, looking at his drawing through a magnifying glass. "He was dying when we married; he'll outlive us all." Isabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate the careful cynicism of this declaration; she simply went on quickly, full of her own intention "My aunt has telegraphed for me; I must go to Gardencourt." "Why must you go to Gardencourt?" Osmond asked in the tone of impartial curiosity. "To see Ralph before he dies." To this, for some time, he made no rejoinder; he continued to give his chief attention to his work, which was of a sort that would brook no negligence. "I don't see the need of it," he said at last. "He came to see you here. I didn't like that; I thought his being in Rome a great mistake. But I tolerated it because it was to be the last time you should see him. Now you tell me it's not to have been the last. Ah, you're not grateful!" "What am I to be grateful for?" Gilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck of dust from his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first time looked at his wife. "For my not having interfered while he was here." "Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let me know you didn't like it. I was very glad when he went away." "Leave him alone then. Don't run after him." Isabel turned her eyes away from him; they rested upon his little drawing. "I must go to England," she said, with a full consciousness that her tone might strike an irritable man of taste as stupidly obstinate. "I shall not like it if you do," Osmond remarked. "Why should I mind that? You won't like it if I don't. You like nothing I do or don't do. You pretend to think I lie." Osmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile. "That's why you must go then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a revenge on me." "I know nothing about revenge." "I do," said Osmond. "Don't give me an occasion." "You're only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I would commit some folly." "I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me." "If I disobeyed you?" said Isabel in a low tone which had the effect of mildness. "Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition." "How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt's telegram but three minutes ago." "You calculate rapidly; it's a great accomplishment. I don't see why we should prolong our discussion; you know my wish." And he stood there as if he expected to see her withdraw. But she never moved; she couldn't move, strange as it may seem; she still wished to justify herself; he had the power, in an extraordinary degree, of making her feel this need. There was something in her imagination he could always appeal to against her judgement. "You've no reason for such a wish," said Isabel, "and I've every reason for going. I can't tell you how unjust you seem to me. But I think you know. It's your own opposition that's calculated. It's malignant." She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband before, and the sensation of hearing it was evidently new to Osmond. But he showed no surprise, and his coolness was apparently a proof that he had believed his wife would in fact be unable to resist for ever his ingenious endeavour to draw her out. "It's all the more intense then," he answered. And he added almost as if he were giving her a friendly counsel: "This is a very important matter." She recognised that; she was fully conscious of the weight of the occasion; she knew that between them they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity made her careful; she said nothing, and he went on. "You say I've no reason? I have the very best. I dislike, from the bottom of my soul, what you intend to do. It's dishonourable; it's indelicate; it's indecent. Your cousin is nothing whatever to me, and I'm under no obligation to make concessions to him. I've already made the very handsomest. Your relations with him, while he was here, kept me on pins and needles; but I let that pass, because from week to week I expected him to go. I've never liked him and he has never liked me. That's why you like him--because he hates me," said Osmond with a quick, barely audible tremor in his voice. "I've an ideal of what my wife should do and should not do. She should not travel across Europe alone, in defiance of my deepest desire, to sit at the bedside of other men. Your cousin's nothing to you; he's nothing to us. You smile most expressively when I talk about US, but I assure you that WE, WE, Mrs. Osmond, is all I know. I take our marriage seriously; you appear to have found a way of not doing so. I'm not aware that we're divorced or separated; for me we're indissolubly united. You are nearer to me than any human creature, and I'm nearer to you. It may be a disagreeable proximity; it's one, at any rate, of our own deliberate making. You don't like to be reminded of that, I know; but I'm perfectly willing, because--because--" And he paused a moment, looking as if he had something to say which would be very much to the point. "Because I think we should accept the consequences of our actions, and what I value most in life is the honour of a thing!" He spoke gravely and almost gently; the accent of sarcasm had dropped out of his tone. It had a gravity which checked his wife's quick emotion; the resolution with which she had entered the room found itself caught in a mesh of fine threads. His last words were not a command, they constituted a kind of appeal; and, though she felt that any expression of respect on his part could only be a refinement of egotism, they represented something transcendent and absolute, like the sign of the cross or the flag of one's country. He spoke in the name of something sacred and precious--the observance of a magnificent form. They were as perfectly apart in feeling as two disillusioned lovers had ever been; but they had never yet separated in act. Isabel had not changed; her old passion for justice still abode within her; and now, in the very thick of her sense of her husband's blasphemous sophistry, it began to throb to a tune which for a moment promised him the victory. It came over her that in his wish to preserve appearances he was after all sincere, and that this, as far as it went, was a merit. Ten minutes before she had felt all the joy of irreflective action--a joy to which she had so long been a stranger; but action had been suddenly changed to slow renunciation, transformed by the blight of Osmond's touch. If she must renounce, however, she would let him know she was a victim rather than a dupe. "I know you're a master of the art of mockery," she said. "How can you speak of an indissoluble union--how can you speak of your being contented? Where's our union when you accuse me of falsity? Where's your contentment when you have nothing but hideous suspicion in your heart?" "It is in our living decently together, in spite of such drawbacks." "We don't live decently together!" cried Isabel. "Indeed we don't if you go to England." "That's very little; that's nothing. I might do much more." He raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little: he had lived long enough in Italy to catch this trick. "Ah, if you've come to threaten me I prefer my drawing." And he walked back to his table, where he took up the sheet of paper on which he had been working and stood studying it. "I suppose that if I go you'll not expect me to come back," said Isabel. He turned quickly round, and she could see this movement at least was not designed. He looked at her a little, and then, "Are you out of your mind?" he enquired. "How can it be anything but a rupture?" she went on; "especially if all you say is true?" She was unable to see how it could be anything but a rupture; she sincerely wished to know what else it might be. He sat down before his table. "I really can't argue with you on the hypothesis of your defying me," he said. And he took up one of his little brushes again. She lingered but a moment longer; long enough to embrace with her eye his whole deliberately indifferent yet most expressive figure; after which she quickly left the room. Her faculties, her energy, her passion, were all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark mist had suddenly encompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme degree the art of eliciting any weakness. On her way back to her room she found the Countess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a little parlour in which a small collection of heterogeneous books had been arranged. The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she appeared to have been glancing down a page which failed to strike her as interesting. At the sound of Isabel's step she raised her head. "Ah my dear," she said, "you, who are so literary, do tell me some amusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreariness--! Do you think this would do me any good?" Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but without reading or understanding it. "I'm afraid I can't advise you. I've had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying." The Countess threw down her book. "Ah, he was so simpatico. I'm awfully sorry for you." "You would be sorrier still if you knew." "What is there to know? You look very badly," the Countess added. "You must have been with Osmond." Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady's fluttering attention. "I've been with Osmond," she said, while the Countess's bright eyes glittered at her. "I'm sure then he has been odious!" the Countess cried. "Did he say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?" "He said it's impossible I should go to England." The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile; she already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into mourning, and then there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for a moment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid, picturesque play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment. After all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had already overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough for Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel's trouble was deep. It seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had no hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with the expression of her sister-in-law's eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous expectation, for if she had wished to see Osmond overtopped the conditions looked favourable now. Of course if Isabel should go to England she herself would immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing would induce her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt an immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to England. "Nothing's impossible for you, my dear," she said caressingly. "Why else are you rich and clever and good?" "Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak." "Why does Osmond say it's impossible?" the Countess asked in a tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn't imagine. From the moment she thus began to question her, however, Isabel drew back; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess had affectionately taken. But she answered this enquiry with frank bitterness. "Because we're so happy together that we can't separate even for a fortnight." "Ah," cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, "when I want to make a journey my husband simply tells me I can have no money!" Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for an hour. It may appear to some readers that she gave herself much trouble, and it is certain that for a woman of a high spirit she had allowed herself easily to be arrested. It seemed to her that only now she fully measured the great undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that in such a case as this, when one had to choose, one chose as a matter of course for one's husband. "I'm afraid--yes, I'm afraid," she said to herself more than once, stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraid of was not her husband--his displeasure, his hatred, his revenge; it was not even her own later judgement of her conduct a consideration which had often held her in check; it was simply the violence there would be in going when Osmond wished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between them, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was a horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with which he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what he was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married, for all that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man with whom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sank down on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of cushions. When she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before her. She had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her thin lips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining intimation. She lived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of her spirit, but now she was leaning far out. "I knocked," she began, "but you didn't answer me. So I ventured in. I've been looking at you for the past five minutes. You're very unhappy." "Yes; but I don't think you can comfort me." "Will you give me leave to try?" And the Countess sat down on the sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something communicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have a deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her sister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her glittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination. "After all," she soon resumed, "I must tell you, to begin with, that I don't understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that my husband's dearest wish was to make me miserable--of late he has simply let me alone--ah, it was a wonderful simplification! My poor Isabel, you're not simple enough." "No, I'm not simple enough," said Isabel. "There's something I want you to know," the Countess declared--"because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do; perhaps you've guessed it. But if you have, all I can say is that I understand still less why you shouldn't do as you like." "What do you wish me to know?" Isabel felt a foreboding that made her heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself, and this alone was portentous. But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject. "In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never really suspected?" "I've guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don't know what you mean." "That's because you've such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman with such a pure mind!" cried the Countess. Isabel slowly got up. "You're going to tell me something horrible." "You can call it by whatever name you will!" And the Countess rose also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even then, of ugliness; after which she said: "My first sister-in-law had no children." Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. "Your first sister-in-law?" "I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has been married before! I've never spoken to you of his wife; I thought it mightn't be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and died childless. It wasn't till after her death that Pansy arrived." Isabel's brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much more to follow than she could see. "Pansy's not my husband's child then?" "Your husband's--in perfection! But no one else's husband's. Some one else's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel," cried the Countess, "with you one must dot one's i's!" "I don't understand. Whose wife's?" Isabel asked. "The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died--how long?--a dozen, more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognised Miss Pansy, nor, knowing what he was about, would have anything to say to her; and there was no reason why he should. Osmond did, and that was better; though he had to fit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own wife's having died in childbirth, and of his having, in grief and horror, banished the little girl from his sight for as long as possible before taking her home from nurse. His wife had really died, you know, of quite another matter and in quite another place: in the Piedmontese mountains, where they had gone, one August, because her health appeared to require the air, but where she was suddenly taken worse--fatally ill. The story passed, sufficiently; it was covered by the appearances so long as nobody heeded, as nobody cared to look into it. But of course I knew--without researches," the Countess lucidly proceeded; "as also, you'll understand, without a word said between us--I mean between Osmond and me. Don't you see him looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle it?--that is to settle ME if I should say anything. I said nothing, right or left--never a word to a creature, if you can believe that of me: on my honour, my dear, I speak of the thing to you now, after all this time, as I've never, never spoken. It was to be enough for me, from the first, that the child was my niece--from the moment she was my brother's daughter. As for her veritable mother--!" But with this Pansy's wonderful aunt dropped--as, involuntarily, from the impression of her sister-in-law's face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to look at her than she had ever had to meet. She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on her own lips, an echo of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again, hanging her head. "Why have you told me this?" she asked in a voice the Countess hardly recognised. "Because I've been so bored with your not knowing. I've been bored, frankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stupidly, all this time I couldn't have managed! Ca me depasse, if you don't mind my saying so, the things, all round you, that you've appeared to succeed in not knowing. It's a sort of assistance--aid to innocent ignorance--that I've always been a bad hand at rendering; and in this connexion, that of keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has at any rate finally found itself exhausted. It's not a black lie, moreover, you know," the Countess inimitably added. "The facts are exactly what I tell you." "I had no idea," said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a manner that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this confession. "So I believed--though it was hard to believe. Had it never occurred to you that he was for six or seven years her lover?" "I don't know. Things HAVE occurred to me, and perhaps that was what they all meant." "She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about Pansy!" the Countess, before all this view of it, cried. "Oh, no idea, for me," Isabel went on, "ever DEFINITELY took that form." She appeared to be making out to herself what had been and what hadn't. "And as it is--I don't understand." She spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Countess seemed to have seen her revelation fall below its possibilities of effect. She had expected to kindle some responsive blaze, but had barely extracted a spark. Isabel showed as scarce more impressed than she might have been, as a young woman of approved imagination, with some fine sinister passage of public history. "Don't you recognise how the child could never pass for HER husband's?--that is with M. Merle himself," her companion resumed. "They had been separated too long for that, and he had gone to some far country--I think to South America. If she had ever had children--which I'm not sure of--she had lost them. The conditions happened to make it workable, under stress (I mean at so awkward a pinch), that Osmond should acknowledge the little girl. His wife was dead--very true; but she had not been dead too long to put a certain accommodation of dates out of the question--from the moment, I mean, that suspicion wasn't started; which was what they had to take care of. What was more natural than that poor Mrs. Osmond, at a distance and for a world not troubling about trifles, should have left behind her, poverina, the pledge of her brief happiness that had cost her her life? With the aid of a change of residence--Osmond had been living with her at Naples at the time of their stay in the Alps, and he in due course left it for ever--the whole history was successfully set going. My poor sister-in-law, in her grave, couldn't help herself, and the real mother, to save HER skin, renounced all visible property in the child." "Ah, poor, poor woman!" cried Isabel, who herewith burst into tears. It was a long time since she had shed any; she had suffered a high reaction from weeping. But now they flowed with an abundance in which the Countess Gemini found only another discomfiture. "It's very kind of you to pity her!" she discordantly laughed. "Yes indeed, you have a way of your own--!" "He must have been false to his wife--and so very soon!" said Isabel with a sudden check. "That's all that's wanting--that you should take up her cause!" the Countess went on. "I quite agree with you, however, that it was much too soon." "But to me, to me--?" And Isabel hesitated as if she had not heard; as if her question--though it was sufficiently there in her eyes--were all for herself. "To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you call faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of another woman--SUCH a lover as he had been, cara mia, between their risks and their precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of affairs had passed away; the lady had repented, or at all events, for reasons of her own, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances so intense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You may therefore imagine what it was--when he couldn't patch it on conveniently to ANY of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them." "Yes," Isabel mechanically echoed, "the whole past is between them." "Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say, they had kept it up." She was silent a little. "Why then did she want him to marry me?" "Ah my dear, that's her superiority! Because you had money; and because she believed you would be good to Pansy." "Poor woman--and Pansy who doesn't like her!" cried Isabel. "That's the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows it; she knows everything." "Will she know that you've told me this?" "That will depend upon whether you tell her. She's prepared for it, and do you know what she counts upon for her defence? On your believing that I lie. Perhaps you do; don't make yourself uncomfortable to hide it. Only, as it happens this time, I don't. I've told plenty of little idiotic fibs, but they've never hurt any one but myself." Isabel sat staring at her companion's story as at a bale of fantastic wares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked on the carpet at her feet. "Why did Osmond never marry her?" she finally asked. "Because she had no money." The Countess had an answer for everything, and if she lied she lied well. "No one knows, no one has ever known, what she lives on, or how she has got all those beautiful things. I don't believe Osmond himself knows. Besides, she wouldn't have married him." "How can she have loved him then?" "She doesn't love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I suppose, she would have married him; but at that time her husband was living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined--I won't say his ancestors, because he never had any--her relations with Osmond had changed, and she had grown more ambitious. Besides, she has never had, about him," the Countess went on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so tragically afterwards--"she HAD never had, what you might call any illusions of INTELLIGENCE. She hoped she might marry a great man; that has always been her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted and prayed; but she has never succeeded. I don't call Madame Merle a success, you know. I don't know what she may accomplish yet, but at present she has very little to show. The only tangible result she has ever achieved--except, of course, getting to know every one and staying with them free of expense--has been her bringing you and Osmond together. Oh, she did that, my dear; you needn't look as if you doubted it. I've watched them for years; I know everything--everything. I'm thought a great scatterbrain, but I've had enough application of mind to follow up those two. She hates me, and her way of showing it is to pretend to be for ever defending me. When people say I've had fifteen lovers she looks horrified and declares that quite half of them were never proved. She has been afraid of me for years, and she has taken great comfort in the vile, false things people have said about me. She has been afraid I'd expose her, and she threatened me one day when Osmond began to pay his court to you. It was at his house in Florence; do you remember that afternoon when she brought you there and we had tea in the garden? She let me know then that if I should tell tales two could play at that game. She pretends there's a good deal more to tell about me than about her. It would be an interesting comparison! I don't care a fig what she may say, simply because I know YOU don't care a fig. You can't trouble your head about me less than you do already. So she may take her revenge as she chooses; I don't think she'll frighten you very much. Her great idea has been to be tremendously irreproachable--a kind of full-blown lily--the incarnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god. There should be no scandal about Caesar's wife, you know; and, as I say, she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason she wouldn't marry Osmond; the fear that on seeing her with Pansy people would put things together--would even see a resemblance. She has had a terror lest the mother should betray herself. She has been awfully careful; the mother has never done so." "Yes, yes, the mother has done so," said Isabel, who had listened to all this with a face more and more wan. "She betrayed herself to me the other day, though I didn't recognise her. There appeared to have been a chance of Pansy's making a great marriage, and in her disappointment at its not coming off she almost dropped the mask." "Ah, that's where she'd dish herself!" cried the Countess. "She has failed so dreadfully that she's determined her daughter shall make it up." Isabel started at the words "her daughter," which her guest threw off so familiarly. "It seems very wonderful," she murmured; and in this bewildering impression she had almost lost her sense of being personally touched by the story. "Now don't go and turn against the poor innocent child!" the Countess went on. "She's very nice, in spite of her deplorable origin. I myself have liked Pansy; not, naturally, because she was hers, but because she had become yours." "Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered at seeing me--!" Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought. "I don't believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has enjoyed. Osmond's marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before that she lived in a hole. And do you know what the mother thought? That you might take such a fancy to the child that you'd do something for her. Osmond of course could never give her a portion. Osmond was really extremely poor; but of course you know all about that. Ah, my dear," cried the Countess, "why did you ever inherit money?" She stopped a moment as if she saw something singular in Isabel's face. "Don't tell me now that you'll give her a dot. You're capable of that, but I would refuse to believe it. Don't try to be too good. Be a little easy and natural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the comfort of it, once in your life!" "It's very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I'm sorry," Isabel said. "I'm much obliged to you." "Yes, you seem to be!" cried the Countess with a mocking laugh. "Perhaps you are--perhaps you're not. You don't take it as I should have thought." "How should I take it?" Isabel asked. "Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of." Isabel made no answer to this; she only listened, and the Countess went on. "They've always been bound to each other; they remained so even after she broke off--or HE did. But he has always been more for her than she has been for him. When their little carnival was over they made a bargain that each should give the other complete liberty, but that each should also do everything possible to help the other on. You may ask me how I know such a thing as that. I know it by the way they've behaved. Now see how much better women are than men! She has found a wife for Osmond, but Osmond has never lifted a little finger for HER. She has worked for him, plotted for him, suffered for him; she has even more than once found money for him; and the end of it is that he's tired of her. She's an old habit; there are moments when he needs her, but on the whole he wouldn't miss her if she were removed. And, what's more, today she knows it. So you needn't be jealous!" the Countess added humorously. Isabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant of breath; her head was humming with new knowledge. "I'm much obliged to you," she repeated. And then she added abruptly, in quite a different tone: "How do you know all this?" This enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel's expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a bold stare, with which, "Let us assume that I've invented it!" she cried. She too, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on Isabel's arm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile: "Now will you give up your journey?" Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood a minute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with closed eyes and pale lips. "I've done wrong to speak--I've made you ill!" the Countess cried. "Ah, I must see Ralph!" Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in the quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of far-reaching, infinite sadness.

Chapter 51

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady72.asp

Isabel gets news from Mrs. Touchett that Ralph is dying quickly. She asks Isabel to come. Isabel goes to see Gilbert to tell him of the news. Gilbert acts bored by it. Then he asks why she must go to Gardencourt. He says he was already abundantly generous with her in letting her spend so much time with Ralph in Rome when he visited. Now he will not let her go to England. He accuses Isabel of going to England not to see Ralph but to take revenge on himself. Isabel denies that she is thinking of revenge. Osmond tells her he does know about revenge and that she shouldnt make him show her. He tells her that if she leaves Rome it will be deliberate and calculated opposition. Isabel tells him that she recognizes his opposition as malignant. He tells her they must present a social face of being inseparable as a couple. Isabel asks him what it means if she defies him. Will it mean that he will not expect her to come back? He is clearly shocked at this idea. He asks her if she is out of her mind. She tells him she wants to know what it is if it isnt to be a rupture of their marriage. He tells her he wont argue with her and he picks his brush back up and starts to look at his painting again. Isabel leaves the room and runs into the Countess. She tells her about Ralphs condition and Gilberts order that she must not leave Rome. The Countess tries to encourage her to leave. Isabel gets up and leaves the room when the Countess goes into her usual flippant manner. She goes to her room and sits thinking for the next hour. She feels overwhelmed by the marriage vows she took, which she thinks she will be breaking if she leaves for England. She lays her head down on a pillow in despair. The Countess comes in and tells her she wants to tell her something. She says her first sister-in-law never had any children. She says Pansys mother is Madame Merle. Gilbert had made up the story that his first wife had died in childbirth. In actuality, he had been carrying on an affair with Madame Merle from the beginning of his marriage. Madame Merles husband had long since left her, so when she got pregnant, she couldnt say it was her husbands child. Gilberts wife had recently died, so they concocted the story that she had died in childbirth and that Gilbert had been so devastated by her death that he had put Pansy in a convent to be raised by nuns. Then he had moved from Naples to Florence. No one had ever questioned their story. They are no longer lovers. Gilbert had gotten bored with her obsession with being careful not to get caught. Madame Merle had wanted Isabel to be Pansys mother because she knew Pansy didnt like her and she knew Pansy needed money that Isabel would most likely give her for a dowry. Isabel wonders why Madame Merle and Gilbert had never married. According to Countess Gemini, Madame Merle had never loved Gilbert "in that way. " She had been very ambitious to marry very well. She had also worried that people would put it together and realize that she was Pansys mother. Isabel says she has wondered about Madame Merle's stake in Pansy. She realized it the day Madame Merle showed her extreme disappointment when Lord Warburton withdrew. Isabel feels sorry for Madame Merle and for Gilberts first wife who was betrayed so early in her marriage. Countess Gemini asks Isabel if she will now give up her journey to England. Isabel feel sick. She says she must see Ralph. She says this with "infinite sadness."

Notes Isabel finally learns all the truth of Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmonds relationship in this chapter. She learns not only that they are Pansys biological parents, but all the reasons they enacted the scheme to make everyone think Osmonds first wife had died in childbirth. The revelation of this truth is perfectly aligned with the character portraits Henry James has already drawn of Madame Merle and Gilbert Osmond. Madame Merle cares only about appearances. She has been ambitious for a very high marriage for herself and since she has not succeeded in this, she has transferred her ambitions to Pansy. For his part, Gilbert seems to continue in the pose of being bored by all of it, tired of Madame Merle and ready to disregard her despite all she has done for him. Both people are represented as being depraved in highly social ways. They care only about what is thought of them. They will do anything, make instruments of innocent people, to accomplish a good public image. Their motives have nothing to do with love or passion. They are only motivated by social success. Isabels next move seems determined. Gilbert has told her that she must not leave him to go see Ralph. She feels she must see Ralph at his dying hour. Going to English seems as if it will inevitably kill her marriage publicly. However, Isabel still has Pansy to think of. Despite the fact that she has been used for her money, she will still feel it necessary to help Pansy not only with money but with her own submission to social propriety. This news will not necessarily, then, set her free from Gilbert.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/52.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_51_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 52

chapter 52

{"name": "Chapter 52", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady73.asp", "summary": "Before Isabel leaves Rome, she goes to see Pansy at the convent. When she arrives, she is greeted by Madame Merle. She doesnt want to see this person, but knows she must for the sake of appearances. She realizes as she stands there that Madame Merle has sensed her knowledge. She is surprised to recognize that Madame Merle is, for the first time, at a loss for what to say. When she sees Pansy, she cant help but think of the convent as a refined prison. Pansy says her father doesnt think shes had enough confinement, but that she thinks she has had enough. She says she will do anything now that he asks of her. Isabel thinks it is a good thing that Edward Rosier retained a few of his precious keepsakes. Pansy wonders why Isabel looks so intense. Isabel tells her she must leave for England and doesnt know when she will return. Pansy asks her to come back to be with her. She says she will have to obey her father but that if Isabel is there it will be easier to do so. As they part, she tells Isabel she doesnt like Madame Merle. Isabel tells her she must never say that. They embrace and Isabel assures her that she wont desert her. As she goes down the stairs, Pansy calls out to her \"Youll come back?\" Isabel replies, \"Yes-- Ill come back.\" Isabel is displeased to find out that Madame Merle is still waiting for her. When she says good-bye to Madame Catharine, the nun tells her they all think Pansy has had enough of confinement. Isabel reluctantly goes in to see Madame Merle, who reveals that it was Ralph who arranged for his father to give Isabel her fortune. She says she has just realized it. As Isabel leaves, she says, \"I believed it was you I had to thank.\" Madame Merle says she knows Isabel is unhappy but she is more so. She says she is going to America.", "analysis": "Notes The visit to the convent reveals the next greatest plot complication in the novel. If it werent for her ties to Pansy, Isabel could leave Gilbert and Rome forever. She loves Pansy, though, and knows that she is the only part of Pansys life that is not mean-spirited, manipulating, and selfishly cruel. Pansys last appeal, \"Youll come back?\" is answered quickly by Isabel in the affirmative. Pansy is her daughter in spirit and Isabel it seems will sacrifice her last chance at escape in order to comfort Pansy in her confinement. The chapter is framed by two interviews with Madame Merle. Isabel reluctantly confronts Madame Merle. She realizes that Madame Merle sees her knowledge in her manner. Madame Merle loses her composure momentarily, the only bit of revenge Isabel gets. In the second part of the frame, Madame Merle reveals that it was Ralph who made it so that Isabel would inherit her fortune from her uncle. Since Madame Merle is the one who seized on the opportunities the money provided, it is only right that it would be she who would guess the origins of the money. Strangely, Madame Merles last words are that she will go to America. Its hard to imagine someone like Madame Merle in America, though she is American in origin. It seems as if this last destination is to be regarded as a defeat. All her schemes of marrying a noble or marrying her daughter to a noble have failed. She has realized that Gilbert Osmond is capable of cruelty to their daughter and she has no standing in her daughters life."}

There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought (except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy; from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women, and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand. The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady. The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully, seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had been irritated then, she was reconciled now. "You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, after noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here, and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable. It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well; still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good woman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she supposed I would treat you!" So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice refused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom. Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge, this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon. She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool, as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the opportunity to defend herself. "I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to England to-night." "Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and looking up at her. "I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying." "Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?" "Yes; without my husband." Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry he's dying. Shall you see his mother?" "Yes; she has returned from America." "She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!" "I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered. "Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "but I should like to give my love to the place." Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time." While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle. "Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be here." "You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing laugh. She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean; so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor; then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and embraced. "She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear child look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment. "She looks pale," Isabel answered. "That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la maison," said the good sister. Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--they think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to accommodate. "We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender of a personality, the authority of the Church. When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've everything I have at home." "It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come to bid you good-bye. I'm going to England." Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?" "I don't know when I shall come back." "Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment. "My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see him," Isabel said. "Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa go?" "No; I shall go alone." For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would (for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon, so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on. "Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you." "Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often." "I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing with me. I can't amuse you." "I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes." "Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England." "You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy. "Not very. But it doesn't matter." "That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to come out." "I wish indeed you might." "Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently. Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come away with me now?" she asked. Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?" "No; it's my own proposal." "I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?" "I don't think he knew I was coming." "He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies are very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished me to think a little--and I've thought a great deal." "What have you thought?" "Well, that I must never displease papa." "You knew that before." "Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," said Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels! Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others, but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful. Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles! Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leave Rome to-night." Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's face. "You look strange, you frighten me." "Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel. "Perhaps you won't come back?" "Perhaps not. I can't tell." "Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!" Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do for you?" she asked. "I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you." "You can always think of me." "Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy. "What are you afraid of?" "Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me." "You must not say that," Isabel observed. "Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it more easily." Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my child." Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarked as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I don't like Madame Merle!" Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don't like Madame Merle." Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisite gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she reached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" she called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards. "Yes--I'll come back." Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won't go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you." At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said in French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en pensez-vous?" "About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you." "We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she pushed open the door of the parlour. Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy." Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine says it's enough." "Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe that he's really at his last?" "I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a probability." "I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as her utterance. "Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you." She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never guessed it?" "He has done me many services." "Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman." "HE made me--?" Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." She stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes. "I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money." "Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!" Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what you know." "I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that." Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "I believed it was you I had to thank!" Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so." "Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again." Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly remarked while Isabel passed out.

Chapter 52

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady73.asp

Before Isabel leaves Rome, she goes to see Pansy at the convent. When she arrives, she is greeted by Madame Merle. She doesnt want to see this person, but knows she must for the sake of appearances. She realizes as she stands there that Madame Merle has sensed her knowledge. She is surprised to recognize that Madame Merle is, for the first time, at a loss for what to say. When she sees Pansy, she cant help but think of the convent as a refined prison. Pansy says her father doesnt think shes had enough confinement, but that she thinks she has had enough. She says she will do anything now that he asks of her. Isabel thinks it is a good thing that Edward Rosier retained a few of his precious keepsakes. Pansy wonders why Isabel looks so intense. Isabel tells her she must leave for England and doesnt know when she will return. Pansy asks her to come back to be with her. She says she will have to obey her father but that if Isabel is there it will be easier to do so. As they part, she tells Isabel she doesnt like Madame Merle. Isabel tells her she must never say that. They embrace and Isabel assures her that she wont desert her. As she goes down the stairs, Pansy calls out to her "Youll come back?" Isabel replies, "Yes-- Ill come back." Isabel is displeased to find out that Madame Merle is still waiting for her. When she says good-bye to Madame Catharine, the nun tells her they all think Pansy has had enough of confinement. Isabel reluctantly goes in to see Madame Merle, who reveals that it was Ralph who arranged for his father to give Isabel her fortune. She says she has just realized it. As Isabel leaves, she says, "I believed it was you I had to thank." Madame Merle says she knows Isabel is unhappy but she is more so. She says she is going to America.

Notes The visit to the convent reveals the next greatest plot complication in the novel. If it werent for her ties to Pansy, Isabel could leave Gilbert and Rome forever. She loves Pansy, though, and knows that she is the only part of Pansys life that is not mean-spirited, manipulating, and selfishly cruel. Pansys last appeal, "Youll come back?" is answered quickly by Isabel in the affirmative. Pansy is her daughter in spirit and Isabel it seems will sacrifice her last chance at escape in order to comfort Pansy in her confinement. The chapter is framed by two interviews with Madame Merle. Isabel reluctantly confronts Madame Merle. She realizes that Madame Merle sees her knowledge in her manner. Madame Merle loses her composure momentarily, the only bit of revenge Isabel gets. In the second part of the frame, Madame Merle reveals that it was Ralph who made it so that Isabel would inherit her fortune from her uncle. Since Madame Merle is the one who seized on the opportunities the money provided, it is only right that it would be she who would guess the origins of the money. Strangely, Madame Merles last words are that she will go to America. Its hard to imagine someone like Madame Merle in America, though she is American in origin. It seems as if this last destination is to be regarded as a defeat. All her schemes of marrying a noble or marrying her daughter to a noble have failed. She has realized that Gilbert Osmond is capable of cruelty to their daughter and she has no standing in her daughters life.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/53.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_52_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 53

chapter 53

{"name": "Chapter 53", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady74.asp", "summary": "Isabel is greeted by Henrietta Stackpole at Charring Cross railway station. She remembers that five years ago she had walked from this station into the crowd with so much confidence. Now she feels overwhelmed by the mass of people and holds onto Henriettas arm for safety. When she sees Mr. Bantling, she feels relieved. He seems so stable and sure. Henrietta tells her she will be staying the night in London instead of going directly to Gardencourt. Mr. Bantling tells her he just received a wire that day from Gardencourt that Ralph was doing well enough. That evening Henrietta tells her she will be marrying Mr. Bantling. She feels a little disappointed in this news. It seems such an anti-climax for Henrietta. It seems such a departure from what seemed like such an original relationship between a man and a women. Henrietta has been invited to see Lady Pensil, who cant figure her out. She thinks she should be either bad or good. She doesnt understand the modern woman that Henrietta is. The next morning when they arrive at the station and Isabel congratulates Mr. Bantling.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter gives the reader a bit of a respite from the more eventful preceding ones. Its news, that Henrietta Stackpole will marry Mr. Bantling and live in London, is surprising, but not shocking as the news Isabel has been receiving of late about her husband. Perhaps the main function of placing this bit of news here in the novel is that the reader gets a chance to see Isabels jaded response to news of a wedding. She finds it anti-climactic and is a bit disappointed in her original friend."}

It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the arms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of Henrietta Stackpole. She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their course through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind. Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much concerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things, their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity of a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge. Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in her strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had been a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land. She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive, simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret now--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle had been so--well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped, from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been. Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of the present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away, further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a proof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury of life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable, too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be valuable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of precious things? Wasn't it much more probable that if one were fine one would suffer? It involved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but Isabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end. Then the middle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of her indifference closed her in. Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd, looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped. She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station, the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. She remembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty spectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the incident came before her as the deed of another person. "It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta, looking at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the proposition. "If you hadn't--if you hadn't; well, I don't know," remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval. Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment she recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of abstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their embraces. "There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely caring much now whether she should find her maid or not. "Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!" Henrietta exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely she has come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we had quite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would." "I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt she could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to remember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that it was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him, extravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight. "Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't, you know." "Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?" Henrietta enquired. "Your young lady has probably remained at Calais." "I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never found so interesting. "Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the two for a moment together. They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel how it had been on the Channel. "Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to her companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been to Gardencourt, I know." "Now how do you know that?" "I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to Gardencourt." "Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you know." "I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind," said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment. Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago." "Did you see my cousin?" "Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had been there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he was in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can't speak," Mr. Bantling pursued. "He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. He was just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched." Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. "Was that late in the day?" "Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know." "I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?" "Ah, I don't think SHE'LL let you go," said Mr. Bantling. "She wants you to stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise to telegraph me to-day, and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. 'Quiet and easy,' that's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can wait till to-morrow. You must be awfully tired." "Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again." "Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "We were certain you would like the last news." On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all to agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's luggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station. "You know you're not to think of going to the country to-night," Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't matter whether there's a train or not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a corner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't a Roman palace, but it will do for a night." "I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said. "You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish." "She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?" Mr. Bantling enquired jocosely. Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see you're in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Station to-morrow morning at ten." "Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel. "He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her justice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which she had alluded at the station. "Did your husband make you a scene about your coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's first enquiry. "No; I can't say he made a scene." "He didn't object then?" "Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a scene." "What was it then?" "It was a very quiet conversation." Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been hellish," she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been hellish. But she confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy, as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no new information. "Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only one criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go back." "I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did then." "If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return." Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another." "You'll certainly never find a good one." "In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel suggested. "Yes; that's why I hate it." "Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a complication, but what will going back be?" "You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said Henrietta with much intention. "He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene of a moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life." For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested, announced abruptly: "I've been to stay with Lady Pensil!" "Ah, the invitation came at last!" "Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me." "Naturally enough." "It was more natural than I think you know," said Henrietta, who fixed her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly: "Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because I criticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at least, was born on the other side!" It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity, "Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your country?" "Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in London." "It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now. "Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain." "One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle." "No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in the United States." "Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever heard you say anything against your native land." "I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a good deal to marry." "I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something of the inner life." Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta, after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was original. But she didn't see how Henrietta could give up her country. She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been her country as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had enjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil. "Oh yes," said Henrietta, "she didn't know what to make of me." "And was that very enjoyable?" "Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind. She thinks she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my modern type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better or a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my duty to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I should marry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll never understand my mixture--never!" "She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He appears to have understood." "Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I really believe that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind of fascination." "It's very good in you to humour it." "Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!" And Isabel saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She was at last about to grapple in earnest with England. Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company both of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found out at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had been on his guard against this deficiency. "Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she gave him her hand. "I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting on his neat umbrella. "Yes, I think it awfully odd." "You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather liked striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.

Chapter 53

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady74.asp

Isabel is greeted by Henrietta Stackpole at Charring Cross railway station. She remembers that five years ago she had walked from this station into the crowd with so much confidence. Now she feels overwhelmed by the mass of people and holds onto Henriettas arm for safety. When she sees Mr. Bantling, she feels relieved. He seems so stable and sure. Henrietta tells her she will be staying the night in London instead of going directly to Gardencourt. Mr. Bantling tells her he just received a wire that day from Gardencourt that Ralph was doing well enough. That evening Henrietta tells her she will be marrying Mr. Bantling. She feels a little disappointed in this news. It seems such an anti-climax for Henrietta. It seems such a departure from what seemed like such an original relationship between a man and a women. Henrietta has been invited to see Lady Pensil, who cant figure her out. She thinks she should be either bad or good. She doesnt understand the modern woman that Henrietta is. The next morning when they arrive at the station and Isabel congratulates Mr. Bantling.

Notes This chapter gives the reader a bit of a respite from the more eventful preceding ones. Its news, that Henrietta Stackpole will marry Mr. Bantling and live in London, is surprising, but not shocking as the news Isabel has been receiving of late about her husband. Perhaps the main function of placing this bit of news here in the novel is that the reader gets a chance to see Isabels jaded response to news of a wedding. She finds it anti-climactic and is a bit disappointed in her original friend.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/54.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_53_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 54

chapter 54

{"name": "Chapter 54", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady75.asp", "summary": "Isabel arrives at Gardencourt. The house is very quiet. She waits a long time for Mrs. Touchett to come down. She wanders through the art gallery thinking of her life. She wonders what would have come of it if Mrs. Touchett had never come to her in Albany and taken her to England. She wonders if she would have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett tells her news of her sisters, who seem to be consumed with curiosity over what Isabel is wearing. She tells her that Lord Warburton is to be married soon to an English lady. At dinner, Mrs. Toucehett asks Isabel if she is sorry she refused Lord Warburton. Isabel assures her that she isnt. Mrs. Touchett interrupts the conversation to say that Isabel must be honest in her answers or she will not be easy to get along with. Isabel tells her it is her husband who cant get along with her. Next, Mrs. Touchett wants to know if Isabel still likes Serena Merle. Isabel says she doesnt but it doesnt matter since shes planning to go to America. Mrs. Touchett says Madame Merle must have done something very bad to have to leave Europe. Isabel says \"she made a convenience out of me.\" Mrs. Touchett says Madame Merle did the same to her and that she does it to everyone. That evening, Isabel sits with Ralph and for the three days following. On the third night, he rouses himself enough to talk. He tells her shes been like a beautiful angel sitting beside his bed. He tells her he wishes her hard times were over. She bursts into sobs and he asks her what it is that she has done for him in coming to him. She asks him what he has done for her. He says the money he got his father to leave her ruined her chances at happiness. he says, \"You wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional!\" She agrees that she has been punished. He wants to know if she plans to go back to Rome. She cant answer because she isnt sure. He tells her that even though she feels old now, she will grow young again. He says love remains and that she cant be punished for long for such a generous mistake as the one she made in marrying Gilbert Osmond. He tells her to remember that if she has been hated, she has also been loved, \"adored. \" She calls him her brother.", "analysis": "Notes The two conversations in this chapter, one with Mrs. Touchett and one with Ralph, are ones in which Isabel returns to her family and is open about her life. Mrs. Touchett asks her three questions: if she is sorry not to have married Lord Warburton, if she still likes Serena Merle, and the third, unspoken, seems to be if she is happy in her choice of a husband. Isabel replies straightforwardly to each question. In her last conversation with Ralph, Isabel finally relaxes into the comfort of being open about how unhappy her life is. The conversation is very limited in what it reveals. The reader already knows all of it. Its value is in its pathos. Ralph and Isabel are able to show each other how much they love each other and have always done."}

Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--as scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She left the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library and along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had seen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood there. She envied the security of valuable "pieces" which change by no hair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking about as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany. She was changed enough since then--that had been the beginning. It suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She might have had another life and she might have been a woman more blest. She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture--a charming and precious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel's hot cheek. "I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph," Mrs. Touchett said. "The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken her place. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's good for nothing; he's always looking out of the window--as if there were anything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house." "I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking everywhere," Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much. "He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm not sure that it's always sleep." "Will he see me? Can he speak to me?" Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him," was the limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her room. "I thought they had taken you there; but it's not my house, it's Ralph's; and I don't know what they do. They must at least have taken your luggage; I don't suppose you've brought much. Not that I care, however. I believe they've given you the same room you had before; when Ralph heard you were coming he said you must have that one." "Did he say anything else?" "Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used!" cried Mrs. Touchett as she preceded her niece up the staircase. It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. "Is there really no hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her. "None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful life." "No--it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herself already contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness. "I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beauty without health. That is a very odd dress to travel in." Isabel glanced at her garment. "I left Rome at an hour's notice; I took the first that came." "Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them--but they seemed to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black brocade." "They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them the truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined with her." "She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to America? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn't go for my pleasure." These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece, whom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For this repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman's inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she were not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately trying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet; the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other hand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all it might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not moved, but that he probably would be able to see her before dinner. And then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day before; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed an intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy; she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She none the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome. "He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And she paused with a gaze like a gimlet. Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant. But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and she wished to gain a moment. "Ah yes--the House of Lords and all that." "He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. At least he's thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he's engaged to be married." "Ah, to be married!" Isabel mildly exclaimed. "Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know. Poor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I believe it's to take place very soon. "And who's the young lady?" "A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something of that sort." "I'm very glad," Isabel said. "It must be a sudden decision." "Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just been made public." "I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her aunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness, and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as an offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some moments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's observation--it was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her aunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other." Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the head. "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went on with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord Warburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her hands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask you three questions," she observed when the servant had gone. "Three are a great many." "I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good ones." "That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst," Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows, she felt herself followed by her eyes. "Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton?" Mrs. Touchett enquired. Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. "No, dear aunt." "Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say." "Your believing me's an immense temptation," she declared, smiling still. "A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow over you." "It's my husband who doesn't get on with me," said Isabel. "I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing over YOU," Mrs. Touchett added. "Do you still like Serena Merle?" she went on. "Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going to America." "To America? She must have done something very bad." "Yes--very bad." "May I ask what it is?" "She made a convenience of me." "Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, "so she did of me! She does of every one." "She'll make a convenience of America," said Isabel, smiling again and glad that her aunt's questions were over. It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been dozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor was there, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attended his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he was deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope, but he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had asked his mother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew that her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no sign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raised himself and said he knew that she had come. How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no one had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in the dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a corner of the room. She told the nurse she might go--she herself would sit with him for the rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had moved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a long time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He might have passed away while she looked at him; he was already the figure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome, and this was worse; there was but one change possible now. There was a strange tranquillity in his face; it was as still as the lid of a box. With this he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his eyes to greet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was not till midnight that the nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long; it was exactly what she had come for. If she had come simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in a kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to wish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly would come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming had already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were still together. But they were not always together; there were other hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening for a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the Countess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day. "I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless dimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." She sank upon her knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him not to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity serious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. "What does it matter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in making an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't people always feel better just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what I was waiting for. Ever since you've been here I thought it would come. I tried two or three times; I was afraid you'd get tired of sitting there." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voice seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face turned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. "It was very good of you to come," he went on. "I thought you would; but I wasn't sure." "I was not sure either till I came," said Isabel. "You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You've been like that; as if you were waiting for me." "I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This is not death, dear Ralph." "Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see others die. That's the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I've had it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others. With me it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. "Isabel," he went on suddenly, "I wish it were over for you." She answered nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. "Ah, what is it you have done for me?" "What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. "You did something once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have I done for you--what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live. But I don't wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you." Her voice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish. "You won't lose me--you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in life there's love. Death is good--but there's no love." "I never thanked you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!" Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. "What must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I only know to-day because there are people less stupid than I." "Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I'm glad to leave people." She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to pray to him. "Is it true--is it true?" she asked. "True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensible intention of wit. "That you made me rich--that all I have is yours?" He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last: "Ah, don't speak of that--that was not happy." Slowly he moved his face toward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for that--but for that--!" And he paused. "I believe I ruined you," he wailed. She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only knowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were looking at the truth together. "He married me for the money," she said. She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might die before she had done so. He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then, "He was greatly in love with you," he answered. "Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I had been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that's all over." "I always understood," said Ralph. "I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it." "You don't hurt me--you make me very happy." And as Ralph said this there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I always understood," he continued, "though it was so strange--so pitiful. You wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional!" "Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed. He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad about your coming?" "He made it very hard for me. But I don't care." "It is all over then between you?" "Oh no; I don't think anything's over." "Are you going back to him?" Ralph gasped. "I don't know--I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don't want to think--I needn't think. I don't care for anything but you, and that's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for a long time. And I want you to be happy--not to think of anything sad; only to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why should there be pain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not the deepest thing; there's something deeper." Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared to make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then he murmured simply: "You must stay here." "I should like to stay--as long as seems right." "As seems right--as seems right?" He repeated her words. "Yes, you think a great deal about that." "Of course one must. You're very tired," said Isabel. "I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest thing. No--no. But it's very deep. If I could stay--" "For me you'll always be here," she softly interrupted. It was easy to interrupt him. But he went on, after a moment: "It passes, after all; it's passing now. But love remains. I don't know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I shall find out. There are many things in life. You're very young." "I feel very old," said Isabel. "You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe--I don't believe--" But he stopped again; his strength failed him. She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand each other," she said. "I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for more than a little." "Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now," she cried through her tears. "And remember this," he continued, "that if you've been hated you've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--ADORED!" he just audibly and lingeringly breathed. "Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.

Chapter 54

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady75.asp

Isabel arrives at Gardencourt. The house is very quiet. She waits a long time for Mrs. Touchett to come down. She wanders through the art gallery thinking of her life. She wonders what would have come of it if Mrs. Touchett had never come to her in Albany and taken her to England. She wonders if she would have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett tells her news of her sisters, who seem to be consumed with curiosity over what Isabel is wearing. She tells her that Lord Warburton is to be married soon to an English lady. At dinner, Mrs. Toucehett asks Isabel if she is sorry she refused Lord Warburton. Isabel assures her that she isnt. Mrs. Touchett interrupts the conversation to say that Isabel must be honest in her answers or she will not be easy to get along with. Isabel tells her it is her husband who cant get along with her. Next, Mrs. Touchett wants to know if Isabel still likes Serena Merle. Isabel says she doesnt but it doesnt matter since shes planning to go to America. Mrs. Touchett says Madame Merle must have done something very bad to have to leave Europe. Isabel says "she made a convenience out of me." Mrs. Touchett says Madame Merle did the same to her and that she does it to everyone. That evening, Isabel sits with Ralph and for the three days following. On the third night, he rouses himself enough to talk. He tells her shes been like a beautiful angel sitting beside his bed. He tells her he wishes her hard times were over. She bursts into sobs and he asks her what it is that she has done for him in coming to him. She asks him what he has done for her. He says the money he got his father to leave her ruined her chances at happiness. he says, "You wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional!" She agrees that she has been punished. He wants to know if she plans to go back to Rome. She cant answer because she isnt sure. He tells her that even though she feels old now, she will grow young again. He says love remains and that she cant be punished for long for such a generous mistake as the one she made in marrying Gilbert Osmond. He tells her to remember that if she has been hated, she has also been loved, "adored. " She calls him her brother.

Notes The two conversations in this chapter, one with Mrs. Touchett and one with Ralph, are ones in which Isabel returns to her family and is open about her life. Mrs. Touchett asks her three questions: if she is sorry not to have married Lord Warburton, if she still likes Serena Merle, and the third, unspoken, seems to be if she is happy in her choice of a husband. Isabel replies straightforwardly to each question. In her last conversation with Ralph, Isabel finally relaxes into the comfort of being open about how unhappy her life is. The conversation is very limited in what it reveals. The reader already knows all of it. Its value is in its pathos. Ralph and Isabel are able to show each other how much they love each other and have always done.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/55.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Portrait of a Lady/section_54_part_0.txt

Portrait of a Lady.chapter 55

chapter 55

{"name": "Chapter 55", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady76.asp", "summary": "Isabel remembers that when she first came to Gardencourt, she asked Ralph to show her its ghost. He had told her that she would have to suffer before she could see the ghost. On this night, she finally sees it. She has been in bed, half asleep, but fully clothed, because shes expected Ralph to die during the night. Suddenly, she wakes to see that Ralph is standing beside her bed with his kind face. She rushes to his room and finds that he has died. Lydia Touchett says, \"Go and thank God youve no child.\" At the funeral, she is surprised to see Caspar Goodwood. He seems to have some \"complex intention\" in being there and it makes Isabel uneasy. She spends the next days wandering around Gardencourt worrying over what to do about returning to Rome. She tires to postpone dealing with it, closing her eyes and trying not to think. Mrs. Touchett tells her about Ralphs behest. He has given his money all away, some to charitable institutions, his library to Henrietta Stackpole, his house to his mother, and nothing whatsoever to Isabel. One day Isabel is at home when she hears that Lord Warburton has arrived to visit. She goes out to the garden, hoping to avoid him. After a while, she sees Mrs. Touchett and Lord Warburton coming out to join them. he looks very solemn and tells her he must leave soon. He invites her to come see his sisters. She congratulates him on his marriage and he blushes. Then he leaves. Mrs. Touchett has already gone inside, so Isabelle wanders around the garden longer. She comes upon the same bench that she had been sitting on six years before when she had gotten word that Caspar Goodwood was in London. At the same bench, Lord Warburton had proposed marriage to her. Just as shes standing there, Caspar Goodwood approaches. He takes her wrist and pulls her down on the bench with him. She feels frightened at his forcefulness. He tells her he spoke with Ralph about her and Ralph asked him to help her in any way he could. He tells her he wants her to come away with him and forget about going back to her hellish existence in Rome. Then he kisses her with great passion. Isabel feels overwhelmed as if she is dying. She feels like she sees all the images of her life flashing in front of her eyes. When he releases her, she rushes back to the house. The next day, Caspar Goodwood knocks on Henrietta Stackpoles door. She is just leaving. He says he is looking for Isabelle whom he has found out has left Gardencourt. Henrietta tells him Isabel has already gone back to Rome. He is shocked at the news. Henrietta tells him not to worry that he just has to wait. At first he thinks shes trying to give him hope about Isabel, but then he realizes she is just being glib about his being young. He feels like he ages thirty years just standing there being consoled with such a \"cheap comfort.\" Henrietta takes his arm and leads him down the street \"as if she had given him now the key to patience.\"", "analysis": "Notes Henry Jamess sense of the dramatic helps him set the stage of the last scene of the novel. He places Isabel at the same bench in the gardens of Gardencourt at which she received Caspar Goodwoods telegram announcing he had followed her to Europe, and at which she had received Lord Warburtons proposal. Here again, she sees the two men. Here again, she sends them both away and goes to the alternative, Gilbert Osmond. It seems that at the end of the novel, these choices are still fixed. She still finds Lord Warburton kind but less than compelling and she still finds Caspar Goodwood too compelling. In fact, here, he kisses her against her will, sending her running for the house and, very soon, back to Rome and Gilbert Osmond."}

He had told her, the first evening she ever spent at Gardencourt, that if she should live to suffer enough she might some day see the ghost with which the old house was duly provided. She apparently had fulfilled the necessary condition; for the next morning, in the cold, faint dawn, she knew that a spirit was standing by her bed. She had lain down without undressing, it being her belief that Ralph would not outlast the night. She had no inclination to sleep; she was waiting, and such waiting was wakeful. But she closed her eyes; she believed that as the night wore on she should hear a knock at her door. She heard no knock, but at the time the darkness began vaguely to grow grey she started up from her pillow as abruptly as if she had received a summons. It seemed to her for an instant that he was standing there--a vague, hovering figure in the vagueness of the room. She stared a moment; she saw his white face--his kind eyes; then she saw there was nothing. She was not afraid; she was only sure. She quitted the place and in her certainty passed through dark corridors and down a flight of oaken steps that shone in the vague light of a hall-window. Outside Ralph's door she stopped a moment, listening, but she seemed to hear only the hush that filled it. She opened the door with a hand as gentle as if she were lifting a veil from the face of the dead, and saw Mrs. Touchett sitting motionless and upright beside the couch of her son, with one of his hands in her own. The doctor was on the other side, with poor Ralph's further wrist resting in his professional fingers. The two nurses were at the foot between them. Mrs. Touchett took no notice of Isabel, but the doctor looked at her very hard; then he gently placed Ralph's hand in a proper position, close beside him. The nurse looked at her very hard too, and no one said a word; but Isabel only looked at what she had come to see. It was fairer than Ralph had ever been in life, and there was a strange resemblance to the face of his father, which, six years before, she had seen lying on the same pillow. She went to her aunt and put her arm around her; and Mrs. Touchett, who as a general thing neither invited nor enjoyed caresses, submitted for a moment to this one, rising, as might be, to take it. But she was stiff and dry-eyed; her acute white face was terrible. "Dear Aunt Lydia," Isabel murmured. "Go and thank God you've no child," said Mrs. Touchett, disengaging herself. Three days after this a considerable number of people found time, at the height of the London "season," to take a morning train down to a quiet station in Berkshire and spend half an hour in a small grey church which stood within an easy walk. It was in the green burial-place of this edifice that Mrs. Touchett consigned her son to earth. She stood herself at the edge of the grave, and Isabel stood beside her; the sexton himself had not a more practical interest in the scene than Mrs. Touchett. It was a solemn occasion, but neither a harsh nor a heavy one; there was a certain geniality in the appearance of things. The weather had changed to fair; the day, one of the last of the treacherous May-time, was warm and windless, and the air had the brightness of the hawthorn and the blackbird. If it was sad to think of poor Touchett, it was not too sad, since death, for him, had had no violence. He had been dying so long; he was so ready; everything had been so expected and prepared. There were tears in Isabel's eyes, but they were not tears that blinded. She looked through them at the beauty of the day, the splendour of nature, the sweetness of the old English churchyard, the bowed heads of good friends. Lord Warburton was there, and a group of gentlemen all unknown to her, several of whom, as she afterwards learned, were connected with the bank; and there were others whom she knew. Miss Stackpole was among the first, with honest Mr. Bantling beside her; and Caspar Goodwood, lifting his head higher than the rest--bowing it rather less. During much of the time Isabel was conscious of Mr. Goodwood's gaze; he looked at her somewhat harder than he usually looked in public, while the others had fixed their eyes upon the churchyard turf. But she never let him see that she saw him; she thought of him only to wonder that he was still in England. She found she had taken for granted that after accompanying Ralph to Gardencourt he had gone away; she remembered how little it was a country that pleased him. He was there, however, very distinctly there; and something in his attitude seemed to say that he was there with a complex intention. She wouldn't meet his eyes, though there was doubtless sympathy in them; he made her rather uneasy. With the dispersal of the little group he disappeared, and the only person who came to speak to her--though several spoke to Mrs. Touchett--was Henrietta Stackpole. Henrietta had been crying. Ralph had said to Isabel that he hoped she would remain at Gardencourt, and she made no immediate motion to leave the place. She said to herself that it was but common charity to stay a little with her aunt. It was fortunate she had so good a formula; otherwise she might have been greatly in want of one. Her errand was over; she had done what she had left her husband to do. She had a husband in a foreign city, counting the hours of her absence; in such a case one needed an excellent motive. He was not one of the best husbands, but that didn't alter the case. Certain obligations were involved in the very fact of marriage, and were quite independent of the quantity of enjoyment extracted from it. Isabel thought of her husband as little as might be; but now that she was at a distance, beyond its spell, she thought with a kind of spiritual shudder of Rome. There was a penetrating chill in the image, and she drew back into the deepest shade of Gardencourt. She lived from day to day, postponing, closing her eyes, trying not to think. She knew she must decide, but she decided nothing; her coming itself had not been a decision. On that occasion she had simply started. Osmond gave no sound and now evidently would give none; he would leave it all to her. From Pansy she heard nothing, but that was very simple: her father had told her not to write. Mrs. Touchett accepted Isabel's company, but offered her no assistance; she appeared to be absorbed in considering, without enthusiasm but with perfect lucidity, the new conveniences of her own situation. Mrs. Touchett was not an optimist, but even from painful occurrences she managed to extract a certain utility. This consisted in the reflexion that, after all, such things happened to other people and not to herself. Death was disagreeable, but in this case it was her son's death, not her own; she had never flattered herself that her own would be disagreeable to any one but Mrs. Touchett. She was better off than poor Ralph, who had left all the commodities of life behind him, and indeed all the security; since the worst of dying was, to Mrs. Touchett's mind, that it exposed one to be taken advantage of. For herself she was on the spot; there was nothing so good as that. She made known to Isabel very punctually--it was the evening her son was buried--several of Ralph's testamentary arrangements. He had told her everything, had consulted her about everything. He left her no money; of course she had no need of money. He left her the furniture of Gardencourt, exclusive of the pictures and books and the use of the place for a year; after which it was to be sold. The money produced by the sale was to constitute an endowment for a hospital for poor persons suffering from the malady of which he died; and of this portion of the will Lord Warburton was appointed executor. The rest of his property, which was to be withdrawn from the bank, was disposed of in various bequests, several of them to those cousins in Vermont to whom his father had already been so bountiful. Then there were a number of small legacies. "Some of them are extremely peculiar," said Mrs. Touchett; "he has left considerable sums to persons I never heard of. He gave me a list, and I asked then who some of them were, and he told me they were people who at various times had seemed to like him. Apparently he thought you didn't like him, for he hasn't left you a penny. It was his opinion that you had been handsomely treated by his father, which I'm bound to say I think you were--though I don't mean that I ever heard him complain of it. The pictures are to be dispersed; he has distributed them about, one by one, as little keepsakes. The most valuable of the collection goes to Lord Warburton. And what do you think he has done with his library? It sounds like a practical joke. He has left it to your friend Miss Stackpole--'in recognition of her services to literature.' Does he mean her following him up from Rome? Was that a service to literature? It contains a great many rare and valuable books, and as she can't carry it about the world in her trunk he recommends her to sell it at auction. She will sell it of course at Christie's, and with the proceeds she'll set up a newspaper. Will that be a service to literature?" This question Isabel forbore to answer, as it exceeded the little interrogatory to which she had deemed it necessary to submit on her arrival. Besides, she had never been less interested in literature than to-day, as she found when she occasionally took down from the shelf one of the rare and valuable volumes of which Mrs. Touchett had spoken. She was quite unable to read; her attention had never been so little at her command. One afternoon, in the library, about a week after the ceremony in the churchyard, she was trying to fix it for an hour; but her eyes often wandered from the book in her hand to the open window, which looked down the long avenue. It was in this way that she saw a modest vehicle approach the door and perceived Lord Warburton sitting, in rather an uncomfortable attitude, in a corner of it. He had always had a high standard of courtesy, and it was therefore not remarkable, under the circumstances, that he should have taken the trouble to come down from London to call on Mrs. Touchett. It was of course Mrs. Touchett he had come to see, and not Mrs. Osmond; and to prove to herself the validity of this thesis Isabel presently stepped out of the house and wandered away into the park. Since her arrival at Gardencourt she had been but little out of doors, the weather being unfavourable for visiting the grounds. This evening, however, was fine, and at first it struck her as a happy thought to have come out. The theory I have just mentioned was plausible enough, but it brought her little rest, and if you had seen her pacing about you would have said she had a bad conscience. She was not pacified when at the end of a quarter of an hour, finding herself in view of the house, she saw Mrs. Touchett emerge from the portico accompanied by her visitor. Her aunt had evidently proposed to Lord Warburton that they should come in search of her. She was in no humour for visitors and, if she had had a chance, would have drawn back behind one of the great trees. But she saw she had been seen and that nothing was left her but to advance. As the lawn at Gardencourt was a vast expanse this took some time; during which she observed that, as he walked beside his hostess, Lord Warburton kept his hands rather stiffly behind him and his eyes upon the ground. Both persons apparently were silent; but Mrs. Touchett's thin little glance, as she directed it toward Isabel, had even at a distance an expression. It seemed to say with cutting sharpness: "Here's the eminently amenable nobleman you might have married!" When Lord Warburton lifted his own eyes, however, that was not what they said. They only said "This is rather awkward, you know, and I depend upon you to help me." He was very grave, very proper and, for the first time since Isabel had known him, greeted her without a smile. Even in his days of distress he had always begun with a smile. He looked extremely selfconscious. "Lord Warburton has been so good as to come out to see me," said Mrs. Touchett. "He tells me he didn't know you were still here. I know he's an old friend of yours, and as I was told you were not in the house I brought him out to see for himself." "Oh, I saw there was a good train at 6.40, that would get me back in time for dinner," Mrs. Touchett's companion rather irrelevantly explained. "I'm so glad to find you've not gone." "I'm not here for long, you know," Isabel said with a certain eagerness. "I suppose not; but I hope it's for some weeks. You came to England sooner than--a--than you thought?" "Yes, I came very suddenly." Mrs. Touchett turned away as if she were looking at the condition of the grounds, which indeed was not what it should be, while Lord Warburton hesitated a little. Isabel fancied he had been on the point of asking about her husband--rather confusedly--and then had checked himself. He continued immitigably grave, either because he thought it becoming in a place over which death had just passed, or for more personal reasons. If he was conscious of personal reasons it was very fortunate that he had the cover of the former motive; he could make the most of that. Isabel thought of all this. It was not that his face was sad, for that was another matter; but it was strangely inexpressive. "My sisters would have been so glad to come if they had known you were still here--if they had thought you would see them," Lord Warburton went on. "Do kindly let them see you before you leave England." "It would give me great pleasure; I have such a friendly recollection of them." "I don't know whether you would come to Lockleigh for a day or two? You know there's always that old promise." And his lordship coloured a little as he made this suggestion, which gave his face a somewhat more familiar air. "Perhaps I'm not right in saying that just now; of course you're not thinking of visiting. But I meant what would hardly be a visit. My sisters are to be at Lockleigh at Whitsuntide for five days; and if you could come then--as you say you're not to be very long in England--I would see that there should be literally no one else." Isabel wondered if not even the young lady he was to marry would be there with her mamma; but she did not express this idea. "Thank you extremely," she contented herself with saying; "I'm afraid I hardly know about Whitsuntide." "But I have your promise--haven't I?--for some other time." There was an interrogation in this; but Isabel let it pass. She looked at her interlocutor a moment, and the result of her observation was that--as had happened before--she felt sorry for him. "Take care you don't miss your train," she said. And then she added: "I wish you every happiness." He blushed again, more than before, and he looked at his watch. "Ah yes, 6.40; I haven't much time, but I've a fly at the door. Thank you very much." It was not apparent whether the thanks applied to her having reminded him of his train or to the more sentimental remark. "Good-bye, Mrs. Osmond; good-bye." He shook hands with her, without meeting her eyes, and then he turned to Mrs. Touchett, who had wandered back to them. With her his parting was equally brief; and in a moment the two ladies saw him move with long steps across the lawn. "Are you very sure he's to be married?" Isabel asked of her aunt. "I can't be surer than he; but he seems sure. I congratulated him, and he accepted it." "Ah," said Isabel, "I give it up!"--while her aunt returned to the house and to those avocations which the visitor had interrupted. She gave it up, but she still thought of it--thought of it while she strolled again under the great oaks whose shadows were long upon the acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes she found herself near a rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as an object recognised. It was not simply that she had seen it before, nor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this spot something important had happened to her--that the place had an air of association. Then she remembered that she had been sitting there, six years before, when a servant brought her from the house the letter in which Caspar Goodwood informed her that he had followed her to Europe; and that when she had read the letter she looked up to hear Lord Warburton announcing that he should like to marry her. It was indeed an historical, an interesting, bench; she stood and looked at it as if it might have something to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now--she felt rather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the past came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence of which she overcame her scruples and sank into the rustic seat. I have said that she was restless and unable to occupy herself; and whether or no, if you had seen her there, you would have admired the justice of the former epithet, you would at least have allowed that at this moment she was the image of a victim of idleness. Her attitude had a singular absence of purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in the folds of her black dress; her eyes gazed vaguely before her. There was nothing to recall her to the house; the two ladies, in their seclusion, dined early and had tea at an indefinite hour. How long she had sat in this position she could not have told you; but the twilight had grown thick when she became aware that she was not alone. She quickly straightened herself, glancing about, and then saw what had become of her solitude. She was sharing it with Caspar Goodwood, who stood looking at her, a few yards off, and whose footfall on the unresonant turf, as he came near, she had not heard. It occurred to her in the midst of this that it was just so Lord Warburton had surprised her of old. She instantly rose, and as soon as Goodwood saw he was seen he started forward. She had had time only to rise when, with a motion that looked like violence, but felt like--she knew not what, he grasped her by the wrist and made her sink again into the seat. She closed her eyes; he had not hurt her; it was only a touch, which she had obeyed. But there was something in his face that she wished not to see. That was the way he had looked at her the other day in the churchyard; only at present it was worse. He said nothing at first; she only felt him close to her--beside her on the bench and pressingly turned to her. It almost seemed to her that no one had ever been so close to her as that. All this, however, took but an instant, at the end of which she had disengaged her wrist, turning her eyes upon her visitant. "You've frightened me," she said. "I didn't mean to," he answered, "but if I did a little, no matter. I came from London a while ago by the train, but I couldn't come here directly. There was a man at the station who got ahead of me. He took a fly that was there, and I heard him give the order to drive here. I don't know who he was, but I didn't want to come with him; I wanted to see you alone. So I've been waiting and walking about. I've walked all over, and I was just coming to the house when I saw you here. There was a keeper, or someone, who met me; but that was all right, because I had made his acquaintance when I came here with your cousin. Is that gentleman gone? Are you really alone? I want to speak to you." Goodwood spoke very fast; he was as excited as when they had parted in Rome. Isabel had hoped that condition would subside; and she shrank into herself as she perceived that, on the contrary, he had only let out sail. She had a new sensation; he had never produced it before; it was a feeling of danger. There was indeed something really formidable in his resolution. She gazed straight before her; he, with a hand on each knee, leaned forward, looking deeply into her face. The twilight seemed to darken round them. "I want to speak to you," he repeated; "I've something particular to say. I don't want to trouble you--as I did the other day in Rome. That was of no use; it only distressed you. I couldn't help it; I knew I was wrong. But I'm not wrong now; please don't think I am," he went on with his hard, deep voice melting a moment into entreaty. "I came here to-day for a purpose. It's very different. It was vain for me to speak to you then; but now I can help you." She couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she listened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep into her soul. They produced a sort of stillness in all her being; and it was with an effort, in a moment, that she answered him. "How can you help me?" she asked in a low tone, as if she were taking what he had said seriously enough to make the enquiry in confidence. "By inducing you to trust me. Now I know--to-day I know. Do you remember what I asked you in Rome? Then I was quite in the dark. But to-day I know on good authority; everything's clear to me to-day. It was a good thing when you made me come away with your cousin. He was a good man, a fine man, one of the best; he told me how the case stands for you. He explained everything; he guessed my sentiments. He was a member of your family and he left you--so long as you should be in England--to my care," said Goodwood as if he were making a great point. "Do you know what he said to me the last time I saw him--as he lay there where he died? He said: 'Do everything you can for her; do everything she'll let you.'" Isabel suddenly got up. "You had no business to talk about me!" "Why not--why not, when we talked in that way?" he demanded, following her fast. "And he was dying--when a man's dying it's different." She checked the movement she had made to leave him; she was listening more than ever; it was true that he was not the same as that last time. That had been aimless, fruitless passion, but at present he had an idea, which she scented in all her being. "But it doesn't matter!" he exclaimed, pressing her still harder, though now without touching a hem of her garment. "If Touchett had never opened his mouth I should have known all the same. I had only to look at you at your cousin's funeral to see what's the matter with you. You can't deceive me any more; for God's sake be honest with a man who's so honest with you. You're the most unhappy of women, and your husband's the deadliest of fiends." She turned on him as if he had struck her. "Are you mad?" she cried. "I've never been so sane; I see the whole thing. Don't think it's necessary to defend him. But I won't say another word against him; I'll speak only of you," Goodwood added quickly. "How can you pretend you're not heart-broken? You don't know what to do--you don't know where to turn. It's too late to play a part; didn't you leave all that behind you in Rome? Touchett knew all about it, and I knew it too--what it would cost you to come here. It will have cost you your life? Say it will"--and he flared almost into anger: "give me one word of truth! When I know such a horror as that, how can I keep myself from wishing to save you? What would you think of me if I should stand still and see you go back to your reward? 'It's awful, what she'll have to pay for it!'--that's what Touchett said to me. I may tell you that, mayn't I? He was such a near relation!" cried Goodwood, making his queer grim point again. "I'd sooner have been shot than let another man say those things to me; but he was different; he seemed to me to have the right. It was after he got home--when he saw he was dying, and when I saw it too. I understand all about it: you're afraid to go back. You're perfectly alone; you don't know where to turn. You can't turn anywhere; you know that perfectly. Now it is therefore that I want you to think of ME." "To think of 'you'?" Isabel said, standing before him in the dusk. The idea of which she had caught a glimpse a few moments before now loomed large. She threw back her head a little; she stared at it as if it had been a comet in the sky. "You don't know where to turn. Turn straight to me. I want to persuade you to trust me," Goodwood repeated. And then he paused with his shining eyes. "Why should you go back--why should you go through that ghastly form?" "To get away from you!" she answered. But this expressed only a little of what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She had believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the desert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere sweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her feet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and strange, forced open her set teeth. At first, in rejoinder to what she had said, it seemed to her that he would break out into greater violence. But after an instant he was perfectly quiet; he wished to prove he was sane, that he had reasoned it all out. "I want to prevent that, and I think I may, if you'll only for once listen to me. It's too monstrous of you to think of sinking back into that misery, of going to open your mouth to that poisoned air. It's you that are out of your mind. Trust me as if I had the care of you. Why shouldn't we be happy--when it's here before us, when it's so easy? I'm yours for ever--for ever and ever. Here I stand; I'm as firm as a rock. What have you to care about? You've no children; that perhaps would be an obstacle. As it is you've nothing to consider. You must save what you can of your life; you mustn't lose it all simply because you've lost a part. It would be an insult to you to assume that you care for the look of the thing, for what people will say, for the bottomless idiocy of the world. We've nothing to do with all that; we're quite out of it; we look at things as they are. You took the great step in coming away; the next is nothing; it's the natural one. I swear, as I stand here, that a woman deliberately made to suffer is justified in anything in life--in going down into the streets if that will help her! I know how you suffer, and that's why I'm here. We can do absolutely as we please; to whom under the sun do we owe anything? What is it that holds us, what is it that has the smallest right to interfere in such a question as this? Such a question is between ourselves--and to say that is to settle it! Were we born to rot in our misery--were we born to be afraid? I never knew YOU afraid! If you'll only trust me, how little you will be disappointed! The world's all before us--and the world's very big. I know something about that." Isabel gave a long murmur, like a creature in pain; it was as if he were pressing something that hurt her. "The world's very small," she said at random; she had an immense desire to appear to resist. She said it at random, to hear herself say something; but it was not what she meant. The world, in truth, had never seemed so large; it seemed to open out, all round her, to take the form of a mighty sea, where she floated in fathomless waters. She had wanted help, and here was help; it had come in a rushing torrent. I know not whether she believed everything he said; but she believed just then that to let him take her in his arms would be the next best thing to her dying. This belief, for a moment, was a kind of rapture, in which she felt herself sink and sink. In the movement she seemed to beat with her feet, in order to catch herself, to feel something to rest on. "Ah, be mine as I'm yours!" she heard her companion cry. He had suddenly given up argument, and his voice seemed to come, harsh and terrible, through a confusion of vaguer sounds. This however, of course, was but a subjective fact, as the metaphysicians say; the confusion, the noise of waters, all the rest of it, were in her own swimming head. In an instant she became aware of this. "Do me the greatest kindness of all," she panted. "I beseech you to go away!" "Ah, don't say that. Don't kill me!" he cried. She clasped her hands; her eyes were streaming with tears. "As you love me, as you pity me, leave me alone!" He glared at her a moment through the dusk, and the next instant she felt his arms about her and his lips on her own lips. His kiss was like white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in his hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his face, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and made one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked and under water following a train of images before they sink. But when darkness returned she was free. She never looked about her; she only darted from the spot. There were lights in the windows of the house; they shone far across the lawn. In an extraordinarily short time--for the distance was considerable--she had moved through the darkness (for she saw nothing) and reached the door. Here only she paused. She looked all about her; she listened a little; then she put her hand on the latch. She had not known where to turn; but she knew now. There was a very straight path. Two days afterwards Caspar Goodwood knocked at the door of the house in Wimpole Street in which Henrietta Stackpole occupied furnished lodgings. He had hardly removed his hand from the knocker when the door was opened and Miss Stackpole herself stood before him. She had on her hat and jacket; she was on the point of going out. "Oh, good-morning," he said, "I was in hopes I should find Mrs. Osmond." Henrietta kept him waiting a moment for her reply; but there was a good deal of expression about Miss Stackpole even when she was silent. "Pray what led you to suppose she was here?" "I went down to Gardencourt this morning, and the servant told me she had come to London. He believed she was to come to you." Again Miss Stackpole held him--with an intention of perfect kindness--in suspense. "She came here yesterday, and spent the night. But this morning she started for Rome." Caspar Goodwood was not looking at her; his eyes were fastened on the doorstep. "Oh, she started--?" he stammered. And without finishing his phrase or looking up he stiffly averted himself. But he couldn't otherwise move. Henrietta had come out, closing the door behind her, and now she put out her hand and grasped his arm. "Look here, Mr. Goodwood," she said; "just you wait!" On which he looked up at her--but only to guess, from her face, with a revulsion, that she simply meant he was young. She stood shining at him with that cheap comfort, and it added, on the spot, thirty years to his life. She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now the key to patience.

Chapter 55

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820033733/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmPortraitLady76.asp

Isabel remembers that when she first came to Gardencourt, she asked Ralph to show her its ghost. He had told her that she would have to suffer before she could see the ghost. On this night, she finally sees it. She has been in bed, half asleep, but fully clothed, because shes expected Ralph to die during the night. Suddenly, she wakes to see that Ralph is standing beside her bed with his kind face. She rushes to his room and finds that he has died. Lydia Touchett says, "Go and thank God youve no child." At the funeral, she is surprised to see Caspar Goodwood. He seems to have some "complex intention" in being there and it makes Isabel uneasy. She spends the next days wandering around Gardencourt worrying over what to do about returning to Rome. She tires to postpone dealing with it, closing her eyes and trying not to think. Mrs. Touchett tells her about Ralphs behest. He has given his money all away, some to charitable institutions, his library to Henrietta Stackpole, his house to his mother, and nothing whatsoever to Isabel. One day Isabel is at home when she hears that Lord Warburton has arrived to visit. She goes out to the garden, hoping to avoid him. After a while, she sees Mrs. Touchett and Lord Warburton coming out to join them. he looks very solemn and tells her he must leave soon. He invites her to come see his sisters. She congratulates him on his marriage and he blushes. Then he leaves. Mrs. Touchett has already gone inside, so Isabelle wanders around the garden longer. She comes upon the same bench that she had been sitting on six years before when she had gotten word that Caspar Goodwood was in London. At the same bench, Lord Warburton had proposed marriage to her. Just as shes standing there, Caspar Goodwood approaches. He takes her wrist and pulls her down on the bench with him. She feels frightened at his forcefulness. He tells her he spoke with Ralph about her and Ralph asked him to help her in any way he could. He tells her he wants her to come away with him and forget about going back to her hellish existence in Rome. Then he kisses her with great passion. Isabel feels overwhelmed as if she is dying. She feels like she sees all the images of her life flashing in front of her eyes. When he releases her, she rushes back to the house. The next day, Caspar Goodwood knocks on Henrietta Stackpoles door. She is just leaving. He says he is looking for Isabelle whom he has found out has left Gardencourt. Henrietta tells him Isabel has already gone back to Rome. He is shocked at the news. Henrietta tells him not to worry that he just has to wait. At first he thinks shes trying to give him hope about Isabel, but then he realizes she is just being glib about his being young. He feels like he ages thirty years just standing there being consoled with such a "cheap comfort." Henrietta takes his arm and leads him down the street "as if she had given him now the key to patience."

Notes Henry Jamess sense of the dramatic helps him set the stage of the last scene of the novel. He places Isabel at the same bench in the gardens of Gardencourt at which she received Caspar Goodwoods telegram announcing he had followed her to Europe, and at which she had received Lord Warburtons proposal. Here again, she sees the two men. Here again, she sends them both away and goes to the alternative, Gilbert Osmond. It seems that at the end of the novel, these choices are still fixed. She still finds Lord Warburton kind but less than compelling and she still finds Caspar Goodwood too compelling. In fact, here, he kisses her against her will, sending her running for the house and, very soon, back to Rome and Gilbert Osmond.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/16328-chapters/chapters_1_to_98.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Beowulf/section_1_part_0.txt

Beowulf.chapters 1-98

1-98

{"name": "1-98", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920112844/https://www.novelguide.com/beowulf/summaries/line1-98", "summary": "Beowulf begins with the legends of the warrior kings of the Danes. The most famous was Shield Sheafson, the founder of the ruling house. He was revered by his own subjects, and outlying clans were forced to pay tribute to him. Shield had a son named Beow, who became famous throughout the region for his exploits. Shield died while still at the height of his powers. His warriors placed his body in a boat, piled it up with treasure, weapons and armor, and sent it out to sea. No one knows, the poet says, who salvaged all the treasure. After Shield's death, it was Beow's job to defend the Danish forts. He was well respected and ruled for a long time. He was succeeded by Halfdane, who had three sons, Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga, and an unnamed daughter who was married off to Onela the Swede. Hrothgar was an extremely successful king. People flocked to his service and he created a large army. He decided to build a huge hall, and intended it to be one of the wonders of the world. He called the hall Heorot. It was a magnificent, towering building. The poet states, however, that in the future it would be burned down during a battle between members of the same family. The poet introduces the story by giving some background information about the Danish warrior kings. This a way of introducing Hrothgar, who plays an important role in the story. In 1939, archeologists discovered at Sutton Hoo, in Suffolk, England, a buried ship of treasure dating probably from the seventh century A.D. The find included a warrior's sword, a great gold buckle, silver serving vessels, and other items. It showed that warriors and kings from this period were indeed buried with their riches, just as the poet describes in the lines about the death of Shield.", "analysis": ""}

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SCYLD. {The famous race of Spear-Danes.} Lo! the Spear-Danes' glory through splendid achievements The folk-kings' former fame we have heard of, How princes displayed then their prowess-in-battle. {Scyld, their mighty king, in honor of whom they are often called Scyldings. He is the great-grandfather of Hrothgar, so prominent in the poem.} Oft Scyld the Scefing from scathers in numbers 5 From many a people their mead-benches tore. Since first he found him friendless and wretched, The earl had had terror: comfort he got for it, Waxed 'neath the welkin, world-honor gained, Till all his neighbors o'er sea were compelled to 10 Bow to his bidding and bring him their tribute: An excellent atheling! After was borne him {A son is born to him, who receives the name of Beowulf--a name afterwards made so famous by the hero of the poem.} A son and heir, young in his dwelling, Whom God-Father sent to solace the people. He had marked the misery malice had caused them, 15 [1]That reaved of their rulers they wretched had erstwhile[2] Long been afflicted. The Lord, in requital, Wielder of Glory, with world-honor blessed him. Famed was Beowulf, far spread the glory Of Scyld's great son in the lands of the Danemen. [2] {The ideal Teutonic king lavishes gifts on his vassals.} 20 So the carle that is young, by kindnesses rendered The friends of his father, with fees in abundance Must be able to earn that when age approacheth Eager companions aid him requitingly, When war assaults him serve him as liegemen: 25 By praise-worthy actions must honor be got 'Mong all of the races. At the hour that was fated {Scyld dies at the hour appointed by Fate.} Scyld then departed to the All-Father's keeping Warlike to wend him; away then they bare him To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades, 30 As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyldings Word-sway wielded, and the well-loved land-prince Long did rule them.[3] The ring-stemmed vessel, Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor, Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing; {By his own request, his body is laid on a vessel and wafted seaward.} 35 The beloved leader laid they down there, Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel, The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels, Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over, Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever 40 That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle, Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled Many a jewel that with him must travel On the flush of the flood afar on the current. 45 And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly, Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him {He leaves Daneland on the breast of a bark.} Who when first he was born outward did send him Lone on the main, the merest of infants: And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven [3] 50 High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him, Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit, Their mood very mournful. Men are not able {No one knows whither the boat drifted.} Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside,[4] Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied. [1] For the 'aet' of verse 15, Sievers suggests 'a' (= which). If this be accepted, the sentence 'He had ... afflicted' will read: _He_ (_i.e._ God) _had perceived the malice-caused sorrow which they, lordless, had formerly long endured_. [2] For 'aldor-lease' (15) Gr. suggested 'aldor-ceare': _He perceived their distress, that they formerly had suffered life-sorrow a long while_. [3] A very difficult passage. 'Ahte' (31) has no object. H. supplies 'geweald' from the context; and our translation is based upon this assumption, though it is far from satisfactory. Kl. suggests 'laendagas' for 'lange': _And the beloved land-prince enjoyed (had) his transitory days (i.e. lived)_. B. suggests a dislocation; but this is a dangerous doctrine, pushed rather far by that eminent scholar. [4] The reading of the H.-So. text has been quite closely followed; but some eminent scholars read 'sele-raedenne' for 'sele-raedende.' If that be adopted, the passage will read: _Men cannot tell us, indeed, the order of Fate, etc._ 'Sele-raedende' has two things to support it: (1) v. 1347; (2) it affords a parallel to 'men' in v. 50. SCYLD'S SUCCESSORS.--HROTHGAR'S GREAT MEAD-HALL. {Beowulf succeeds his father Scyld} In the boroughs then Beowulf, bairn of the Scyldings, Beloved land-prince, for long-lasting season Was famed mid the folk (his father departed, The prince from his dwelling), till afterward sprang 5 Great-minded Healfdene; the Danes in his lifetime He graciously governed, grim-mooded, aged. {Healfdene's birth.} Four bairns of his body born in succession Woke in the world, war-troopers' leader Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga the good; 10 Heard I that Elan was Ongentheow's consort, {He has three sons--one of them, Hrothgar--and a daughter named Elan. Hrothgar becomes a mighty king.} The well-beloved bedmate of the War-Scylfing leader. Then glory in battle to Hrothgar was given, Waxing of war-fame, that willingly kinsmen Obeyed his bidding, till the boys grew to manhood, 15 A numerous band. It burned in his spirit To urge his folk to found a great building, A mead-hall grander than men of the era {He is eager to build a great hall in which he may feast his retainers} Ever had heard of, and in it to share With young and old all of the blessings 20 The Lord had allowed him, save life and retainers. Then the work I find afar was assigned [4] To many races in middle-earth's regions, To adorn the great folk-hall. In due time it happened Early 'mong men, that 'twas finished entirely, 25 The greatest of hall-buildings; Heorot he named it {The hall is completed, and is called Heort, or Heorot.} Who wide-reaching word-sway wielded 'mong earlmen. His promise he brake not, rings he lavished, Treasure at banquet. Towered the hall up High and horn-crested, huge between antlers: 30 It battle-waves bided, the blasting fire-demon; Ere long then from hottest hatred must sword-wrath Arise for a woman's husband and father. Then the mighty war-spirit[1] endured for a season, {The Monster Grendel is madly envious of the Danemen's joy.} Bore it bitterly, he who bided in darkness, 35 That light-hearted laughter loud in the building Greeted him daily; there was dulcet harp-music, Clear song of the singer. He said that was able {[The course of the story is interrupted by a short reference to some old account of the creation.]} To tell from of old earthmen's beginnings, That Father Almighty earth had created, 40 The winsome wold that the water encircleth, Set exultingly the sun's and the moon's beams To lavish their lustre on land-folk and races, And earth He embellished in all her regions With limbs and leaves; life He bestowed too 45 On all the kindreds that live under heaven. {The glee of the warriors is overcast by a horrible dread.} So blessed with abundance, brimming with joyance, The warriors abided, till a certain one gan to Dog them with deeds of direfullest malice, A foe in the hall-building: this horrible stranger[2] 50 Was Grendel entitled, the march-stepper famous Who[3] dwelt in the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness; The wan-mooded being abode for a season [5] In the land of the giants, when the Lord and Creator Had banned him and branded. For that bitter murder, 55 The killing of Abel, all-ruling Father {Cain is referred to as a progenitor of Grendel, and of monsters in general.} The kindred of Cain crushed with His vengeance; In the feud He rejoiced not, but far away drove him From kindred and kind, that crime to atone for, Meter of Justice. Thence ill-favored creatures, 60 Elves and giants, monsters of ocean, Came into being, and the giants that longtime Grappled with God; He gave them requital. [1] R. and t. B. prefer 'ellor-gaest' to 'ellen-gaest' (86): _Then the stranger from afar endured, etc._ [2] Some authorities would translate '_demon_' instead of '_stranger_.' [3] Some authorities arrange differently, and render: _Who dwelt in the moor-fens, the marsh and the fastness, the land of the giant-race._ GRENDEL THE MURDERER. {Grendel attacks the sleeping heroes} When the sun was sunken, he set out to visit The lofty hall-building, how the Ring-Danes had used it For beds and benches when the banquet was over. Then he found there reposing many a noble 5 Asleep after supper; sorrow the heroes,[1] Misery knew not. The monster of evil Greedy and cruel tarried but little, {He drags off thirty of them, and devours them} Fell and frantic, and forced from their slumbers Thirty of thanemen; thence he departed 10 Leaping and laughing, his lair to return to, With surfeit of slaughter sallying homeward. In the dusk of the dawning, as the day was just breaking, Was Grendel's prowess revealed to the warriors: {A cry of agony goes up, when Grendel's horrible deed is fully realized.} Then, his meal-taking finished, a moan was uplifted, 15 Morning-cry mighty. The man-ruler famous, The long-worthy atheling, sat very woful, Suffered great sorrow, sighed for his liegemen, [6] When they had seen the track of the hateful pursuer, The spirit accursed: too crushing that sorrow, {The monster returns the next night.} 20 Too loathsome and lasting. Not longer he tarried, But one night after continued his slaughter Shameless and shocking, shrinking but little From malice and murder; they mastered him fully. He was easy to find then who otherwhere looked for 25 A pleasanter place of repose in the lodges, A bed in the bowers. Then was brought to his notice Told him truly by token apparent The hall-thane's hatred: he held himself after Further and faster who the foeman did baffle. 30 [2]So ruled he and strongly strove against justice Lone against all men, till empty uptowered {King Hrothgar's agony and suspense last twelve years.} The choicest of houses. Long was the season: Twelve-winters' time torture suffered The friend of the Scyldings, every affliction, 35 Endless agony; hence it after[3] became Certainly known to the children of men Sadly in measures, that long against Hrothgar Grendel struggled:--his grudges he cherished, Murderous malice, many a winter, 40 Strife unremitting, and peacefully wished he [4]Life-woe to lift from no liegeman at all of The men of the Dane-folk, for money to settle, No counsellor needed count for a moment [7] On handsome amends at the hands of the murderer; {Grendel is unremitting in his persecutions.} 45 The monster of evil fiercely did harass, The ill-planning death-shade, both elder and younger, Trapping and tricking them. He trod every night then The mist-covered moor-fens; men do not know where Witches and wizards wander and ramble. 50 So the foe of mankind many of evils Grievous injuries, often accomplished, Horrible hermit; Heort he frequented, Gem-bedecked palace, when night-shades had fallen {God is against the monster.} (Since God did oppose him, not the throne could he touch,[5] 55 The light-flashing jewel, love of Him knew not). 'Twas a fearful affliction to the friend of the Scyldings {The king and his council deliberate in vain.} Soul-crushing sorrow. Not seldom in private Sat the king in his council; conference held they What the braves should determine 'gainst terrors unlooked for. {They invoke the aid of their gods.} 60 At the shrines of their idols often they promised Gifts and offerings, earnestly prayed they The devil from hell would help them to lighten Their people's oppression. Such practice they used then, Hope of the heathen; hell they remembered 65 In innermost spirit, God they knew not, {The true God they do not know.} Judge of their actions, All-wielding Ruler, No praise could they give the Guardian of Heaven, The Wielder of Glory. Woe will be his who Through furious hatred his spirit shall drive to 70 The clutch of the fire, no comfort shall look for, Wax no wiser; well for the man who, Living his life-days, his Lord may face And find defence in his Father's embrace! [1] The translation is based on 'weras,' adopted by H.-So.--K. and Th. read 'wera' and, arranging differently, render 119(2)-120: _They knew not sorrow, the wretchedness of man, aught of misfortune_.--For 'unhaelo' (120) R. suggests 'unfaelo': _The uncanny creature, greedy and cruel, etc_. [2] S. rearranges and translates: _So he ruled and struggled unjustly, one against all, till the noblest of buildings stood useless (it was a long while) twelve years' time: the friend of the Scyldings suffered distress, every woe, great sorrows, etc_. [3] For 'syethethan,' B. suggests 'sarcwidum': _Hence in mournful words it became well known, etc_. Various other words beginning with 's' have been conjectured. [4] The H.-So. glossary is very inconsistent in referring to this passage.--'Sibbe' (154), which H.-So. regards as an instr., B. takes as accus., obj. of 'wolde.' Putting a comma after Deniga, he renders: _He did not desire peace with any of the Danes, nor did he wish to remove their life-woe, nor to settle for money_. [5] Of this difficult passage the following interpretations among others are given: (1) Though Grendel has frequented Heorot as a demon, he could not become ruler of the Danes, on account of his hostility to God. (2) Hrothgar was much grieved that Grendel had not appeared before his throne to receive presents. (3) He was not permitted to devastate the hall, on account of the Creator; _i.e._ God wished to make his visit fatal to him.--Ne ... wisse (169) W. renders: _Nor had he any desire to do so_; 'his' being obj. gen. = danach. [8] BEOWULF GOES TO HROTHGAR'S ASSISTANCE. {Hrothgar sees no way of escape from the persecutions of Grendel.} So Healfdene's kinsman constantly mused on His long-lasting sorrow; the battle-thane clever Was not anywise able evils to 'scape from: Too crushing the sorrow that came to the people, 5 Loathsome and lasting the life-grinding torture, {Beowulf, the Geat, hero of the poem, hears of Hrothgar's sorrow, and resolves to go to his assistance.} Greatest of night-woes. So Higelac's liegeman, Good amid Geatmen, of Grendel's achievements Heard in his home:[1] of heroes then living He was stoutest and strongest, sturdy and noble. 10 He bade them prepare him a bark that was trusty; He said he the war-king would seek o'er the ocean, The folk-leader noble, since he needed retainers. For the perilous project prudent companions Chided him little, though loving him dearly; 15 They egged the brave atheling, augured him glory. {With fourteen carefully chosen companions, he sets out for Dane-land.} The excellent knight from the folk of the Geatmen Had liegemen selected, likest to prove them Trustworthy warriors; with fourteen companions The vessel he looked for; a liegeman then showed them, 20 A sea-crafty man, the bounds of the country. Fast the days fleeted; the float was a-water, The craft by the cliff. Clomb to the prow then Well-equipped warriors: the wave-currents twisted The sea on the sand; soldiers then carried 25 On the breast of the vessel bright-shining jewels, Handsome war-armor; heroes outshoved then, Warmen the wood-ship, on its wished-for adventure. [9] {The vessel sails like a bird} The foamy-necked floater fanned by the breeze, Likest a bird, glided the waters, {In twenty four hours they reach the shores of Hrothgar's dominions} 30 Till twenty and four hours thereafter The twist-stemmed vessel had traveled such distance That the sailing-men saw the sloping embankments, The sea cliffs gleaming, precipitous mountains, Nesses enormous: they were nearing the limits 35 At the end of the ocean.[2] Up thence quickly The men of the Weders clomb to the mainland, Fastened their vessel (battle weeds rattled, War burnies clattered), the Wielder they thanked That the ways o'er the waters had waxen so gentle. {They are hailed by the Danish coast guard} 40 Then well from the cliff edge the guard of the Scyldings Who the sea-cliffs should see to, saw o'er the gangway Brave ones bearing beauteous targets, Armor all ready, anxiously thought he, Musing and wondering what men were approaching. 45 High on his horse then Hrothgar's retainer Turned him to coastward, mightily brandished His lance in his hands, questioned with boldness. {His challenge} "Who are ye men here, mail-covered warriors Clad in your corslets, come thus a-driving 50 A high riding ship o'er the shoals of the waters, [3]And hither 'neath helmets have hied o'er the ocean? [10] I have been strand-guard, standing as warden, Lest enemies ever anywise ravage Danish dominions with army of war-ships. 55 More boldly never have warriors ventured Hither to come; of kinsmen's approval, Word-leave of warriors, I ween that ye surely {He is struck by Beowulf's appearance.} Nothing have known. Never a greater one Of earls o'er the earth have _I_ had a sight of 60 Than is one of your number, a hero in armor; No low-ranking fellow[4] adorned with his weapons, But launching them little, unless looks are deceiving, And striking appearance. Ere ye pass on your journey As treacherous spies to the land of the Scyldings 65 And farther fare, I fully must know now What race ye belong to. Ye far-away dwellers, Sea-faring sailors, my simple opinion Hear ye and hearken: haste is most fitting Plainly to tell me what place ye are come from." [1] 'From ham' (194) is much disputed. One rendering is: _Beowulf, being away from home, heard of Hrothgar's troubles, etc_. Another, that adopted by S. and endorsed in the H.-So. notes, is: _B. heard from his neighborhood (neighbors),_ i.e. _in his home, etc_. A third is: _B., being at home, heard this as occurring away from home_. The H.-So. glossary and notes conflict. [2] 'Eoletes' (224) is marked with a (?) by H.-So.; our rendering simply follows his conjecture.--Other conjectures as to 'eolet' are: (1) _voyage_, (2) _toil_, _labor_, (3) _hasty journey_. [3] The lacuna of the MS at this point has been supplied by various conjectures. The reading adopted by H.-So. has been rendered in the above translation. W., like H.-So., makes 'ic' the beginning of a new sentence, but, for 'helmas baeron,' he reads 'hringed stefnan.' This has the advantage of giving a parallel to 'brontne ceol' instead of a kenning for 'go.'--B puts the (?) after 'holmas', and begins a new sentence at the middle of the line. Translate: _What warriors are ye, clad in armor, who have thus come bringing the foaming vessel over the water way, hither over the seas? For some time on the wall I have been coast guard, etc_. S. endorses most of what B. says, but leaves out 'on the wall' in the last sentence. If W.'s 'hringed stefnan' be accepted, change line 51 above to, _A ring-stemmed vessel hither o'ersea_. [4] 'Seld-guma' (249) is variously rendered: (1) _housecarle_; (2) _home-stayer_; (3) _common man_. Dr. H. Wood suggests _a man-at-arms in another's house_. THE GEATS REACH HEOROT. {Beowulf courteously replies.} The chief of the strangers rendered him answer, War-troopers' leader, and word-treasure opened: {We are Geats.} "We are sprung from the lineage of the people of Geatland, And Higelac's hearth-friends. To heroes unnumbered {My father Ecgtheow was well-known in his day.} 5 My father was known, a noble head-warrior Ecgtheow titled; many a winter He lived with the people, ere he passed on his journey, Old from his dwelling; each of the counsellors Widely mid world-folk well remembers him. {Our intentions towards King Hrothgar are of the kindest.} 10 We, kindly of spirit, the lord of thy people, The son of King Healfdene, have come here to visit, [11] Folk-troop's defender: be free in thy counsels! To the noble one bear we a weighty commission, The helm of the Danemen; we shall hide, I ween, {Is it true that a monster is slaying Danish heroes?} 15 Naught of our message. Thou know'st if it happen, As we soothly heard say, that some savage despoiler, Some hidden pursuer, on nights that are murky By deeds very direful 'mid the Danemen exhibits Hatred unheard of, horrid destruction 20 And the falling of dead. From feelings least selfish {I can help your king to free himself from this horrible creature.} I am able to render counsel to Hrothgar, How he, wise and worthy, may worst the destroyer, If the anguish of sorrow should ever be lessened,[1] Comfort come to him, and care-waves grow cooler, 25 Or ever hereafter he agony suffer And troublous distress, while towereth upward The handsomest of houses high on the summit." {The coast-guard reminds Beowulf that it is easier to say than to do.} Bestriding his stallion, the strand-watchman answered, The doughty retainer: "The difference surely 30 'Twixt words and works, the warlike shield-bearer Who judgeth wisely well shall determine. This band, I hear, beareth no malice {I am satisfied of your good intentions, and shall lead you to the palace.} To the prince of the Scyldings. Pass ye then onward With weapons and armor. I shall lead you in person; 35 To my war-trusty vassals command I shall issue To keep from all injury your excellent vessel, {Your boat shall be well cared for during your stay here.} Your fresh-tarred craft, 'gainst every opposer Close by the sea-shore, till the curved-necked bark shall Waft back again the well-beloved hero 40 O'er the way of the water to Weder dominions. {He again compliments Beowulf.} To warrior so great 'twill be granted sure In the storm of strife to stand secure." Onward they fared then (the vessel lay quiet, The broad-bosomed bark was bound by its cable, [12] 45 Firmly at anchor); the boar-signs glistened[2] Bright on the visors vivid with gilding, Blaze-hardened, brilliant; the boar acted warden. The heroes hastened, hurried the liegemen, {The land is perhaps rolling.} Descended together, till they saw the great palace, 50 The well-fashioned wassail-hall wondrous and gleaming: {Heorot flashes on their view.} 'Mid world-folk and kindreds that was widest reputed Of halls under heaven which the hero abode in; Its lustre enlightened lands without number. Then the battle-brave hero showed them the glittering 55 Court of the bold ones, that they easily thither Might fare on their journey; the aforementioned warrior Turning his courser, quoth as he left them: {The coast-guard, having discharged his duty, bids them God-speed.} "'Tis time I were faring; Father Almighty Grant you His grace, and give you to journey 60 Safe on your mission! To the sea I will get me 'Gainst hostile warriors as warden to stand." [1] 'Edwendan' (280) B. takes to be the subs. 'edwenden' (cf. 1775); and 'bisigu' he takes as gen. sing., limiting 'edwenden': _If reparation for sorrows is ever to come_. This is supported by t.B. [2] Combining the emendations of B. and t.B., we may read: _The boar-images glistened ... brilliant, protected the life of the war-mooded man_. They read 'ferh-wearde' (305) and 'guethmodgum men' (306). BEOWULF INTRODUCES HIMSELF AT THE PALACE. The highway glistened with many-hued pebble, A by-path led the liegemen together. [1]Firm and hand-locked the war-burnie glistened, The ring-sword radiant rang 'mid the armor 5 As the party was approaching the palace together {They set their arms and armor against the wall.} In warlike equipments. 'Gainst the wall of the building Their wide-fashioned war-shields they weary did set then, [13] Battle-shields sturdy; benchward they turned then; Their battle-sarks rattled, the gear of the heroes; 10 The lances stood up then, all in a cluster, The arms of the seamen, ashen-shafts mounted With edges of iron: the armor-clad troopers {A Danish hero asks them whence and why they are come.} Were decked with weapons. Then a proud-mooded hero Asked of the champions questions of lineage: 15 "From what borders bear ye your battle-shields plated, Gilded and gleaming, your gray-colored burnies, Helmets with visors and heap of war-lances?-- To Hrothgar the king I am servant and liegeman. 'Mong folk from far-lands found I have never {He expresses no little admiration for the strangers.} 20 Men so many of mien more courageous. I ween that from valor, nowise as outlaws, But from greatness of soul ye sought for King Hrothgar." {Beowulf replies.} Then the strength-famous earlman answer rendered, The proud-mooded Wederchief replied to his question, {We are Higelac's table-companions, and bear an important commission to your prince.} 25 Hardy 'neath helmet: "Higelac's mates are we; Beowulf hight I. To the bairn of Healfdene, The famous folk-leader, I freely will tell To thy prince my commission, if pleasantly hearing He'll grant we may greet him so gracious to all men." 30 Wulfgar replied then (he was prince of the Wendels, His boldness of spirit was known unto many, His prowess and prudence): "The prince of the Scyldings, {Wulfgar, the thane, says that he will go and ask Hrothgar whether he will see the strangers.} The friend-lord of Danemen, I will ask of thy journey, The giver of rings, as thou urgest me do it, 35 The folk-chief famous, and inform thee early What answer the good one mindeth to render me." He turned then hurriedly where Hrothgar was sitting, [2]Old and hoary, his earlmen attending him; The strength-famous went till he stood at the shoulder 40 Of the lord of the Danemen, of courteous thanemen The custom he minded. Wulfgar addressed then His friendly liegelord: "Folk of the Geatmen [14] {He thereupon urges his liegelord to receive the visitors courteously.} O'er the way of the waters are wafted hither, Faring from far-lands: the foremost in rank 45 The battle-champions Beowulf title. They make this petition: with thee, O my chieftain, To be granted a conference; O gracious King Hrothgar, Friendly answer refuse not to give them! {Hrothgar, too, is struck with Beowulf's appearance.} In war-trappings weeded worthy they seem 50 Of earls to be honored; sure the atheling is doughty Who headed the heroes hitherward coming." [1] Instead of the punctuation given by H.-So, S. proposed to insert a comma after 'scir' (322), and to take 'hring-iren' as meaning 'ring-mail' and as parallel with 'gueth-byrne.' The passage would then read: _The firm and hand-locked war-burnie shone, bright ring-mail, rang 'mid the armor, etc_. [2] Gr. and others translate 'unhar' by 'bald'; _old and bald_. HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF. {Hrothgar remembers Beowulf as a youth, and also remembers his father.} Hrothgar answered, helm of the Scyldings: "I remember this man as the merest of striplings. His father long dead now was Ecgtheow titled, Him Hrethel the Geatman granted at home his 5 One only daughter; his battle-brave son Is come but now, sought a trustworthy friend. Seafaring sailors asserted it then, {Beowulf is reported to have the strength of thirty men.} Who valuable gift-gems of the Geatmen[1] carried As peace-offering thither, that he thirty men's grapple 10 Has in his hand, the hero-in-battle. {God hath sent him to our rescue.} The holy Creator usward sent him, To West-Dane warriors, I ween, for to render 'Gainst Grendel's grimness gracious assistance: I shall give to the good one gift-gems for courage. 15 Hasten to bid them hither to speed them,[2] To see assembled this circle of kinsmen; Tell them expressly they're welcome in sooth to The men of the Danes." To the door of the building [15] {Wulfgar invites the strangers in.} Wulfgar went then, this word-message shouted: 20 "My victorious liegelord bade me to tell you, The East-Danes' atheling, that your origin knows he, And o'er wave-billows wafted ye welcome are hither, Valiant of spirit. Ye straightway may enter Clad in corslets, cased in your helmets, 25 To see King Hrothgar. Here let your battle-boards, Wood-spears and war-shafts, await your conferring." The mighty one rose then, with many a liegeman, An excellent thane-group; some there did await them, And as bid of the brave one the battle-gear guarded. 30 Together they hied them, while the hero did guide them, 'Neath Heorot's roof; the high-minded went then Sturdy 'neath helmet till he stood in the building. Beowulf spake (his burnie did glisten, His armor seamed over by the art of the craftsman): {Beowulf salutes Hrothgar, and then proceeds to boast of his youthful achievements.} 35 "Hail thou, Hrothgar! I am Higelac's kinsman And vassal forsooth; many a wonder I dared as a stripling. The doings of Grendel, In far-off fatherland I fully did know of: Sea-farers tell us, this hall-building standeth, 40 Excellent edifice, empty and useless To all the earlmen after evenlight's glimmer 'Neath heaven's bright hues hath hidden its glory. This my earls then urged me, the most excellent of them, Carles very clever, to come and assist thee, 45 Folk-leader Hrothgar; fully they knew of {His fight with the nickers.} The strength of my body. Themselves they beheld me When I came from the contest, when covered with gore Foes I escaped from, where five[3] I had bound, [16] The giant-race wasted, in the waters destroying 50 The nickers by night, bore numberless sorrows, The Weders avenged (woes had they suffered) Enemies ravaged; alone now with Grendel {He intends to fight Grendel unaided.} I shall manage the matter, with the monster of evil, The giant, decide it. Thee I would therefore 55 Beg of thy bounty, Bright-Danish chieftain, Lord of the Scyldings, this single petition: Not to refuse me, defender of warriors, Friend-lord of folks, so far have I sought thee, That _I_ may unaided, my earlmen assisting me, 60 This brave-mooded war-band, purify Heorot. I have heard on inquiry, the horrible creature {Since the monster uses no weapons,} From veriest rashness recks not for weapons; I this do scorn then, so be Higelac gracious, My liegelord beloved, lenient of spirit, 65 To bear a blade or a broad-fashioned target, A shield to the onset; only with hand-grip {I, too, shall disdain to use any.} The foe I must grapple, fight for my life then, Foeman with foeman; he fain must rely on The doom of the Lord whom death layeth hold of. {Should he crush me, he will eat my companions as he has eaten thy thanes.} 70 I ween he will wish, if he win in the struggle, To eat in the war-hall earls of the Geat-folk, Boldly to swallow[4] them, as of yore he did often The best of the Hrethmen! Thou needest not trouble A head-watch to give me;[5] he will have me dripping [17] {In case of my defeat, thou wilt not have the trouble of burying me.} 75 And dreary with gore, if death overtake me,[6] Will bear me off bleeding, biting and mouthing me, The hermit will eat me, heedless of pity, Marking the moor-fens; no more wilt thou need then {Should I fall, send my armor to my lord, King Higelac.} Find me my food.[7] If I fall in the battle, 80 Send to Higelac the armor that serveth To shield my bosom, the best of equipments, Richest of ring-mails; 'tis the relic of Hrethla, {Weird is supreme} The work of Wayland. Goes Weird as she must go!" [1] Some render 'gif-sceattas' by 'tribute.'--'Geata' B. and Th. emended to 'Geatum.' If this be accepted, change '_of_ the Geatmen' to '_to_ the Geatmen.' [2] If t.B.'s emendation of vv. 386, 387 be accepted, the two lines, 'Hasten ... kinsmen' will read: _Hasten thou, bid the throng of kinsmen go into the hall together_. [3] For 420 (_b_) and 421 (_a_), B. suggests: aer ic (on) fifelgeban yethde eotena cyn = _where I in the ocean destroyed the eoten-race_.--t.B. accepts B.'s "brilliant" 'fifelgeban,' omits 'on,' emends 'cyn' to 'ham,' arranging: aer ic fifelgeban yethde, eotena ham = _where I desolated the ocean, the home of the eotens_.--This would be better but for changing 'cyn' to 'ham.'--I suggest: aer ic fifelgeband (cf. nhd. Bande) yethde, eotena cyn = _where I conquered the monster band, the race of the eotens_. This makes no change except to read '_fifel_' for '_fife_.' [4] 'Unforhte' (444) is much disputed.--H.-So. wavers between adj. and adv. Gr. and B. take it as an adv. modifying _etan: Will eat the Geats fearlessly_.--Kl. considers this reading absurd, and proposes 'anforhte' = timid.--Understanding 'unforhte' as an adj. has this advantage, viz. that it gives a parallel to 'Geatena leode': but to take it as an adv. is more natural. Furthermore, to call the Geats 'brave' might, at this point, seem like an implied thrust at the Danes, so long helpless; while to call his own men 'timid' would be befouling his own nest. [5] For 'head-watch,' cf. H.-So. notes and cf. v. 2910.--Th. translates: _Thou wilt not need my head to hide_ (i.e., thou wilt have no occasion to bury me, as Grendel will devour me whole).--Simrock imagines a kind of dead-watch.--Dr. H. Wood suggests: _Thou wilt not have to bury so much as my head_ (for Grendel will be a thorough undertaker),--grim humor. [6] S. proposes a colon after 'nimeeth' (l. 447). This would make no essential change in the translation. [7] Owing to the vagueness of 'feorme' (451), this passage is variously translated. In our translation, H.-So.'s glossary has been quite closely followed. This agrees substantially with B.'s translation (P. and B. XII. 87). R. translates: _Thou needst not take care longer as to the consumption of my dead body._ 'Lic' is also a crux here, as it may mean living body or dead body. HROTHGAR AND BEOWULF.--_Continued_. {Hrothgar responds.} Hrothgar discoursed, helm of the Scyldings: "To defend our folk and to furnish assistance,[1] Thou soughtest us hither, good friend Beowulf. {Reminiscences of Beowulf's father, Ecgtheow.} The fiercest of feuds thy father engaged in, 5 Heatholaf killed he in hand-to-hand conflict 'Mid Wilfingish warriors; then the Wederish people For fear of a feud were forced to disown him. Thence flying he fled to the folk of the South-Danes, [18] The race of the Scyldings, o'er the roll of the waters; 10 I had lately begun then to govern the Danemen, The hoard-seat of heroes held in my youth, Rich in its jewels: dead was Heregar, My kinsman and elder had earth-joys forsaken, Healfdene his bairn. He was better than I am! 15 That feud thereafter for a fee I compounded; O'er the weltering waters to the Wilfings I sent Ornaments old; oaths did he swear me. {Hrothgar recounts to Beowulf the horrors of Grendel's persecutions.} It pains me in spirit to any to tell it, What grief in Heorot Grendel hath caused me, 20 What horror unlooked-for, by hatred unceasing. Waned is my war-band, wasted my hall-troop; Weird hath offcast them to the clutches of Grendel. God can easily hinder the scather From deeds so direful. Oft drunken with beer {My thanes have made many boasts, but have not executed them.} 25 O'er the ale-vessel promised warriors in armor They would willingly wait on the wassailing-benches A grapple with Grendel, with grimmest of edges. Then this mead-hall at morning with murder was reeking, The building was bloody at breaking of daylight, 30 The bench-deals all flooded, dripping and bloodied, The folk-hall was gory: I had fewer retainers, Dear-beloved warriors, whom death had laid hold of. {Sit down to the feast, and give us comfort.} Sit at the feast now, thy intents unto heroes,[2] Thy victor-fame show, as thy spirit doth urge thee!" {A bench is made ready for Beowulf and his party.} 35 For the men of the Geats then together assembled, In the beer-hall blithesome a bench was made ready; There warlike in spirit they went to be seated, Proud and exultant. A liegeman did service, [19] Who a beaker embellished bore with decorum, {The gleeman sings} 40 And gleaming-drink poured. The gleeman sang whilom {The heroes all rejoice together.} Hearty in Heorot; there was heroes' rejoicing, A numerous war-band of Weders and Danemen. [1] B. and S. reject the reading given in H.-So., and suggested by Grtvg. B. suggests for 457-458: waere-ryhtum u, wine min Beowulf, and for ar-stafum usic sohtest. This means: _From the obligations of clientage, my friend Beowulf, and for assistance thou hast sought us_.--This gives coherence to Hrothgar's opening remarks in VIII., and also introduces a new motive for Beowulf's coming to Hrothgar's aid. [2] _Sit now at the feast, and disclose thy purposes to the victorious heroes, as thy spirit urges_.--Kl. reaches the above translation by erasing the comma after 'meoto' and reading 'sige-hreethsecgum.'--There are other and bolder emendations and suggestions. Of these the boldest is to regard 'meoto' as a verb (imperative), and read 'on sael': _Think upon gayety, etc_.--All the renderings are unsatisfactory, the one given in our translation involving a zeugma. UNFERTH TAUNTS BEOWULF. {Unferth, a thane of Hrothgar, is jealous of Beowulf, and undertakes to twit him.} Unferth spoke up, Ecglaf his son, Who sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings, Opened the jousting (the journey[1] of Beowulf, Sea-farer doughty, gave sorrow to Unferth 5 And greatest chagrin, too, for granted he never That any man else on earth should attain to, Gain under heaven, more glory than he): {Did you take part in a swimming-match with Breca?} "Art thou that Beowulf with Breca did struggle, On the wide sea-currents at swimming contended, 10 Where to humor your pride the ocean ye tried, {'Twas mere folly that actuated you both to risk your lives on the ocean.} From vainest vaunting adventured your bodies In care of the waters? And no one was able Nor lief nor loth one, in the least to dissuade you Your difficult voyage; then ye ventured a-swimming, 15 Where your arms outstretching the streams ye did cover, The mere-ways measured, mixing and stirring them, Glided the ocean; angry the waves were, With the weltering of winter. In the water's possession, Ye toiled for a seven-night; he at swimming outdid thee, 20 In strength excelled thee. Then early at morning On the Heathoremes' shore the holm-currents tossed him, Sought he thenceward the home of his fathers, Beloved of his liegemen, the land of the Brondings, The peace-castle pleasant, where a people he wielded, [20] 25 Had borough and jewels. The pledge that he made thee {Breca outdid you entirely.} The son of Beanstan hath soothly accomplished. Then I ween thou wilt find thee less fortunate issue, {Much more will Grendel outdo you, if you vie with him in prowess.} Though ever triumphant in onset of battle, A grim grappling, if Grendel thou darest 30 For the space of a night near-by to wait for!" {Beowulf retaliates.} Beowulf answered, offspring of Ecgtheow: "My good friend Unferth, sure freely and wildly, {O friend Unferth, you are fuddled with beer, and cannot talk coherently.} Thou fuddled with beer of Breca hast spoken, Hast told of his journey! A fact I allege it, 35 That greater strength in the waters I had then, Ills in the ocean, than any man else had. We made agreement as the merest of striplings Promised each other (both of us then were {We simply kept an engagement made in early life.} Younkers in years) that we yet would adventure 40 Out on the ocean; it all we accomplished. While swimming the sea-floods, sword-blade unscabbarded Boldly we brandished, our bodies expected To shield from the sharks. He sure was unable {He _could_ not excel me, and I _would_ not excel him.} To swim on the waters further than I could, 45 More swift on the waves, nor _would_ I from him go. Then we two companions stayed in the ocean {After five days the currents separated us.} Five nights together, till the currents did part us, The weltering waters, weathers the bleakest, And nethermost night, and the north-wind whistled 50 Fierce in our faces; fell were the billows. The mere fishes' mood was mightily ruffled: And there against foemen my firm-knotted corslet, Hand-jointed, hardy, help did afford me; My battle-sark braided, brilliantly gilded, {A horrible sea-beast attacked me, but I slew him.} 55 Lay on my bosom. To the bottom then dragged me, A hateful fiend-scather, seized me and held me, Grim in his grapple: 'twas granted me, nathless, To pierce the monster with the point of my weapon, My obedient blade; battle offcarried 60 The mighty mere-creature by means of my hand-blow. [1] It has been plausibly suggested that 'sieth' (in 501 and in 353) means 'arrival.' If so, translate the bracket: _(the arrival of Beowulf, the brave seafarer, was a source of great chagrin to Unferth, etc.)_. [21] BEOWULF SILENCES UNFERTH.--GLEE IS HIGH. "So ill-meaning enemies often did cause me Sorrow the sorest. I served them, in quittance, {My dear sword always served me faithfully.} With my dear-loved sword, as in sooth it was fitting; They missed the pleasure of feasting abundantly, 5 Ill-doers evil, of eating my body, Of surrounding the banquet deep in the ocean; But wounded with edges early at morning They were stretched a-high on the strand of the ocean, {I put a stop to the outrages of the sea-monsters.} Put to sleep with the sword, that sea-going travelers 10 No longer thereafter were hindered from sailing The foam-dashing currents. Came a light from the east, God's beautiful beacon; the billows subsided, That well I could see the nesses projecting, {Fortune helps the brave earl.} The blustering crags. Weird often saveth 15 The undoomed hero if doughty his valor! But me did it fortune[1] to fell with my weapon Nine of the nickers. Of night-struggle harder 'Neath dome of the heaven heard I but rarely, Nor of wight more woful in the waves of the ocean; 20 Yet I 'scaped with my life the grip of the monsters, {After that escape I drifted to Finland.} Weary from travel. Then the waters bare me To the land of the Finns, the flood with the current, {I have never heard of your doing any such bold deeds.} The weltering waves. Not a word hath been told me Of deeds so daring done by thee, Unferth, 25 And of sword-terror none; never hath Breca At the play of the battle, nor either of you two, Feat so fearless performed with weapons Glinting and gleaming . . . . . . . . . . . . [22] . . . . . . . . . . . . I utter no boasting; {You are a slayer of brothers, and will suffer damnation, wise as you may be.} 30 Though with cold-blooded cruelty thou killedst thy brothers, Thy nearest of kin; thou needs must in hell get Direful damnation, though doughty thy wisdom. I tell thee in earnest, offspring of Ecglaf, Never had Grendel such numberless horrors, 35 The direful demon, done to thy liegelord, Harrying in Heorot, if thy heart were as sturdy, {Had your acts been as brave as your words, Grendel had not ravaged your land so long.} Thy mood as ferocious as thou dost describe them. He hath found out fully that the fierce-burning hatred, The edge-battle eager, of all of your kindred, 40 Of the Victory-Scyldings, need little dismay him: Oaths he exacteth, not any he spares {The monster is not afraid of the Danes,} Of the folk of the Danemen, but fighteth with pleasure, Killeth and feasteth, no contest expecteth {but he will soon learn to dread the Geats.} From Spear-Danish people. But the prowess and valor 45 Of the earls of the Geatmen early shall venture To give him a grapple. He shall go who is able Bravely to banquet, when the bright-light of morning {On the second day, any warrior may go unmolested to the mead-banquet.} Which the second day bringeth, the sun in its ether-robes, O'er children of men shines from the southward!" 50 Then the gray-haired, war-famed giver of treasure {Hrothgar's spirits are revived.} Was blithesome and joyous, the Bright-Danish ruler Expected assistance; the people's protector {The old king trusts Beowulf. The heroes are joyful.} Heard from Beowulf his bold resolution. There was laughter of heroes; loud was the clatter, 55 The words were winsome. Wealhtheow advanced then, {Queen Wealhtheow plays the hostess.} Consort of Hrothgar, of courtesy mindful, Gold-decked saluted the men in the building, And the freeborn woman the beaker presented {She offers the cup to her husband first.} To the lord of the kingdom, first of the East-Danes, 60 Bade him be blithesome when beer was a-flowing, Lief to his liegemen; he lustily tasted Of banquet and beaker, battle-famed ruler. The Helmingish lady then graciously circled 'Mid all the liegemen lesser and greater: [23] {She gives presents to the heroes.} 65 Treasure-cups tendered, till time was afforded That the decorous-mooded, diademed folk-queen {Then she offers the cup to Beowulf, thanking God that aid has come.} Might bear to Beowulf the bumper o'errunning; She greeted the Geat-prince, God she did thank, Most wise in her words, that her wish was accomplished, 70 That in any of earlmen she ever should look for Solace in sorrow. He accepted the beaker, Battle-bold warrior, at Wealhtheow's giving, {Beowulf states to the queen the object of his visit.} Then equipped for combat quoth he in measures, Beowulf spake, offspring of Ecgtheow: 75 "I purposed in spirit when I mounted the ocean, {I determined to do or die.} When I boarded my boat with a band of my liegemen, I would work to the fullest the will of your people Or in foe's-clutches fastened fall in the battle. Deeds I shall do of daring and prowess, 80 Or the last of my life-days live in this mead-hall." These words to the lady were welcome and pleasing, The boast of the Geatman; with gold trappings broidered Went the freeborn folk-queen her fond-lord to sit by. {Glee is high.} Then again as of yore was heard in the building 85 Courtly discussion, conquerors' shouting, Heroes were happy, till Healfdene's son would Go to his slumber to seek for refreshing; For the horrid hell-monster in the hall-building knew he A fight was determined,[2] since the light of the sun they 90 No longer could see, and lowering darkness O'er all had descended, and dark under heaven Shadowy shapes came shying around them. {Hrothgar retires, leaving Beowulf in charge of the hall.} The liegemen all rose then. One saluted the other, Hrothgar Beowulf, in rhythmical measures, 95 Wishing him well, and, the wassail-hall giving To his care and keeping, quoth he departing: [24] "Not to any one else have I ever entrusted, But thee and thee only, the hall of the Danemen, Since high I could heave my hand and my buckler. 100 Take thou in charge now the noblest of houses; Be mindful of honor, exhibiting prowess, Watch 'gainst the foeman! Thou shalt want no enjoyments, Survive thou safely adventure so glorious!" [1] The repetition of 'hwaeethere' (574 and 578) is regarded by some scholars as a defect. B. suggests 'swa aer' for the first: _So there it befell me, etc._ Another suggestion is to change the second 'hwaeethere' into 'swa aer': _So there I escaped with my life, etc._ [2] Kl. suggests a period after 'determined.' This would give the passage as follows: _Since they no longer could see the light of the sun, and lowering darkness was down over all, dire under the heavens shadowy beings came going around them_. ALL SLEEP SAVE ONE. {Hrothgar retires.} Then Hrothgar departed, his earl-throng attending him, Folk-lord of Scyldings, forth from the building; The war-chieftain wished then Wealhtheow to look for, The queen for a bedmate. To keep away Grendel {God has provided a watch for the hall.} 5 The Glory of Kings had given a hall-watch, As men heard recounted: for the king of the Danemen He did special service, gave the giant a watcher: And the prince of the Geatmen implicitly trusted {Beowulf is self-confident} His warlike strength and the Wielder's protection. {He prepares for rest.} 10 His armor of iron off him he did then, His helmet from his head, to his henchman committed His chased-handled chain-sword, choicest of weapons, And bade him bide with his battle-equipments. The good one then uttered words of defiance, 15 Beowulf Geatman, ere his bed he upmounted: {Beowulf boasts of his ability to cope with Grendel.} "I hold me no meaner in matters of prowess, In warlike achievements, than Grendel does himself; Hence I seek not with sword-edge to sooth him to slumber, Of life to bereave him, though well I am able. {We will fight with nature's weapons only.} 20 No battle-skill[1] has he, that blows he should strike me, To shatter my shield, though sure he is mighty [25] In strife and destruction; but struggling by night we Shall do without edges, dare he to look for Weaponless warfare, and wise-mooded Father 25 The glory apportion, God ever-holy, {God may decide who shall conquer} On which hand soever to him seemeth proper." Then the brave-mooded hero bent to his slumber, The pillow received the cheek of the noble; {The Geatish warriors lie down.} And many a martial mere-thane attending 30 Sank to his slumber. Seemed it unlikely {They thought it very unlikely that they should ever see their homes again.} That ever thereafter any should hope to Be happy at home, hero-friends visit Or the lordly troop-castle where he lived from his childhood; They had heard how slaughter had snatched from the wine-hall, 35 Had recently ravished, of the race of the Scyldings {But God raised up a deliverer.} Too many by far. But the Lord to them granted The weaving of war-speed, to Wederish heroes Aid and comfort, that every opponent By one man's war-might they worsted and vanquished, {God rules the world.} 40 By the might of himself; the truth is established That God Almighty hath governed for ages Kindreds and nations. A night very lurid {Grendel comes to Heorot.} The trav'ler-at-twilight came tramping and striding. The warriors were sleeping who should watch the horned-building, {Only one warrior is awake.} 45 One only excepted. 'Mid earthmen 'twas 'stablished, Th' implacable foeman was powerless to hurl them To the land of shadows, if the Lord were unwilling; But serving as warder, in terror to foemen, He angrily bided the issue of battle.[2] [1] Gr. understood 'godra' as meaning 'advantages in battle.' This rendering H.-So. rejects. The latter takes the passage as meaning that Grendel, though mighty and formidable, has no skill in the art of war. [2] B. in his masterly articles on Beowulf (P. and B. XII.) rejects the division usually made at this point, 'a.' (711), usually rendered 'then,' he translates 'when,' and connects its clause with the foregoing sentence. These changes he makes to reduce the number of 'com's' as principal verbs. (Cf. 703, 711, 721.) With all deference to this acute scholar, I must say that it seems to me that the poet is exhausting his resources to bring out clearly the supreme event on which the whole subsequent action turns. First, he (Grendel) came _in the wan night_; second, he came _from the moor_; third, he came _to the hall_. Time, place from which, place to which, are all given. [26] GRENDEL AND BEOWULF. {Grendel comes from the fens.} 'Neath the cloudy cliffs came from the moor then Grendel going, God's anger bare he. The monster intended some one of earthmen In the hall-building grand to entrap and make way with: {He goes towards the joyous building.} 5 He went under welkin where well he knew of The wine-joyous building, brilliant with plating, Gold-hall of earthmen. Not the earliest occasion {This was not his first visit there.} He the home and manor of Hrothgar had sought: Ne'er found he in life-days later nor earlier 10 Hardier hero, hall-thanes[1] more sturdy! Then came to the building the warrior marching, {His horrid fingers tear the door open.} Bereft of his joyance. The door quickly opened On fire-hinges fastened, when his fingers had touched it; The fell one had flung then--his fury so bitter-- 15 Open the entrance. Early thereafter The foeman trod the shining hall-pavement, {He strides furiously into the hall.} Strode he angrily; from the eyes of him glimmered A lustre unlovely likest to fire. He beheld in the hall the heroes in numbers, 20 A circle of kinsmen sleeping together, {He exults over his supposed prey.} A throng of thanemen: then his thoughts were exultant, He minded to sunder from each of the thanemen The life from his body, horrible demon, Ere morning came, since fate had allowed him {Fate has decreed that he shall devour no more heroes. Beowulf suffers from suspense.} 25 The prospect of plenty. Providence willed not To permit him any more of men under heaven To eat in the night-time. Higelac's kinsman Great sorrow endured how the dire-mooded creature [27] In unlooked-for assaults were likely to bear him. 30 No thought had the monster of deferring the matter, {Grendel immediately seizes a sleeping warrior, and devours him.} But on earliest occasion he quickly laid hold of A soldier asleep, suddenly tore him, Bit his bone-prison, the blood drank in currents, Swallowed in mouthfuls: he soon had the dead man's 35 Feet and hands, too, eaten entirely. Nearer he strode then, the stout-hearted warrior {Beowulf and Grendel grapple.} Snatched as he slumbered, seizing with hand-grip, Forward the foeman foined with his hand; Caught he quickly the cunning deviser, 40 On his elbow he rested. This early discovered The master of malice, that in middle-earth's regions, 'Neath the whole of the heavens, no hand-grapple greater {The monster is amazed at Beowulf's strength.} In any man else had he ever encountered: Fearful in spirit, faint-mooded waxed he, 45 Not off could betake him; death he was pondering, {He is anxious to flee.} Would fly to his covert, seek the devils' assembly: His calling no more was the same he had followed Long in his lifetime. The liege-kinsman worthy {Beowulf recalls his boast of the evening, and determines to fulfil it.} Of Higelac minded his speech of the evening, 50 Stood he up straight and stoutly did seize him. His fingers crackled; the giant was outward, The earl stepped farther. The famous one minded To flee away farther, if he found an occasion, And off and away, avoiding delay, 55 To fly to the fen-moors; he fully was ware of The strength of his grapple in the grip of the foeman. {'Twas a luckless day for Grendel.} 'Twas an ill-taken journey that the injury-bringing, Harrying harmer to Heorot wandered: {The hall groans.} The palace re-echoed; to all of the Danemen, 60 Dwellers in castles, to each of the bold ones, Earlmen, was terror. Angry they both were, Archwarders raging.[2] Rattled the building; [28] 'Twas a marvellous wonder that the wine-hall withstood then The bold-in-battle, bent not to earthward, 65 Excellent earth-hall; but within and without it Was fastened so firmly in fetters of iron, By the art of the armorer. Off from the sill there Bent mead-benches many, as men have informed me, Adorned with gold-work, where the grim ones did struggle. 70 The Scylding wise men weened ne'er before That by might and main-strength a man under heaven Might break it in pieces, bone-decked, resplendent, Crush it by cunning, unless clutch of the fire In smoke should consume it. The sound mounted upward {Grendel's cries terrify the Danes.} 75 Novel enough; on the North Danes fastened A terror of anguish, on all of the men there Who heard from the wall the weeping and plaining, The song of defeat from the foeman of heaven, Heard him hymns of horror howl, and his sorrow 80 Hell-bound bewailing. He held him too firmly Who was strongest of main-strength of men of that era. [1] B. and t.B. emend so as to make lines 9 and 10 read: _Never in his life, earlier or later, had he, the hell-thane, found a braver hero_.--They argue that Beowulf's companions had done nothing to merit such encomiums as the usual readings allow them. [2] For 'reethe ren-weardas' (771), t.B. suggests 'reethe, renhearde.' Translate: _They were both angry, raging and mighty_. GRENDEL IS VANQUISHED. {Beowulf has no idea of letting Grendel live.} For no cause whatever would the earlmen's defender Leave in life-joys the loathsome newcomer, He deemed his existence utterly useless To men under heaven. Many a noble 5 Of Beowulf brandished his battle-sword old, Would guard the life of his lord and protector, The far-famous chieftain, if able to do so; While waging the warfare, this wist they but little, Brave battle-thanes, while his body intending {No weapon would harm Grendel; he bore a charmed life.} 10 To slit into slivers, and seeking his spirit: That the relentless foeman nor finest of weapons Of all on the earth, nor any of war-bills [29] Was willing to injure; but weapons of victory Swords and suchlike he had sworn to dispense with. 15 His death at that time must prove to be wretched, And the far-away spirit widely should journey Into enemies' power. This plainly he saw then Who with mirth[1] of mood malice no little Had wrought in the past on the race of the earthmen 20 (To God he was hostile), that his body would fail him, But Higelac's hardy henchman and kinsman Held him by the hand; hateful to other {Grendel is sorely wounded.} Was each one if living. A body-wound suffered The direful demon, damage incurable {His body bursts.} 25 Was seen on his shoulder, his sinews were shivered, His body did burst. To Beowulf was given Glory in battle; Grendel from thenceward Must flee and hide him in the fen-cliffs and marshes, Sick unto death, his dwelling must look for 30 Unwinsome and woful; he wist the more fully {The monster flees away to hide in the moors.} The end of his earthly existence was nearing, His life-days' limits. At last for the Danemen, When the slaughter was over, their wish was accomplished. The comer-from-far-land had cleansed then of evil, 35 Wise and valiant, the war-hall of Hrothgar, Saved it from violence. He joyed in the night-work, In repute for prowess; the prince of the Geatmen For the East-Danish people his boast had accomplished, Bettered their burdensome bale-sorrows fully, 40 The craft-begot evil they erstwhile had suffered And were forced to endure from crushing oppression, Their manifold misery. 'Twas a manifest token, {Beowulf suspends Grendel's hand and arm in Heorot.} When the hero-in-battle the hand suspended, The arm and the shoulder (there was all of the claw 45 Of Grendel together) 'neath great-stretching hall-roof. [1] It has been proposed to translate 'myrethe' by _with sorrow_; but there seems no authority for such a rendering. To the present translator, the phrase 'modes myrethe' seems a mere padding for _gladly_; i.e., _he who gladly harassed mankind_. [30] REJOICING OF THE DANES. {At early dawn, warriors from far and near come together to hear of the night's adventures.} In the mist of the morning many a warrior Stood round the gift-hall, as the story is told me: Folk-princes fared then from far and from near Through long-stretching journeys to look at the wonder, 5 The footprints of the foeman. Few of the warriors {Few warriors lamented Grendel's destruction.} Who gazed on the foot-tracks of the inglorious creature His parting from life pained very deeply, How, weary in spirit, off from those regions In combats conquered he carried his traces, 10 Fated and flying, to the flood of the nickers. {Grendel's blood dyes the waters.} There in bloody billows bubbled the currents, The angry eddy was everywhere mingled And seething with gore, welling with sword-blood;[1] He death-doomed had hid him, when reaved of his joyance 15 He laid down his life in the lair he had fled to, His heathenish spirit, where hell did receive him. Thence the friends from of old backward turned them, And many a younker from merry adventure, Striding their stallions, stout from the seaward, 20 Heroes on horses. There were heard very often {Beowulf is the hero of the hour.} Beowulf's praises; many often asserted That neither south nor north, in the circuit of waters, {He is regarded as a probable successor to Hrothgar.} O'er outstretching earth-plain, none other was better 'Mid bearers of war-shields, more worthy to govern, 25 'Neath the arch of the ether. Not any, however, 'Gainst the friend-lord muttered, mocking-words uttered {But no word is uttered to derogate from the old king} Of Hrothgar the gracious (a good king he). Oft the famed ones permitted their fallow-skinned horses [31] To run in rivalry, racing and chasing, 30 Where the fieldways appeared to them fair and inviting, Known for their excellence; oft a thane of the folk-lord,[2] {The gleeman sings the deeds of heroes.} [3]A man of celebrity, mindful of rhythms, Who ancient traditions treasured in memory, New word-groups found properly bound: 35 The bard after 'gan then Beowulf's venture {He sings in alliterative measures of Beowulf's prowess.} Wisely to tell of, and words that were clever To utter skilfully, earnestly speaking, Everything told he that he heard as to Sigmund's {Also of Sigemund, who has slain a great fire-dragon.} Mighty achievements, many things hidden, 40 The strife of the Waelsing, the wide-going ventures The children of men knew of but little, The feud and the fury, but Fitela with him, When suchlike matters he minded to speak of, Uncle to nephew, as in every contention 45 Each to other was ever devoted: A numerous host of the race of the scathers They had slain with the sword-edge. To Sigmund accrued then No little of glory, when his life-days were over, Since he sturdy in struggle had destroyed the great dragon, 50 The hoard-treasure's keeper; 'neath the hoar-grayish stone he, The son of the atheling, unaided adventured The perilous project; not present was Fitela, Yet the fortune befell him of forcing his weapon Through the marvellous dragon, that it stood in the wall, 55 Well-honored weapon; the worm was slaughtered. The great one had gained then by his glorious achievement To reap from the ring-hoard richest enjoyment, [32] As best it did please him: his vessel he loaded, Shining ornaments on the ship's bosom carried, 60 Kinsman of Waels: the drake in heat melted. {Sigemund was widely famed.} He was farthest famed of fugitive pilgrims, Mid wide-scattered world-folk, for works of great prowess, War-troopers' shelter: hence waxed he in honor.[4] {Heremod, an unfortunate Danish king, is introduced by way of contrast.} Afterward Heremod's hero-strength failed him, 65 His vigor and valor. 'Mid venomous haters To the hands of foemen he was foully delivered, Offdriven early. Agony-billows {Unlike Sigemund and Beowulf, Heremod was a burden to his people.} Oppressed him too long, to his people he became then, To all the athelings, an ever-great burden; 70 And the daring one's journey in days of yore Many wise men were wont to deplore, Such as hoped he would bring them help in their sorrow, That the son of their ruler should rise into power, Holding the headship held by his fathers, 75 Should govern the people, the gold-hoard and borough, The kingdom of heroes, the realm of the Scyldings. {Beowulf is an honor to his race.} He to all men became then far more beloved, Higelac's kinsman, to kindreds and races, To his friends much dearer; him malice assaulted.-- {The story is resumed.} 80 Oft running and racing on roadsters they measured The dun-colored highways. Then the light of the morning Was hurried and hastened. Went henchmen in numbers To the beautiful building, bold ones in spirit, To look at the wonder; the liegelord himself then 85 From his wife-bower wending, warden of treasures, Glorious trod with troopers unnumbered, Famed for his virtues, and with him the queen-wife Measured the mead-ways, with maidens attending. [1] S. emends, suggesting 'deop' for 'deog,' and removing semicolon after 'weol.' The two half-lines 'welling ... hid him' would then read: _The bloody deep welled with sword-gore_. B. accepts 'deop' for 'deog,' but reads 'deaeth-faeges': _The deep boiled with the sword-gore of the death-doomed one_. [2] Another and quite different rendering of this passage is as follows: _Oft a liegeman of the king, a fame-covered man mindful of songs, who very many ancient traditions remembered (he found other word-groups accurately bound together) began afterward to tell of Beowulf's adventure, skilfully to narrate it, etc_. [3] Might 'guma gilp-hladen' mean 'a man laden with boasts of the deeds of others'? [4] t.B. accepts B.'s 'he aes aron ah' as given by H.-So., but puts a comma after 'ah,' and takes 'siethethan' as introducing a dependent clause: _He throve in honor since Heremod's strength ... had decreased_. [33] HROTHGAR'S GRATITUDE. Hrothgar discoursed (to the hall-building went he, He stood by the pillar,[1] saw the steep-rising hall-roof Gleaming with gold-gems, and Grendel his hand there): {Hrothgar gives thanks for the overthrow of the monster.} "For the sight we behold now, thanks to the Wielder 5 Early be offered! Much evil I bided, Snaring from Grendel:[2] God can e'er 'complish Wonder on wonder, Wielder of Glory! {I had given up all hope, when this brave liegeman came to our aid.} But lately I reckoned ne'er under heaven Comfort to gain me for any of sorrows, 10 While the handsomest of houses horrid with bloodstain Gory uptowered; grief had offfrightened[3] Each of the wise ones who weened not that ever The folk-troop's defences 'gainst foes they should strengthen, 'Gainst sprites and monsters. Through the might of the Wielder 15 A doughty retainer hath a deed now accomplished Which erstwhile we all with our excellent wisdom {If his mother yet liveth, well may she thank God for this son.} Failed to perform. May affirm very truly What woman soever in all of the nations Gave birth to the child, if yet she surviveth, 20 That the long-ruling Lord was lavish to herward In the birth of the bairn. Now, Beowulf dear, {Hereafter, Beowulf, thou shalt be my son.} Most excellent hero, I'll love thee in spirit As bairn of my body; bear well henceforward The relationship new. No lack shall befall thee 25 Of earth-joys any I ever can give thee. Full often for lesser service I've given [34] Hero less hardy hoard-treasure precious, {Thou hast won immortal distinction.} To a weaker in war-strife. By works of distinction Thou hast gained for thyself now that thy glory shall flourish 30 Forever and ever. The All-Ruler quite thee With good from His hand as He hitherto did thee!" {Beowulf replies: I was most happy to render thee this service.} Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's offspring: "That labor of glory most gladly achieved we, The combat accomplished, unquailing we ventured 35 The enemy's grapple; I would grant it much rather Thou wert able to look at the creature in person, Faint unto falling, the foe in his trappings! On murder-bed quickly I minded to bind him, With firm-holding fetters, that forced by my grapple 40 Low he should lie in life-and-death struggle 'Less his body escape; I was wholly unable, {I could not keep the monster from escaping, as God did not will that I should.} Since God did not will it, to keep him from going, Not held him that firmly, hated opposer; Too swift was the foeman. Yet safety regarding 45 He suffered his hand behind him to linger, His arm and shoulder, to act as watcher; {He left his hand and arm behind.} No shadow of solace the woe-begone creature Found him there nathless: the hated destroyer Liveth no longer, lashed for his evils, 50 But sorrow hath seized him, in snare-meshes hath him Close in its clutches, keepeth him writhing In baleful bonds: there banished for evil The man shall wait for the mighty tribunal, {God will give him his deserts.} How the God of glory shall give him his earnings." 55 Then the soldier kept silent, son of old Ecglaf, {Unferth has nothing more to say, for Beowulf's actions speak louder than words.} From boasting and bragging of battle-achievements, Since the princes beheld there the hand that depended 'Neath the lofty hall-timbers by the might of the nobleman, Each one before him, the enemy's fingers; 60 Each finger-nail strong steel most resembled, The heathen one's hand-spur, the hero-in-battle's Claw most uncanny; quoth they agreeing, [35] {No sword will harm the monster.} That not any excellent edges of brave ones Was willing to touch him, the terrible creature's 65 Battle-hand bloody to bear away from him. [1] B. and t.B. read 'staole,' and translate _stood on the floor_. [2] For 'snaring from Grendel,' 'sorrows at Grendel's hands' has been suggested. This gives a parallel to 'laethes.' 'Grynna' may well be gen. pl. of 'gyrn,' by a scribal slip. [3] The H.-So punctuation has been followed; but B. has been followed in understanding 'gehwylcne' as object of 'wid-scofen (haefde).' Gr. construes 'wea' as nom abs. HROTHGAR LAVISHES GIFTS UPON HIS DELIVERER. {Heorot is adorned with hands.} Then straight was ordered that Heorot inside[1] With hands be embellished: a host of them gathered, Of men and women, who the wassailing-building The guest-hall begeared. Gold-flashing sparkled 5 Webs on the walls then, of wonders a many To each of the heroes that look on such objects. {The hall is defaced, however.} The beautiful building was broken to pieces Which all within with irons was fastened, Its hinges torn off: only the roof was 10 Whole and uninjured when the horrible creature Outlawed for evil off had betaken him, Hopeless of living. 'Tis hard to avoid it {[A vague passage of five verses.]} (Whoever will do it!); but he doubtless must come to[2] The place awaiting, as Wyrd hath appointed, 15 Soul-bearers, earth-dwellers, earls under heaven, Where bound on its bed his body shall slumber {Hrothgar goes to the banquet.} When feasting is finished. Full was the time then That the son of Healfdene went to the building; [36] The excellent atheling would eat of the banquet. 20 Ne'er heard I that people with hero-band larger Bare them better tow'rds their bracelet-bestower. The laden-with-glory stooped to the bench then (Their kinsmen-companions in plenty were joyful, Many a cupful quaffing complaisantly), 25 Doughty of spirit in the high-tow'ring palace, {Hrothgar's nephew, Hrothulf, is present.} Hrothgar and Hrothulf. Heorot then inside Was filled with friendly ones; falsehood and treachery The Folk-Scyldings now nowise did practise. {Hrothgar lavishes gifts upon Beowulf.} Then the offspring of Healfdene offered to Beowulf 30 A golden standard, as reward for the victory, A banner embossed, burnie and helmet; Many men saw then a song-famous weapon Borne 'fore the hero. Beowulf drank of The cup in the building; that treasure-bestowing 35 He needed not blush for in battle-men's presence. {Four handsomer gifts were never presented.} Ne'er heard I that many men on the ale-bench In friendlier fashion to their fellows presented Four bright jewels with gold-work embellished. 'Round the roof of the helmet a head-guarder outside 40 Braided with wires, with bosses was furnished, That swords-for-the-battle fight-hardened might fail Boldly to harm him, when the hero proceeded {Hrothgar commands that eight finely caparisoned steeds be brought to Beowulf.} Forth against foemen. The defender of earls then Commanded that eight steeds with bridles 45 Gold-plated, gleaming, be guided to hallward, Inside the building; on one of them stood then An art-broidered saddle embellished with jewels; 'Twas the sovereign's seat, when the son of King Healfdene Was pleased to take part in the play of the edges; 50 The famous one's valor ne'er failed at the front when Slain ones were bowing. And to Beowulf granted The prince of the Ingwins, power over both, O'er war-steeds and weapons; bade him well to enjoy them. In so manly a manner the mighty-famed chieftain, [37] 55 Hoard-ward of heroes, with horses and jewels War-storms requited, that none e'er condemneth Who willeth to tell truth with full justice. [1] Kl. suggests 'hroden' for 'haten,' and renders: _Then quickly was Heorot adorned within, with hands bedecked_.--B. suggests 'gefraetwon' instead of 'gefraetwod,' and renders: _Then was it commanded to adorn Heorot within quickly with hands_.--The former has the advantage of affording a parallel to 'gefraetwod': both have the disadvantage of altering the text. [2] The passage 1005-1009 seems to be hopeless. One difficult point is to find a subject for 'gesacan.' Some say 'he'; others supply 'each,' _i.e., every soul-bearer ... must gain the inevitable place_. The genitives in this case are partitive.--If 'he' be subj., the genitives are dependent on 'gearwe' (= prepared).--The 'he' itself is disputed, some referring it to Grendel; but B. takes it as involved in the parenthesis. BANQUET (_continued_).--THE SCOP'S SONG OF FINN AND HNAEF. {Each of Beowulf's companions receives a costly gift.} And the atheling of earlmen to each of the heroes Who the ways of the waters went with Beowulf, A costly gift-token gave on the mead-bench, Offered an heirloom, and ordered that that man {The warrior killed by Grendel is to be paid for in gold.} 5 With gold should be paid for, whom Grendel had erstwhile Wickedly slaughtered, as he more of them had done Had far-seeing God and the mood of the hero The fate not averted: the Father then governed All of the earth-dwellers, as He ever is doing; 10 Hence insight for all men is everywhere fittest, Forethought of spirit! much he shall suffer Of lief and of loathsome who long in this present Useth the world in this woful existence. There was music and merriment mingling together {Hrothgar's scop recalls events in the reign of his lord's father.} 15 Touching Healfdene's leader; the joy-wood was fingered, Measures recited, when the singer of Hrothgar On mead-bench should mention the merry hall-joyance Of the kinsmen of Finn, when onset surprised them: {Hnaef, the Danish general, is treacherously attacked while staying at Finn's castle.} "The Half-Danish hero, Hnaef of the Scyldings, 20 On the field of the Frisians was fated to perish. Sure Hildeburg needed not mention approving The faith of the Jutemen: though blameless entirely, {Queen Hildeburg is not only wife of Finn, but a kinswoman of the murdered Hnaef.} When shields were shivered she was shorn of her darlings, Of bairns and brothers: they bent to their fate 25 With war-spear wounded; woe was that woman. Not causeless lamented the daughter of Hoce The decree of the Wielder when morning-light came and She was able 'neath heaven to behold the destruction [38] Of brothers and bairns, where the brightest of earth-joys {Finn's force is almost exterminated.} 30 She had hitherto had: all the henchmen of Finn War had offtaken, save a handful remaining, That he nowise was able to offer resistance[1] {Hengest succeeds Hnaef as Danish general.} To the onset of Hengest in the parley of battle, Nor the wretched remnant to rescue in war from 35 The earl of the atheling; but they offered conditions, {Compact between the Frisians and the Danes.} Another great building to fully make ready, A hall and a high-seat, that half they might rule with The sons of the Jutemen, and that Folcwalda's son would Day after day the Danemen honor 40 When gifts were giving, and grant of his ring-store To Hengest's earl-troop ever so freely, Of his gold-plated jewels, as he encouraged the Frisians {Equality of gifts agreed on.} On the bench of the beer-hall. On both sides they swore then A fast-binding compact; Finn unto Hengest 45 With no thought of revoking vowed then most solemnly The woe-begone remnant well to take charge of, His Witan advising; the agreement should no one By words or works weaken and shatter, By artifice ever injure its value, 50 Though reaved of their ruler their ring-giver's slayer They followed as vassals, Fate so requiring: {No one shall refer to old grudges.} Then if one of the Frisians the quarrel should speak of In tones that were taunting, terrible edges Should cut in requital. Accomplished the oath was, 55 And treasure of gold from the hoard was uplifted. {Danish warriors are burned on a funeral-pyre.} The best of the Scylding braves was then fully Prepared for the pile; at the pyre was seen clearly The blood-gory burnie, the boar with his gilding, The iron-hard swine, athelings many 60 Fatally wounded; no few had been slaughtered. Hildeburg bade then, at the burning of Hnaef, [39] {Queen Hildeburg has her son burnt along with Hnaef.} The bairn of her bosom to bear to the fire, That his body be burned and borne to the pyre. The woe-stricken woman wept on his shoulder,[2] 65 In measures lamented; upmounted the hero.[3] The greatest of dead-fires curled to the welkin, On the hill's-front crackled; heads were a-melting, Wound-doors bursting, while the blood was a-coursing From body-bite fierce. The fire devoured them, 70 Greediest of spirits, whom war had offcarried From both of the peoples; their bravest were fallen. [1] For 1084, R. suggests 'wiht Hengeste wieth gefeohtan.'--K. suggests 'wieth Hengeste wiht gefeohtan.' Neither emendation would make any essential change in the translation. [2] The separation of adjective and noun by a phrase (cf. v. 1118) being very unusual, some scholars have put 'earme on eaxle' with the foregoing lines, inserting a semicolon after 'eaxle.' In this case 'on eaxe' (_i.e._, on the ashes, cinders) is sometimes read, and this affords a parallel to 'on bael.' Let us hope that a satisfactory rendering shall yet be reached without resorting to any tampering with the text, such as Lichtenheld proposed: 'earme ides on eaxle gnornode.' [3] For 'gueth-rinc,' 'gueth-rec,' _battle-smoke_, has been suggested. THE FINN EPISODE (_continued_).--THE BANQUET CONTINUES. {The survivors go to Friesland, the home of Finn.} "Then the warriors departed to go to their dwellings, Reaved of their friends, Friesland to visit, Their homes and high-city. Hengest continued {Hengest remains there all winter, unable to get away.} Biding with Finn the blood-tainted winter, 5 Wholly unsundered;[1] of fatherland thought he Though unable to drive the ring-stemmed vessel [40] O'er the ways of the waters; the wave-deeps were tossing, Fought with the wind; winter in ice-bonds Closed up the currents, till there came to the dwelling 10 A year in its course, as yet it revolveth, If season propitious one alway regardeth, World-cheering weathers. Then winter was gone, Earth's bosom was lovely; the exile would get him, {He devises schemes of vengeance.} The guest from the palace; on grewsomest vengeance 15 He brooded more eager than on oversea journeys, Whe'r onset-of-anger he were able to 'complish, The bairns of the Jutemen therein to remember. Nowise refused he the duties of liegeman When Hun of the Frisians the battle-sword Lafing, 20 Fairest of falchions, friendly did give him: Its edges were famous in folk-talk of Jutland. And savage sword-fury seized in its clutches Bold-mooded Finn where he bode in his palace, {Guthlaf and Oslaf revenge Hnaef's slaughter.} When the grewsome grapple Guthlaf and Oslaf 25 Had mournfully mentioned, the mere-journey over, For sorrows half-blamed him; the flickering spirit Could not bide in his bosom. Then the building was covered[2] {Finn is slain.} With corpses of foemen, and Finn too was slaughtered, The king with his comrades, and the queen made a prisoner. {The jewels of Finn, and his queen are carried away by the Danes.} 30 The troops of the Scyldings bore to their vessels All that the land-king had in his palace, Such trinkets and treasures they took as, on searching, At Finn's they could find. They ferried to Daneland The excellent woman on oversea journey, {The lay is concluded, and the main story is resumed.} 35 Led her to their land-folk." The lay was concluded, The gleeman's recital. Shouts again rose then, Bench-glee resounded, bearers then offered {Skinkers carry round the beaker.} Wine from wonder-vats. Wealhtheo advanced then Going 'neath gold-crown, where the good ones were seated [41] {Queen Wealhtheow greets Hrothgar, as he sits beside Hrothulf, his nephew.} 40 Uncle and nephew; their peace was yet mutual, True each to the other. And Unferth the spokesman Sat at the feet of the lord of the Scyldings: Each trusted his spirit that his mood was courageous, Though at fight he had failed in faith to his kinsmen. 45 Said the queen of the Scyldings: "My lord and protector, Treasure-bestower, take thou this beaker; Joyance attend thee, gold-friend of heroes, {Be generous to the Geats.} And greet thou the Geatmen with gracious responses! So ought one to do. Be kind to the Geatmen, 50 In gifts not niggardly; anear and afar now Peace thou enjoyest. Report hath informed me Thou'lt have for a bairn the battle-brave hero. Now is Heorot cleansed, ring-palace gleaming; {Have as much joy as possible in thy hall, once more purified.} Give while thou mayest many rewards, 55 And bequeath to thy kinsmen kingdom and people, On wending thy way to the Wielder's splendor. I know good Hrothulf, that the noble young troopers {I know that Hrothulf will prove faithful if he survive thee.} He'll care for and honor, lord of the Scyldings, If earth-joys thou endest earlier than he doth; 60 I reckon that recompense he'll render with kindness Our offspring and issue, if that all he remember, What favors of yore, when he yet was an infant, We awarded to him for his worship and pleasure." Then she turned by the bench where her sons were carousing, 65 Hrethric and Hrothmund, and the heroes' offspring, {Beowulf is sitting by the two royal sons.} The war-youth together; there the good one was sitting 'Twixt the brothers twain, Beowulf Geatman. [1] For 1130 (1) R. and Gr. suggest 'elne unflitme' as 1098 (1) reads. The latter verse is undisputed; and, for the former, 'elne' would be as possible as 'ealles,' and 'unflitme' is well supported. Accepting 'elne unflitme' for both, I would suggest '_very peaceably_' for both places: (1) _Finn to Hengest very peaceably vowed with oaths_, etc. (2) _Hengest then still the slaughter-stained winter remained there with Finn very peaceably_. The two passages become thus correlatives, the second a sequel of the first. 'Elne,' in the sense of very (swiethe), needs no argument; and 'unflitme' (from 'flitan') can, it seems to me, be more plausibly rendered 'peaceful,' 'peaceable,' than 'contestable,' or 'conquerable.' [2] Some scholars have proposed 'roden'; the line would then read: _Then the building was reddened, etc._, instead of 'covered.' The 'h' may have been carried over from the three alliterating 'h's.' BEOWULF RECEIVES FURTHER HONOR. {More gifts are offered Beowulf.} A beaker was borne him, and bidding to quaff it Graciously given, and gold that was twisted Pleasantly proffered, a pair of arm-jewels, [42] Rings and corslet, of collars the greatest 5 I've heard of 'neath heaven. Of heroes not any More splendid from jewels have I heard 'neath the welkin, {A famous necklace is referred to, in comparison with the gems presented to Beowulf.} Since Hama off bore the Brosingmen's necklace, The bracteates and jewels, from the bright-shining city,[1] Eormenric's cunning craftiness fled from, 10 Chose gain everlasting. Geatish Higelac, Grandson of Swerting, last had this jewel When tramping 'neath banner the treasure he guarded, The field-spoil defended; Fate offcarried him When for deeds of daring he endured tribulation, 15 Hate from the Frisians; the ornaments bare he O'er the cup of the currents, costly gem-treasures, Mighty folk-leader, he fell 'neath his target; The[2] corpse of the king then came into charge of The race of the Frankmen, the mail-shirt and collar: 20 Warmen less noble plundered the fallen, When the fight was finished; the folk of the Geatmen The field of the dead held in possession. The choicest of mead-halls with cheering resounded. Wealhtheo discoursed, the war-troop addressed she: {Queen Wealhtheow magnifies Beowulf's achievements.} 25 "This collar enjoy thou, Beowulf worthy, Young man, in safety, and use thou this armor, Gems of the people, and prosper thou fully, Show thyself sturdy and be to these liegemen Mild with instruction! I'll mind thy requital. 30 Thou hast brought it to pass that far and near Forever and ever earthmen shall honor thee, Even so widely as ocean surroundeth The blustering bluffs. Be, while thou livest, [43] A wealth-blessed atheling. I wish thee most truly {May gifts never fail thee.} 35 Jewels and treasure. Be kind to my son, thou Living in joyance! Here each of the nobles Is true unto other, gentle in spirit, Loyal to leader. The liegemen are peaceful, The war-troops ready: well-drunken heroes,[3] 40 Do as I bid ye." Then she went to the settle. There was choicest of banquets, wine drank the heroes: {They little know of the sorrow in store for them.} Weird they knew not, destiny cruel, As to many an earlman early it happened, When evening had come and Hrothgar had parted 45 Off to his manor, the mighty to slumber. Warriors unnumbered warded the building As erst they did often: the ale-settle bared they, 'Twas covered all over with beds and pillows. {A doomed thane is there with them.} Doomed unto death, down to his slumber 50 Bowed then a beer-thane. Their battle-shields placed they, Bright-shining targets, up by their heads then; O'er the atheling on ale-bench 'twas easy to see there Battle-high helmet, burnie of ring-mail, {They were always ready for battle.} And mighty war-spear. 'Twas the wont of that people 55 To constantly keep them equipped for the battle,[4] At home or marching--in either condition-- At seasons just such as necessity ordered As best for their ruler; that people was worthy. [1] C. suggests a semicolon after 'city,' with 'he' as supplied subject of 'fled' and 'chose.' [2] For 'feorh' S. suggests 'feoh': 'corpse' in the translation would then be changed to '_possessions_,' '_belongings_.' This is a better reading than one joining, in such intimate syntactical relations, things so unlike as 'corpse' and 'jewels.' [3] S. suggests '_wine-joyous heroes_,' '_warriors elated with wine_.' [4] I believe this translation brings out the meaning of the poet, without departing seriously from the H.-So. text. 'Oft' frequently means 'constantly,' 'continually,' not always 'often.'--Why 'an (on) wig gearwe' should be written 'anwig-gearwe' (= ready for single combat), I cannot see. 'Gearwe' occurs quite frequently with 'on'; cf. B. 1110 (_ready for the pyre_), El. 222 (_ready for the glad journey_). Moreover, what has the idea of single combat to do with B. 1247 ff.? The poet is giving an inventory of the arms and armor which they lay aside on retiring, and he closes his narration by saying that they were _always prepared for battle both at home and on the march_. [44] THE MOTHER OF GRENDEL. They sank then to slumber. With sorrow one paid for His evening repose, as often betid them While Grendel was holding[1] the gold-bedecked palace, Ill-deeds performing, till his end overtook him, 5 Death for his sins. 'Twas seen very clearly, {Grendel's mother is known to be thirsting for revenge.} Known unto earth-folk, that still an avenger Outlived the loathed one, long since the sorrow Caused by the struggle; the mother of Grendel, Devil-shaped woman, her woe ever minded, 10 Who was held to inhabit the horrible waters, {[Grendel's progenitor, Cain, is again referred to.]} The cold-flowing currents, after Cain had become a Slayer-with-edges to his one only brother, The son of his sire; he set out then banished, Marked as a murderer, man-joys avoiding, 15 Lived in the desert. Thence demons unnumbered {The poet again magnifies Beowulf's valor.} Fate-sent awoke; one of them Grendel, Sword-cursed, hateful, who at Heorot met with A man that was watching, waiting the struggle, Where a horrid one held him with hand-grapple sturdy; 20 Nathless he minded the might of his body, The glorious gift God had allowed him, And folk-ruling Father's favor relied on, His help and His comfort: so he conquered the foeman, The hell-spirit humbled: he unhappy departed then, 25 Reaved of his joyance, journeying to death-haunts, Foeman of man. His mother moreover {Grendel's mother comes to avenge her son.} Eager and gloomy was anxious to go on Her mournful mission, mindful of vengeance For the death of her son. She came then to Heorot [45] 30 Where the Armor-Dane earlmen all through the building Were lying in slumber. Soon there became then Return[2] to the nobles, when the mother of Grendel Entered the folk-hall; the fear was less grievous By even so much as the vigor of maidens, 35 War-strength of women, by warrior is reckoned, When well-carved weapon, worked with the hammer, Blade very bloody, brave with its edges, Strikes down the boar-sign that stands on the helmet. Then the hard-edged weapon was heaved in the building,[3] 40 The brand o'er the benches, broad-lindens many Hand-fast were lifted; for helmet he recked not, For armor-net broad, whom terror laid hold of. She went then hastily, outward would get her Her life for to save, when some one did spy her; {She seizes a favorite liegemen of Hrothgar's.} 45 Soon she had grappled one of the athelings Fast and firmly, when fenward she hied her; That one to Hrothgar was liefest of heroes In rank of retainer where waters encircle, A mighty shield-warrior, whom she murdered at slumber, 50 A broadly-famed battle-knight. Beowulf was absent, {Beowulf was asleep in another part of the palace.} But another apartment was erstwhile devoted To the glory-decked Geatman when gold was distributed. There was hubbub in Heorot. The hand that was famous She grasped in its gore;[4] grief was renewed then [46] 55 In homes and houses: 'twas no happy arrangement In both of the quarters to barter and purchase With lives of their friends. Then the well-aged ruler, The gray-headed war-thane, was woful in spirit, When his long-trusted liegeman lifeless he knew of, {Beowulf is sent for.} 60 His dearest one gone. Quick from a room was Beowulf brought, brave and triumphant. As day was dawning in the dusk of the morning, {He comes at Hrothgar's summons.} Went then that earlman, champion noble, Came with comrades, where the clever one bided 65 Whether God all gracious would grant him a respite After the woe he had suffered. The war-worthy hero With a troop of retainers trod then the pavement (The hall-building groaned), till he greeted the wise one, {Beowulf inquires how Hrothgar had enjoyed his night's rest.} The earl of the Ingwins;[5] asked if the night had 70 Fully refreshed him, as fain he would have it. [1] Several eminent authorities either read or emend the MS. so as to make this verse read, _While Grendel was wasting the gold-bedecked palace_. So 20_15 below: _ravaged the desert_. [2] For 'sona' (1281), t.B. suggests 'sara,' limiting 'edhwyrft.' Read then: _Return of sorrows to the nobles, etc_. This emendation supplies the syntactical gap after 'edhwyrft.' [3] Some authorities follow Grein's lexicon in treating 'heard ecg' as an adj. limiting 'sweord': H.-So. renders it as a subst. (So v. 1491.) The sense of the translation would be the same. [4] B. suggests 'under hrof genam' (v. 1303). This emendation, as well as an emendation with (?) to v. 739, he offers, because 'under' baffles him in both passages. All we need is to take 'under' in its secondary meaning of 'in,' which, though not given by Grein, occurs in the literature. Cf. Chron. 876 (March's A.-S. Gram. Sec. 355) and Oro. Amaz. I. 10, where 'under' = _in the midst of_. Cf. modern Eng. 'in such circumstances,' which interchanges in good usage with 'under such circumstances.' [5] For 'neod-laethu' (1321) C. suggests 'nead-laethum,' and translates: _asked whether the night had been pleasant to him after crushing-hostility_. HROTHGAR'S ACCOUNT OF THE MONSTERS. {Hrothgar laments the death of AEschere, his shoulder-companion.} Hrothgar rejoined, helm of the Scyldings: "Ask not of joyance! Grief is renewed to The folk of the Danemen. Dead is AEschere, Yrmenlaf's brother, older than he, 5 My true-hearted counsellor, trusty adviser, Shoulder-companion, when fighting in battle Our heads we protected, when troopers were clashing, {He was my ideal hero.} And heroes were dashing; such an earl should be ever, An erst-worthy atheling, as AEschere proved him. 10 The flickering death-spirit became in Heorot His hand-to-hand murderer; I can not tell whither The cruel one turned in the carcass exulting, [47] {This horrible creature came to avenge Grendel's death.} By cramming discovered.[1] The quarrel she wreaked then, That last night igone Grendel thou killedst 15 In grewsomest manner, with grim-holding clutches, Since too long he had lessened my liege-troop and wasted My folk-men so foully. He fell in the battle With forfeit of life, and another has followed, A mighty crime-worker, her kinsman avenging, 20 And henceforth hath 'stablished her hatred unyielding,[2] As it well may appear to many a liegeman, Who mourneth in spirit the treasure-bestower, Her heavy heart-sorrow; the hand is now lifeless Which[3] availed you in every wish that you cherished. {I have heard my vassals speak of these two uncanny monsters who lived in the moors.} 25 Land-people heard I, liegemen, this saying, Dwellers in halls, they had seen very often A pair of such mighty march-striding creatures, Far-dwelling spirits, holding the moorlands: One of them wore, as well they might notice, 30 The image of woman, the other one wretched In guise of a man wandered in exile, Except he was huger than any of earthmen; Earth-dwelling people entitled him Grendel In days of yore: they know not their father, 35 Whe'r ill-going spirits any were borne him {The inhabit the most desolate and horrible places.} Ever before. They guard the wolf-coverts, Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses, Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains 'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles, 40 The stream under earth: not far is it henceward Measured by mile-lengths that the mere-water standeth, Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered,[4] [48] A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow. There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent 45 A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom; Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for, {Even the hounded deer will not seek refuge in these uncanny regions.} Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer, Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth, 50 His life on the shore, ere in he will venture To cover his head. Uncanny the place is: Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters, Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring The weathers unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy, {To thee only can I look for assistance.} 55 And the heavens lower. Now is help to be gotten From thee and thee only! The abode thou know'st not, The dangerous place where thou'rt able to meet with The sin-laden hero: seek if thou darest! For the feud I will fully fee thee with money, 60 With old-time treasure, as erstwhile I did thee, With well-twisted jewels, if away thou shalt get thee." [1] For 'gefraegnod' (1334), K. and t.B. suggest 'gefaegnod,' rendering '_rejoicing in her fill_.' This gives a parallel to 'aese wlanc' (1333). [2] The line 'And ... yielding,' B. renders: _And she has performed a deed of blood-vengeance whose effect is far-reaching_. [3] 'Se e' (1345) is an instance of masc. rel. with fem. antecedent. So v. 1888, where 'se e' refers to 'yldo.' [4] For 'hrimge' in the H.-So. edition, Gr. and others read 'hrinde' (=hrinende), and translate: _which rustling forests overhang_. BEOWULF SEEKS GRENDEL'S MOTHER. Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's son: {Beowulf exhorts the old king to arouse himself for action.} "Grieve not, O wise one! for each it is better, His friend to avenge than with vehemence wail him; Each of us must the end-day abide of 5 His earthly existence; who is able accomplish Glory ere death! To battle-thane noble Lifeless lying, 'tis at last most fitting. Arise, O king, quick let us hasten To look at the footprint of the kinsman of Grendel! 10 I promise thee this now: to his place he'll escape not, To embrace of the earth, nor to mountainous forest, Nor to depths of the ocean, wherever he wanders. [49] Practice thou now patient endurance Of each of thy sorrows, as I hope for thee soothly!" {Hrothgar rouses himself. His horse is brought.} 15 Then up sprang the old one, the All-Wielder thanked he, Ruler Almighty, that the man had outspoken. Then for Hrothgar a war-horse was decked with a bridle, Curly-maned courser. The clever folk-leader {They start on the track of the female monster.} Stately proceeded: stepped then an earl-troop 20 Of linden-wood bearers. Her footprints were seen then Widely in wood-paths, her way o'er the bottoms, Where she faraway fared o'er fen-country murky, Bore away breathless the best of retainers Who pondered with Hrothgar the welfare of country. 25 The son of the athelings then went o'er the stony, Declivitous cliffs, the close-covered passes, Narrow passages, paths unfrequented, Nesses abrupt, nicker-haunts many; One of a few of wise-mooded heroes, 30 He onward advanced to view the surroundings, Till he found unawares woods of the mountain O'er hoar-stones hanging, holt-wood unjoyful; The water stood under, welling and gory. 'Twas irksome in spirit to all of the Danemen, 35 Friends of the Scyldings, to many a liegeman {The sight of AEschere's head causes them great sorrow.} Sad to be suffered, a sorrow unlittle To each of the earlmen, when to AEschere's head they Came on the cliff. The current was seething With blood and with gore (the troopers gazed on it). 40 The horn anon sang the battle-song ready. The troop were all seated; they saw 'long the water then {The water is filled with serpents and sea-dragons.} Many a serpent, mere-dragons wondrous Trying the waters, nickers a-lying On the cliffs of the nesses, which at noonday full often 45 Go on the sea-deeps their sorrowful journey, Wild-beasts and wormkind; away then they hastened {One of them is killed by Beowulf.} Hot-mooded, hateful, they heard the great clamor, The war-trumpet winding. One did the Geat-prince [50] Sunder from earth-joys, with arrow from bowstring, 50 From his sea-struggle tore him, that the trusty war-missile {The dead beast is a poor swimmer} Pierced to his vitals; he proved in the currents Less doughty at swimming whom death had offcarried. Soon in the waters the wonderful swimmer Was straitened most sorely with sword-pointed boar-spears, 55 Pressed in the battle and pulled to the cliff-edge; The liegemen then looked on the loath-fashioned stranger. {Beowulf prepares for a struggle with the monster.} Beowulf donned then his battle-equipments, Cared little for life; inlaid and most ample, The hand-woven corslet which could cover his body, 60 Must the wave-deeps explore, that war might be powerless To harm the great hero, and the hating one's grasp might Not peril his safety; his head was protected By the light-flashing helmet that should mix with the bottoms, Trying the eddies, treasure-emblazoned, 65 Encircled with jewels, as in seasons long past The weapon-smith worked it, wondrously made it, With swine-bodies fashioned it, that thenceforward no longer Brand might bite it, and battle-sword hurt it. And that was not least of helpers in prowess {He has Unferth's sword in his hand.} 70 That Hrothgar's spokesman had lent him when straitened; And the hilted hand-sword was Hrunting entitled, Old and most excellent 'mong all of the treasures; Its blade was of iron, blotted with poison, Hardened with gore; it failed not in battle 75 Any hero under heaven in hand who it brandished, Who ventured to take the terrible journeys, The battle-field sought; not the earliest occasion That deeds of daring 'twas destined to 'complish. {Unferth has little use for swords.} Ecglaf's kinsman minded not soothly, 80 Exulting in strength, what erst he had spoken Drunken with wine, when the weapon he lent to A sword-hero bolder; himself did not venture 'Neath the strife of the currents his life to endanger, [51] To fame-deeds perform; there he forfeited glory, 85 Repute for his strength. Not so with the other When he clad in his corslet had equipped him for battle. BEOWULF'S FIGHT WITH GRENDEL'S MOTHER. {Beowulf makes a parting speech to Hrothgar.} Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son: "Recall now, oh, famous kinsman of Healfdene, Prince very prudent, now to part I am ready, Gold-friend of earlmen, what erst we agreed on, {If I fail, act as a kind liegelord to my thanes,} 5 Should I lay down my life in lending thee assistance, When my earth-joys were over, thou wouldst evermore serve me In stead of a father; my faithful thanemen, My trusty retainers, protect thou and care for, Fall I in battle: and, Hrothgar beloved, {and send Higelac the jewels thou hast given me} 10 Send unto Higelac the high-valued jewels Thou to me hast allotted. The lord of the Geatmen May perceive from the gold, the Hrethling may see it {I should like my king to know how generous a lord I found thee to be.} When he looks on the jewels, that a gem-giver found I Good over-measure, enjoyed him while able. 15 And the ancient heirloom Unferth permit thou, The famed one to have, the heavy-sword splendid[1] The hard-edged weapon; with Hrunting to aid me, I shall gain me glory, or grim-death shall take me." {Beowulf is eager for the fray.} The atheling of Geatmen uttered these words and 20 Heroic did hasten, not any rejoinder Was willing to wait for; the wave-current swallowed {He is a whole day reaching the bottom of the sea.} The doughty-in-battle. Then a day's-length elapsed ere He was able to see the sea at its bottom. Early she found then who fifty of winters 25 The course of the currents kept in her fury, Grisly and greedy, that the grim one's dominion [52] {Grendel's mother knows that some one has reached her domains.} Some one of men from above was exploring. Forth did she grab them, grappled the warrior With horrible clutches; yet no sooner she injured 30 His body unscathed: the burnie out-guarded, That she proved but powerless to pierce through the armor, The limb-mail locked, with loath-grabbing fingers. The sea-wolf bare then, when bottomward came she, {She grabs him, and bears him to her den.} The ring-prince homeward, that he after was powerless 35 (He had daring to do it) to deal with his weapons, But many a mere-beast tormented him swimming, {Sea-monsters bite and strike him.} Flood-beasts no few with fierce-biting tusks did Break through his burnie, the brave one pursued they. The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern 40 Where no water whatever anywise harmed him, And the clutch of the current could come not anear him, Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent. The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster, {Beowulf attacks the mother of Grendel.} 45 The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onset With weapon-of-battle, his hand not desisted From striking, that war-blade struck on her head then A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then {The sword will not bite.} The sword would not bite, her life would not injure, 50 But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened: Erst had it often onsets encountered, Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor: 'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after, 55 Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory, Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed; {The hero throws down all weapons, and again trusts to his hand-grip.} He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. 60 So any must act whenever he thinketh To gain him in battle glory unending, And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats [53] (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder[2] The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle 65 Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled, That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple {Beowulf falls.} She gave him requital[3] early thereafter, And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces, {The monster sits on him with drawn sword.} 70 Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing, For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn. {His armor saves his life.} His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder; It guarded his life, the entrance defended 75 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen, In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given, Close-woven corslet, comfort and succor, {God arranged for his escape.} And had God most holy not awarded the victory, 80 All-knowing Lord; easily did heaven's Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;[4] Uprose he erect ready for battle. [1] Kl. emends 'wael-sweord.' The half-line would then read, '_the battle-sword splendid_.'--For 'heard-ecg' in next half-verse, see note to 20_39 above. [2] Sw., R., and t.B. suggest 'feaxe' for 'eaxle' (1538) and render: _Seized by the hair_. [3] If 'hand-lean' be accepted (as the MS. has it), the line will read: _She hand-reward gave him early thereafter_. [4] Sw. and S. change H.-So.'s semicolon (v. 1557) to a comma, and translate: _The Ruler of Heaven arranged it in justice easily, after he arose again_. BEOWULF IS DOUBLE-CONQUEROR. {Beowulf grasps a giant-sword,} Then he saw mid the war-gems a weapon of victory, An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty, Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest, Only 'twas larger than any man else was [54] 5 Able to bear to the battle-encounter, The good and splendid work of the giants. He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings, Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword, Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her, 10 That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled, {and fells the female monster.} Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then: The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted. The brand was brilliant, brightly it glimmered, 15 Just as from heaven gemlike shineth The torch of the firmament. He glanced 'long the building, And turned by the wall then, Higelac's vassal Raging and wrathful raised his battle-sword Strong by the handle. The edge was not useless 20 To the hero-in-battle, but he speedily wished to Give Grendel requital for the many assaults he Had worked on the West-Danes not once, but often, When he slew in slumber the subjects of Hrothgar, Swallowed down fifteen sleeping retainers 25 Of the folk of the Danemen, and fully as many Carried away, a horrible prey. He gave him requital, grim-raging champion, {Beowulf sees the body of Grendel, and cuts off his head.} When he saw on his rest-place weary of conflict Grendel lying, of life-joys bereaved, 30 As the battle at Heorot erstwhile had scathed him; His body far bounded, a blow when he suffered, Death having seized him, sword-smiting heavy, And he cut off his head then. Early this noticed The clever carles who as comrades of Hrothgar {The waters are gory.} 35 Gazed on the sea-deeps, that the surging wave-currents Were mightily mingled, the mere-flood was gory: Of the good one the gray-haired together held converse, {Beowulf is given up for dead.} The hoary of head, that they hoped not to see again The atheling ever, that exulting in victory 40 He'd return there to visit the distinguished folk-ruler: [55] Then many concluded the mere-wolf had killed him.[1] The ninth hour came then. From the ness-edge departed The bold-mooded Scyldings; the gold-friend of heroes Homeward betook him. The strangers sat down then 45 Soul-sick, sorrowful, the sea-waves regarding: They wished and yet weened not their well-loved friend-lord {The giant-sword melts.} To see any more. The sword-blade began then, The blood having touched it, contracting and shriveling With battle-icicles; 'twas a wonderful marvel 50 That it melted entirely, likest to ice when The Father unbindeth the bond of the frost and Unwindeth the wave-bands, He who wieldeth dominion Of times and of tides: a truth-firm Creator. Nor took he of jewels more in the dwelling, 55 Lord of the Weders, though they lay all around him, Than the head and the handle handsome with jewels; [56] The brand early melted, burnt was the weapon:[2] So hot was the blood, the strange-spirit poisonous {The hero swims back to the realms of day.} That in it did perish. He early swam off then 60 Who had bided in combat the carnage of haters, Went up through the ocean; the eddies were cleansed, The spacious expanses, when the spirit from farland His life put aside and this short-lived existence. The seamen's defender came swimming to land then 65 Doughty of spirit, rejoiced in his sea-gift, The bulky burden which he bore in his keeping. The excellent vassals advanced then to meet him, To God they were grateful, were glad in their chieftain, That to see him safe and sound was granted them. 70 From the high-minded hero, then, helmet and burnie Were speedily loosened: the ocean was putrid, The water 'neath welkin weltered with gore. Forth did they fare, then, their footsteps retracing, Merry and mirthful, measured the earth-way, 75 The highway familiar: men very daring[3] Bare then the head from the sea-cliff, burdening Each of the earlmen, excellent-valiant. {It takes four men to carry Grendel's head on a spear.} Four of them had to carry with labor The head of Grendel to the high towering gold-hall 80 Upstuck on the spear, till fourteen most-valiant And battle-brave Geatmen came there going Straight to the palace: the prince of the people Measured the mead-ways, their mood-brave companion. The atheling of earlmen entered the building, 85 Deed-valiant man, adorned with distinction, Doughty shield-warrior, to address King Hrothgar: [57] Then hung by the hair, the head of Grendel Was borne to the building, where beer-thanes were drinking, Loth before earlmen and eke 'fore the lady: 90 The warriors beheld then a wonderful sight. [1] 'aes monige geweareth' (1599) and 'hafaeth aes geworden' (2027).--In a paper published some years ago in one of the Johns Hopkins University circulars, I tried to throw upon these two long-doubtful passages some light derived from a study of like passages in Alfred's prose.--The impersonal verb 'geweorethan,' with an accus. of the person, and a aet-clause is used several times with the meaning 'agree.' See Orosius (Sweet's ed.) 178_7; 204_34; 208_28; 210_15; 280_20. In the two Beowulf passages, the aet-clause is anticipated by 'aes,' which is clearly a gen. of the thing agreed on. The first passage (v. 1599 (b)-1600) I translate literally: _Then many agreed upon this (namely), that the sea-wolf had killed him_. The second passage (v. 2025 (b)-2027): _She is promised ...; to this the friend of the Scyldings has agreed, etc_. By emending 'is' instead of 'waes' (2025), the tenses will be brought into perfect harmony. In v. 1997 ff. this same idiom occurs, and was noticed in B.'s great article on Beowulf, which appeared about the time I published my reading of 1599 and 2027. Translate 1997 then: _Wouldst let the South-Danes themselves decide about their struggle with Grendel_. Here 'Sueth-Dene' is accus. of person, and 'guethe' is gen. of thing agreed on. With such collateral support as that afforded by B. (P. and B. XII. 97), I have no hesitation in departing from H.-So., my usual guide. The idiom above treated runs through A.-S., Old Saxon, and other Teutonic languages, and should be noticed in the lexicons. [2] 'Broden-mael' is regarded by most scholars as meaning a damaskeened sword. Translate: _The damaskeened sword burned up_. Cf. 25_16 and note. [3] 'Cyning-balde' (1635) is the much-disputed reading of K. and Th. To render this, "_nobly bold_," "_excellently bold_," have been suggested. B. would read 'cyning-holde' (cf. 290), and render: _Men well-disposed towards the king carried the head, etc._ 'Cynebealde,' says t.B., endorsing Gr. BEOWULF BRINGS HIS TROPHIES.--HROTHGAR'S GRATITUDE. {Beowulf relates his last exploit.} Beowulf spake, offspring of Ecgtheow: "Lo! we blithely have brought thee, bairn of Healfdene, Prince of the Scyldings, these presents from ocean Which thine eye looketh on, for an emblem of glory. 5 I came off alive from this, narrowly 'scaping: In war 'neath the water the work with great pains I Performed, and the fight had been finished quite nearly, Had God not defended me. I failed in the battle Aught to accomplish, aided by Hrunting, 10 Though that weapon was worthy, but the Wielder of earth-folk {God was fighting with me.} Gave me willingly to see on the wall a Heavy old hand-sword hanging in splendor (He guided most often the lorn and the friendless), That I swung as a weapon. The wards of the house then 15 I killed in the conflict (when occasion was given me). Then the battle-sword burned, the brand that was lifted,[1] As the blood-current sprang, hottest of war-sweats; Seizing the hilt, from my foes I offbore it; I avenged as I ought to their acts of malignity, 20 The murder of Danemen. I then make thee this promise, {Heorot is freed from monsters.} Thou'lt be able in Heorot careless to slumber With thy throng of heroes and the thanes of thy people Every and each, of greater and lesser, And thou needest not fear for them from the selfsame direction 25 As thou formerly fearedst, oh, folk-lord of Scyldings, [58] End-day for earlmen." To the age-hoary man then, {The famous sword is presented to Hrothgar.} The gray-haired chieftain, the gold-fashioned sword-hilt, Old-work of giants, was thereupon given; Since the fall of the fiends, it fell to the keeping 30 Of the wielder of Danemen, the wonder-smith's labor, And the bad-mooded being abandoned this world then, Opponent of God, victim of murder, And also his mother; it went to the keeping Of the best of the world-kings, where waters encircle, 35 Who the scot divided in Scylding dominion. {Hrothgar looks closely at the old sword.} Hrothgar discoursed, the hilt he regarded, The ancient heirloom where an old-time contention's Beginning was graven: the gurgling currents, The flood slew thereafter the race of the giants, 40 They had proved themselves daring: that people was loth to {It had belonged to a race hateful to God.} The Lord everlasting, through lash of the billows The Father gave them final requital. So in letters of rune on the clasp of the handle Gleaming and golden, 'twas graven exactly, 45 Set forth and said, whom that sword had been made for, Finest of irons, who first it was wrought for, Wreathed at its handle and gleaming with serpents. The wise one then said (silent they all were) {Hrothgar praises Beowulf.} Son of old Healfdene: "He may say unrefuted 50 Who performs 'mid the folk-men fairness and truth (The hoary old ruler remembers the past), That better by birth is this bairn of the nobles! Thy fame is extended through far-away countries, Good friend Beowulf, o'er all of the races, 55 Thou holdest all firmly, hero-like strength with Prudence of spirit. I'll prove myself grateful As before we agreed on; thou granted for long shalt Become a great comfort to kinsmen and comrades, {Heremod's career is again contrasted with Beowulf's.} A help unto heroes. Heremod became not 60 Such to the Scyldings, successors of Ecgwela; He grew not to please them, but grievous destruction, [59] And diresome death-woes to Danemen attracted; He slew in anger his table-companions, Trustworthy counsellors, till he turned off lonely 65 From world-joys away, wide-famous ruler: Though high-ruling heaven in hero-strength raised him, In might exalted him, o'er men of all nations Made him supreme, yet a murderous spirit Grew in his bosom: he gave then no ring-gems {A wretched failure of a king, to give no jewels to his retainers.} 70 To the Danes after custom; endured he unjoyful Standing the straits from strife that was raging, Longsome folk-sorrow. Learn then from this, Lay hold of virtue! Though laden with winters, I have sung thee these measures. 'Tis a marvel to tell it, {Hrothgar moralizes.} 75 How all-ruling God from greatness of spirit Giveth wisdom to children of men, Manor and earlship: all things He ruleth. He often permitteth the mood-thought of man of The illustrious lineage to lean to possessions, 80 Allows him earthly delights at his manor, A high-burg of heroes to hold in his keeping, Maketh portions of earth-folk hear him, And a wide-reaching kingdom so that, wisdom failing him, He himself is unable to reckon its boundaries; 85 He liveth in luxury, little debars him, Nor sickness nor age, no treachery-sorrow Becloudeth his spirit, conflict nowhere, No sword-hate, appeareth, but all of the world doth Wend as he wisheth; the worse he knoweth not, 90 Till arrant arrogance inward pervading, Waxeth and springeth, when the warder is sleeping, The guard of the soul: with sorrows encompassed, Too sound is his slumber, the slayer is near him, Who with bow and arrow aimeth in malice. [60] [1] Or rather, perhaps, '_the inlaid, or damaskeened weapon_.' Cf. 24_57 and note. HROTHGAR MORALIZES.--REST AFTER LABOR. {A wounded spirit.} "Then bruised in his bosom he with bitter-toothed missile Is hurt 'neath his helmet: from harmful pollution He is powerless to shield him by the wonderful mandates Of the loath-cursed spirit; what too long he hath holden 5 Him seemeth too small, savage he hoardeth, Nor boastfully giveth gold-plated rings,[1] The fate of the future flouts and forgetteth Since God had erst given him greatness no little, Wielder of Glory. His end-day anear, 10 It afterward happens that the bodily-dwelling Fleetingly fadeth, falls into ruins; Another lays hold who doleth the ornaments, The nobleman's jewels, nothing lamenting, Heedeth no terror. Oh, Beowulf dear, 15 Best of the heroes, from bale-strife defend thee, And choose thee the better, counsels eternal; {Be not over proud: life is fleeting, and its strength soon wasteth away.} Beware of arrogance, world-famous champion! But a little-while lasts thy life-vigor's fulness; 'Twill after hap early, that illness or sword-edge 20 Shall part thee from strength, or the grasp of the fire, Or the wave of the current, or clutch of the edges, Or flight of the war-spear, or age with its horrors, Or thine eyes' bright flashing shall fade into darkness: 'Twill happen full early, excellent hero, {Hrothgar gives an account of his reign.} 25 That death shall subdue thee. So the Danes a half-century I held under heaven, helped them in struggles 'Gainst many a race in middle-earth's regions, With ash-wood and edges, that enemies none On earth molested me. Lo! offsetting change, now, [61] {Sorrow after joy.} 30 Came to my manor, grief after joyance, When Grendel became my constant visitor, Inveterate hater: I from that malice Continually travailed with trouble no little. Thanks be to God that I gained in my lifetime, 35 To the Lord everlasting, to look on the gory Head with mine eyes, after long-lasting sorrow! Go to the bench now, battle-adorned Joy in the feasting: of jewels in common We'll meet with many when morning appeareth." 40 The Geatman was gladsome, ganged he immediately To go to the bench, as the clever one bade him. Then again as before were the famous-for-prowess, Hall-inhabiters, handsomely banqueted, Feasted anew. The night-veil fell then 45 Dark o'er the warriors. The courtiers rose then; The gray-haired was anxious to go to his slumbers, The hoary old Scylding. Hankered the Geatman, {Beowulf is fagged, and seeks rest.} The champion doughty, greatly, to rest him: An earlman early outward did lead him, 50 Fagged from his faring, from far-country springing, Who for etiquette's sake all of a liegeman's Needs regarded, such as seamen at that time Were bounden to feel. The big-hearted rested; The building uptowered, spacious and gilded, 55 The guest within slumbered, till the sable-clad raven Blithely foreboded the beacon of heaven. Then the bright-shining sun o'er the bottoms came going;[2] The warriors hastened, the heads of the peoples Were ready to go again to their peoples, {The Geats prepare to leave Dane-land.} 60 The high-mooded farer would faraway thenceward Look for his vessel. The valiant one bade then,[3] [62] {Unferth asks Beowulf to accept his sword as a gift. Beowulf thanks him.} Offspring of Ecglaf, off to bear Hrunting, To take his weapon, his well-beloved iron; He him thanked for the gift, saying good he accounted 65 The war-friend and mighty, nor chid he with words then The blade of the brand: 'twas a brave-mooded hero. When the warriors were ready, arrayed in their trappings, The atheling dear to the Danemen advanced then On to the dais, where the other was sitting, 70 Grim-mooded hero, greeted King Hrothgar. [1] K. says '_proudly giveth_.'--Gr. says, '_And gives no gold-plated rings, in order to incite the recipient to boastfulness_.'--B. suggests 'gyld' for 'gylp,' and renders: _And gives no beaten rings for reward_. [2] If S.'s emendation be accepted, v. 57 will read: _Then came the light, going bright after darkness: the warriors, etc_. [3] As the passage stands in H.-So., Unferth presents Beowulf with the sword Hrunting, and B. thanks him for the gift. If, however, the suggestions of Grdtvg. and M. be accepted, the passage will read: _Then the brave one (_i.e._ Beowulf) commanded that Hrunting be borne to the son of Ecglaf (Unferth), bade him take his sword, his dear weapon; he (B.) thanked him (U.) for the loan, etc_. SORROW AT PARTING. {Beowulf's farewell.} Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's offspring: "We men of the water wish to declare now Fared from far-lands, we're firmly determined To seek King Higelac. Here have we fitly 5 Been welcomed and feasted, as heart would desire it; Good was the greeting. If greater affection I am anywise able ever on earth to Gain at thy hands, ruler of heroes, Than yet I have done, I shall quickly be ready {I shall be ever ready to aid thee.} 10 For combat and conflict. O'er the course of the waters Learn I that neighbors alarm thee with terror, As haters did whilom, I hither will bring thee For help unto heroes henchmen by thousands. {My liegelord will encourage me in aiding thee.} I know as to Higelac, the lord of the Geatmen, 15 Though young in years, he yet will permit me, By words and by works, ward of the people, Fully to furnish thee forces and bear thee My lance to relieve thee, if liegemen shall fail thee, And help of my hand-strength; if Hrethric be treating, [63] 20 Bairn of the king, at the court of the Geatmen, He thereat may find him friends in abundance: Faraway countries he were better to seek for Who trusts in himself." Hrothgar discoursed then, Making rejoinder: "These words thou hast uttered 25 All-knowing God hath given thy spirit! {O Beowulf, thou art wise beyond thy years.} Ne'er heard I an earlman thus early in life More clever in speaking: thou'rt cautious of spirit, Mighty of muscle, in mouth-answers prudent. I count on the hope that, happen it ever 30 That missile shall rob thee of Hrethel's descendant, Edge-horrid battle, and illness or weapon Deprive thee of prince, of people's protector, {Should Higelac die, the Geats could find no better successor than thou wouldst make.} And life thou yet holdest, the Sea-Geats will never Find a more fitting folk-lord to choose them, 35 Gem-ward of heroes, than _thou_ mightest prove thee, If the kingdom of kinsmen thou carest to govern. Thy mood-spirit likes me the longer the better, Beowulf dear: thou hast brought it to pass that To both these peoples peace shall be common, {Thou hast healed the ancient breach between our races.} 40 To Geat-folk and Danemen, the strife be suspended, The secret assailings they suffered in yore-days; And also that jewels be shared while I govern The wide-stretching kingdom, and that many shall visit Others o'er the ocean with excellent gift-gems: 45 The ring-adorned bark shall bring o'er the currents Presents and love-gifts. This people I know Tow'rd foeman and friend firmly established,[1] After ancient etiquette everywise blameless." Then the warden of earlmen gave him still farther, {Parting gifts} 50 Kinsman of Healfdene, a dozen of jewels, Bade him safely seek with the presents His well-beloved people, early returning. [64] {Hrothgar kisses Beowulf, and weeps.} Then the noble-born king kissed the distinguished, Dear-loved liegeman, the Dane-prince saluted him, 55 And clasped his neck; tears from him fell, From the gray-headed man: he two things expected, Aged and reverend, but rather the second, [2]That bold in council they'd meet thereafter. The man was so dear that he failed to suppress the 60 Emotions that moved him, but in mood-fetters fastened {The old king is deeply grieved to part with his benefactor.} The long-famous hero longeth in secret Deep in his spirit for the dear-beloved man Though not a blood-kinsman. Beowulf thenceward, Gold-splendid warrior, walked o'er the meadows 65 Exulting in treasure: the sea-going vessel Riding at anchor awaited its owner. As they pressed on their way then, the present of Hrothgar {Giving liberally is the true proof of kingship.} Was frequently referred to: a folk-king indeed that Everyway blameless, till age did debar him 70 The joys of his might, which hath many oft injured. [1] For 'geworhte,' the crux of this passage, B. proposes 'geohte,' rendering: _I know this people with firm thought every way blameless towards foe and friends_. [2] S. and B. emend so as to negative the verb 'meet.' "Why should Hrothgar weep if he expects to meet Beowulf again?" both these scholars ask. But the weeping is mentioned before the 'expectations': the tears may have been due to many emotions, especially gratitude, struggling for expression. THE HOMEWARD JOURNEY.--THE TWO QUEENS. Then the band of very valiant retainers Came to the current; they were clad all in armor, {The coast-guard again.} In link-woven burnies. The land-warder noticed The return of the earlmen, as he erstwhile had seen them; 5 Nowise with insult he greeted the strangers From the naze of the cliff, but rode on to meet them; Said the bright-armored visitors[1] vesselward traveled [65] Welcome to Weders. The wide-bosomed craft then Lay on the sand, laden with armor, 10 With horses and jewels, the ring-stemmed sailer: The mast uptowered o'er the treasure of Hrothgar. {Beowulf gives the guard a handsome sword.} To the boat-ward a gold-bound brand he presented, That he was afterwards honored on the ale-bench more highly As the heirloom's owner. [2]Set he out on his vessel, 15 To drive on the deep, Dane-country left he. Along by the mast then a sea-garment fluttered, A rope-fastened sail. The sea-boat resounded, The wind o'er the waters the wave-floater nowise Kept from its journey; the sea-goer traveled, 20 The foamy-necked floated forth o'er the currents, The well-fashioned vessel o'er the ways of the ocean, {The Geats see their own land again.} Till they came within sight of the cliffs of the Geatmen, The well-known headlands. The wave-goer hastened Driven by breezes, stood on the shore. {The port-warden is anxiously looking for them.} 25 Prompt at the ocean, the port-ward was ready, Who long in the past outlooked in the distance,[3] At water's-edge waiting well-loved heroes; He bound to the bank then the broad-bosomed vessel Fast in its fetters, lest the force of the waters 30 Should be able to injure the ocean-wood winsome. Bade he up then take the treasure of princes, Plate-gold and fretwork; not far was it thence To go off in search of the giver of jewels: [66] Hrethel's son Higelac at home there remaineth,[4] 35 Himself with his comrades close to the sea-coast. The building was splendid, the king heroic, Great in his hall, Hygd very young was, {Hygd, the noble queen of Higelac, lavish of gifts.} Fine-mooded, clever, though few were the winters That the daughter of Haereth had dwelt in the borough; 40 But she nowise was cringing nor niggard of presents, Of ornaments rare, to the race of the Geatmen. {Offa's consort, Thrytho, is contrasted with Hygd.} Thrytho nursed anger, excellent[5] folk-queen, Hot-burning hatred: no hero whatever 'Mong household companions, her husband excepted {She is a terror to all save her husband.} 45 Dared to adventure to look at the woman With eyes in the daytime;[6] but he knew that death-chains Hand-wreathed were wrought him: early thereafter, When the hand-strife was over, edges were ready, That fierce-raging sword-point had to force a decision, 50 Murder-bale show. Such no womanly custom For a lady to practise, though lovely her person, That a weaver-of-peace, on pretence of anger A beloved liegeman of life should deprive. Soothly this hindered Heming's kinsman; 55 Other ale-drinking earlmen asserted That fearful folk-sorrows fewer she wrought them, Treacherous doings, since first she was given Adorned with gold to the war-hero youthful, For her origin honored, when Offa's great palace 60 O'er the fallow flood by her father's instructions She sought on her journey, where she afterwards fully, Famed for her virtue, her fate on the king's-seat [67] Enjoyed in her lifetime, love did she hold with The ruler of heroes, the best, it is told me, 65 Of all of the earthmen that oceans encompass, Of earl-kindreds endless; hence Offa was famous Far and widely, by gifts and by battles, Spear-valiant hero; the home of his fathers He governed with wisdom, whence Eomaer did issue 70 For help unto heroes, Heming's kinsman, Grandson of Garmund, great in encounters. [1] For 'scawan' (1896), 'scaethan' has been proposed. Accepting this, we may render: _He said the bright-armored warriors were going to their vessel, welcome, etc_. (Cf. 1804.) [2] R. suggests, 'Gewat him on naca,' and renders: _The vessel set out, to drive on the sea, the Dane-country left_. 'On' bears the alliteration; cf. 'on hafu' (2524). This has some advantages over the H.-So. reading; viz. (1) It adds nothing to the text; (2) it makes 'naca' the subject, and thus brings the passage into keeping with the context, where the poet has exhausted his vocabulary in detailing the actions of the vessel.--B.'s emendation (cf. P. and B. XII. 97) is violent. [3] B. translates: _Who for a long time, ready at the coast, had looked out into the distance eagerly for the dear men_. This changes the syntax of 'leofra manna.' [4] For 'wunaeth' (v. 1924) several eminent critics suggest 'wunade' (=remained). This makes the passage much clearer. [5] Why should such a woman be described as an 'excellent' queen? C. suggests 'frecnu' = dangerous, bold. [6] For 'an daeges' various readings have been offered. If 'and-eges' be accepted, the sentence will read: _No hero ... dared look upon her, eye to eye_. If 'an-daeges' be adopted, translate: _Dared look upon her the whole day_. BEOWULF AND HIGELAC. Then the brave one departed, his band along with him, {Beowulf and his party seek Higelac.} Seeking the sea-shore, the sea-marches treading, The wide-stretching shores. The world-candle glimmered, The sun from the southward; they proceeded then onward, 5 Early arriving where they heard that the troop-lord, Ongentheow's slayer, excellent, youthful Folk-prince and warrior was distributing jewels, Close in his castle. The coming of Beowulf Was announced in a message quickly to Higelac, 10 That the folk-troop's defender forth to the palace The linden-companion alive was advancing, Secure from the combat courtward a-going. The building was early inward made ready For the foot-going guests as the good one had ordered. {Beowulf sits by his liegelord.} 15 He sat by the man then who had lived through the struggle, Kinsman by kinsman, when the king of the people Had in lordly language saluted the dear one, {Queen Hygd receives the heroes.} In words that were formal. The daughter of Haereth Coursed through the building, carrying mead-cups:[1] [68] 20 She loved the retainers, tendered the beakers To the high-minded Geatmen. Higelac 'gan then {Higelac is greatly interested in Beowulf's adventures.} Pleasantly plying his companion with questions In the high-towering palace. A curious interest Tormented his spirit, what meaning to see in 25 The Sea-Geats' adventures: "Beowulf worthy, {Give an account of thy adventures, Beowulf dear.} How throve your journeying, when thou thoughtest suddenly Far o'er the salt-streams to seek an encounter, A battle at Heorot? Hast bettered for Hrothgar, The famous folk-leader, his far-published sorrows 30 Any at all? In agony-billows {My suspense has been great.} I mused upon torture, distrusted the journey Of the beloved liegeman; I long time did pray thee By no means to seek out the murderous spirit, To suffer the South-Danes themselves to decide on[2] 35 Grappling with Grendel. To God I am thankful To be suffered to see thee safe from thy journey." {Beowulf narrates his adventures.} Beowulf answered, bairn of old Ecgtheow: "'Tis hidden by no means, Higelac chieftain, From many of men, the meeting so famous, 40 What mournful moments of me and of Grendel Were passed in the place where he pressing affliction On the Victory-Scyldings scathefully brought, Anguish forever; that all I avenged, So that any under heaven of the kinsmen of Grendel {Grendel's kindred have no cause to boast.} 45 Needeth not boast of that cry-in-the-morning, Who longest liveth of the loth-going kindred,[3] Encompassed by moorland. I came in my journey To the royal ring-hall, Hrothgar to greet there: {Hrothgar received me very cordially.} Soon did the famous scion of Healfdene, 50 When he understood fully the spirit that led me, Assign me a seat with the son of his bosom. [69] The troop was in joyance; mead-glee greater 'Neath arch of the ether not ever beheld I {The queen also showed up no little honor.} 'Mid hall-building holders. The highly-famed queen, 55 Peace-tie of peoples, oft passed through the building, Cheered the young troopers; she oft tendered a hero A beautiful ring-band, ere she went to her sitting. {Hrothgar's lovely daughter.} Oft the daughter of Hrothgar in view of the courtiers To the earls at the end the ale-vessel carried, 60 Whom Freaware I heard then hall-sitters title, When nail-adorned jewels she gave to the heroes: {She is betrothed to Ingeld, in order to unite the Danes and Heathobards.} Gold-bedecked, youthful, to the glad son of Froda Her faith has been plighted; the friend of the Scyldings, The guard of the kingdom, hath given his sanction,[4] 65 And counts it a vantage, for a part of the quarrels, A portion of hatred, to pay with the woman. [5]Somewhere not rarely, when the ruler has fallen, The life-taking lance relaxeth its fury For a brief breathing-spell, though the bride be charming! [1] 'Meodu-scencum' (1981) some would render '_with mead-pourers_.' Translate then: _The daughter of Haereth went through the building accompanied by mead-pourers_. [2] See my note to 1599, supra, and B. in P. and B. XII. 97. [3] For 'fenne,' supplied by Grdtvg., B. suggests 'facne' (cf. Jul. 350). Accepting this, translate: _Who longest lives of the hated race, steeped in treachery_. [4] See note to v. 1599 above. [5] This is perhaps the least understood sentence in the poem, almost every word being open to dispute. (1) The 'no' of our text is an emendation, and is rejected by many scholars. (2) 'Seldan' is by some taken as an adv. (= _seldom_), and by others as a noun (= _page_, _companion_). (3) 'Leod-hryre,' some render '_fall of the people_'; others, '_fall of the prince_.' (4) 'Bugeeth,' most scholars regard as the intrans. verb meaning '_bend_,' '_rest_'; but one great scholar has translated it '_shall kill_.' (5) 'Hwaer,' Very recently, has been attacked, 'waere' being suggested. (6) As a corollary to the above, the same critic proposes to drop 'oft' out of the text.--t.B. suggests: Oft seldan waere after leodhryre: lytle hwile bongar bugeeth, eah seo bryd duge = _often has a treaty been (thus) struck, after a prince had fallen: (but only) a short time is the spear (then) wont to rest, however excellent the bride may be_. BEOWULF NARRATES HIS ADVENTURES TO HIGELAC. "It well may discomfit the prince of the Heathobards And each of the thanemen of earls that attend him, [70] When he goes to the building escorting the woman, That a noble-born Daneman the knights should be feasting: 5 There gleam on his person the leavings of elders Hard and ring-bright, Heathobards' treasure, While they wielded their arms, till they misled to the battle Their own dear lives and beloved companions. He saith at the banquet who the collar beholdeth, 10 An ancient ash-warrior who earlmen's destruction Clearly recalleth (cruel his spirit), Sadly beginneth sounding the youthful Thane-champion's spirit through the thoughts of his bosom, War-grief to waken, and this word-answer speaketh: {Ingeld is stirred up to break the truce.} 15 'Art thou able, my friend, to know when thou seest it The brand which thy father bare to the conflict In his latest adventure, 'neath visor of helmet, The dearly-loved iron, where Danemen did slay him, And brave-mooded Scyldings, on the fall of the heroes, 20 (When vengeance was sleeping) the slaughter-place wielded? E'en now some man of the murderer's progeny Exulting in ornaments enters the building, Boasts of his blood-shedding, offbeareth the jewel Which thou shouldst wholly hold in possession!' 25 So he urgeth and mindeth on every occasion With woe-bringing words, till waxeth the season When the woman's thane for the works of his father, The bill having bitten, blood-gory sleepeth, Fated to perish; the other one thenceward 30 'Scapeth alive, the land knoweth thoroughly.[1] Then the oaths of the earlmen on each side are broken, When rancors unresting are raging in Ingeld And his wife-love waxeth less warm after sorrow. So the Heathobards' favor not faithful I reckon, 35 Their part in the treaty not true to the Danemen, Their friendship not fast. I further shall tell thee [71] {Having made these preliminary statements, I will now tell thee of Grendel, the monster.} More about Grendel, that thou fully mayst hear, Ornament-giver, what afterward came from The hand-rush of heroes. When heaven's bright jewel 40 O'er earthfields had glided, the stranger came raging, The horrible night-fiend, us for to visit, Where wholly unharmed the hall we were guarding. {Hondscio fell first} To Hondscio happened a hopeless contention, Death to the doomed one, dead he fell foremost, 45 Girded war-champion; to him Grendel became then, To the vassal distinguished, a tooth-weaponed murderer, The well-beloved henchman's body all swallowed. Not the earlier off empty of hand did The bloody-toothed murderer, mindful of evils, 50 Wish to escape from the gold-giver's palace, But sturdy of strength he strove to outdo me, Hand-ready grappled. A glove was suspended Spacious and wondrous, in art-fetters fastened, Which was fashioned entirely by touch of the craftman 55 From the dragon's skin by the devil's devices: He down in its depths would do me unsadly One among many, deed-doer raging, Though sinless he saw me; not so could it happen When I in my anger upright did stand. 60 'Tis too long to recount how requital I furnished For every evil to the earlmen's destroyer; {I reflected honor upon my people.} 'Twas there, my prince, that I proudly distinguished Thy land with my labors. He left and retreated, He lived his life a little while longer: 65 Yet his right-hand guarded his footstep in Heorot, And sad-mooded thence to the sea-bottom fell he, Mournful in mind. For the might-rush of battle {King Hrothgar lavished gifts upon me.} The friend of the Scyldings, with gold that was plated, With ornaments many, much requited me, 70 When daylight had dawned, and down to the banquet We had sat us together. There was chanting and joyance: The age-stricken Scylding asked many questions [72] And of old-times related; oft light-ringing harp-strings, Joy-telling wood, were touched by the brave one; 75 Now he uttered measures, mourning and truthful, Then the large-hearted land-king a legend of wonder Truthfully told us. Now troubled with years {The old king is sad over the loss of his youthful vigor.} The age-hoary warrior afterward began to Mourn for the might that marked him in youth-days; 80 His breast within boiled, when burdened with winters Much he remembered. From morning till night then We joyed us therein as etiquette suffered, Till the second night season came unto earth-folk. Then early thereafter, the mother of Grendel {Grendel's mother.} 85 Was ready for vengeance, wretched she journeyed; Her son had death ravished, the wrath of the Geatmen. The horrible woman avenged her offspring, And with mighty mainstrength murdered a hero. {AEschere falls a prey to her vengeance.} There the spirit of AEschere, aged adviser, 90 Was ready to vanish; nor when morn had lightened Were they anywise suffered to consume him with fire, Folk of the Danemen, the death-weakened hero, Nor the beloved liegeman to lay on the pyre; {She suffered not his body to be burned, but ate it.} She the corpse had offcarried in the clutch of the foeman[2] 95 'Neath mountain-brook's flood. To Hrothgar 'twas saddest Of pains that ever had preyed on the chieftain; By the life of thee the land-prince then me[3] Besought very sadly, in sea-currents' eddies To display my prowess, to peril my safety, 100 Might-deeds accomplish; much did he promise. {I sought the creature in her den,} I found then the famous flood-current's cruel, Horrible depth-warder. A while unto us two [73] Hand was in common; the currents were seething With gore that was clotted, and Grendel's fierce mother's {and hewed her head off.} 105 Head I offhacked in the hall at the bottom With huge-reaching sword-edge, hardly I wrested My life from her clutches; not doomed was I then, {Jewels were freely bestowed upon me.} But the warden of earlmen afterward gave me Jewels in quantity, kinsman of Healfdene. [1] For 'lifigende' (2063), a mere conjecture, 'wigende' has been suggested. The line would then read: _Escapeth by fighting, knows the land thoroughly_. [2] For 'faeethmum,' Gr.'s conjecture, B. proposes 'faerunga.' These three half-verses would then read: _She bore off the corpse of her foe suddenly under the mountain-torrent_. [3] The phrase 'ine lyfe' (2132) was long rendered '_with thy (presupposed) permission_.' The verse would read: _The land-prince then sadly besought me, with thy (presupposed) permission, etc_. GIFT-GIVING IS MUTUAL. "So the beloved land-prince lived in decorum; I had missed no rewards, no meeds of my prowess, But he gave me jewels, regarding my wishes, Healfdene his bairn; I'll bring them to thee, then, {All my gifts I lay at thy feet.} 5 Atheling of earlmen, offer them gladly. And still unto thee is all my affection:[1] But few of my folk-kin find I surviving But thee, dear Higelac!" Bade he in then to carry[2] The boar-image, banner, battle-high helmet, 10 Iron-gray armor, the excellent weapon, {This armor I have belonged of yore to Heregar.} In song-measures said: "This suit-for-the-battle Hrothgar presented me, bade me expressly, Wise-mooded atheling, thereafter to tell thee[3] The whole of its history, said King Heregar owned it, 15 Dane-prince for long: yet he wished not to give then [74] The mail to his son, though dearly he loved him, Hereward the hardy. Hold all in joyance!" I heard that there followed hard on the jewels Two braces of stallions of striking resemblance, 20 Dappled and yellow; he granted him usance Of horses and treasures. So a kinsman should bear him, No web of treachery weave for another, Nor by cunning craftiness cause the destruction {Higelac loves his nephew Beowulf.} Of trusty companion. Most precious to Higelac, 25 The bold one in battle, was the bairn of his sister, And each unto other mindful of favors. {Beowulf gives Hygd the necklace that Wealhtheow had given him.} I am told that to Hygd he proffered the necklace, Wonder-gem rare that Wealhtheow gave him, The troop-leader's daughter, a trio of horses 30 Slender and saddle-bright; soon did the jewel Embellish her bosom, when the beer-feast was over. So Ecgtheow's bairn brave did prove him, {Beowulf is famous.} War-famous man, by deeds that were valiant, He lived in honor, beloved companions 35 Slew not carousing; his mood was not cruel, But by hand-strength hugest of heroes then living The brave one retained the bountiful gift that The Lord had allowed him. Long was he wretched, So that sons of the Geatmen accounted him worthless, 40 And the lord of the liegemen loth was to do him Mickle of honor, when mead-cups were passing; They fully believed him idle and sluggish, {He is requited for the slights suffered in earlier days.} An indolent atheling: to the honor-blest man there Came requital for the cuts he had suffered. 45 The folk-troop's defender bade fetch to the building The heirloom of Hrethel, embellished with gold, {Higelac overwhelms the conqueror with gifts.} So the brave one enjoined it; there was jewel no richer In the form of a weapon 'mong Geats of that era; In Beowulf's keeping he placed it and gave him 50 Seven of thousands, manor and lordship. Common to both was land 'mong the people, [75] Estate and inherited rights and possessions, To the second one specially spacious dominions, To the one who was better. It afterward happened 55 In days that followed, befell the battle-thanes, {After Heardred's death, Beowulf becomes king.} After Higelac's death, and when Heardred was murdered With weapons of warfare 'neath well-covered targets, When valiant battlemen in victor-band sought him, War-Scylfing heroes harassed the nephew 60 Of Hereric in battle. To Beowulf's keeping Turned there in time extensive dominions: {He rules the Geats fifty years.} He fittingly ruled them a fifty of winters (He a man-ruler wise was, manor-ward old) till A certain one 'gan, on gloom-darkening nights, a {The fire-drake.} 65 Dragon, to govern, who guarded a treasure, A high-rising stone-cliff, on heath that was grayish: A path 'neath it lay, unknown unto mortals. Some one of earthmen entered the mountain, The heathenish hoard laid hold of with ardor; 70 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [1] This verse B. renders, '_Now serve I again thee alone as my gracious king_.' [2] For 'eafor' (2153), Kl. suggests 'ealdor.' Translate then: _Bade the prince then to bear in the banner, battle-high helmet, etc_. On the other hand, W. takes 'eaforheafodsegn' as a compound, meaning 'helmet': _He bade them bear in the helmet, battle-high helm, gray armor, etc_. [3] The H.-So. rendering (aerest = _history, origin_; 'eft' for 'est'), though liable to objection, is perhaps the best offered. 'That I should very early tell thee of his favor, kindness' sounds well; but 'his' is badly placed to limit 'est.'--Perhaps, 'eft' with verbs of saying may have the force of Lat. prefix 're,' and the H.-So. reading mean, 'that I should its origin rehearse to thee.' THE HOARD AND THE DRAGON. * * * * * * * He sought of himself who sorely did harm him, But, for need very pressing, the servant of one of The sons of the heroes hate-blows evaded, 5 Seeking for shelter and the sin-driven warrior Took refuge within there. He early looked in it, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [76] * * * * * * when the onset surprised him, {The hoard.} 10 He a gem-vessel saw there: many of suchlike Ancient ornaments in the earth-cave were lying, As in days of yore some one of men of Illustrious lineage, as a legacy monstrous, There had secreted them, careful and thoughtful, 15 Dear-valued jewels. Death had offsnatched them, In the days of the past, and the one man moreover Of the flower of the folk who fared there the longest, Was fain to defer it, friend-mourning warder, A little longer to be left in enjoyment 20 Of long-lasting treasure.[1] A barrow all-ready Stood on the plain the stream-currents nigh to, New by the ness-edge, unnethe of approaching: The keeper of rings carried within a [2]Ponderous deal of the treasure of nobles, 25 Of gold that was beaten, briefly he spake then:[3] {The ring-giver bewails the loss of retainers.} "Hold thou, O Earth, now heroes no more may, The earnings of earlmen. Lo! erst in thy bosom Worthy men won them; war-death hath ravished, Perilous life-bale, all my warriors, 30 Liegemen beloved, who this life have forsaken, Who hall-pleasures saw. No sword-bearer have I, And no one to burnish the gold-plated vessel, The high-valued beaker: my heroes are vanished. The hardy helmet behung with gilding 35 Shall be reaved of its riches: the ring-cleansers slumber Who were charged to have ready visors-for-battle, And the burnie that bided in battle-encounter [77] O'er breaking of war-shields the bite of the edges Moulds with the hero. The ring-twisted armor, 40 Its lord being lifeless, no longer may journey Hanging by heroes; harp-joy is vanished, The rapture of glee-wood, no excellent falcon Swoops through the building, no swift-footed charger Grindeth the gravel. A grievous destruction 45 No few of the world-folk widely hath scattered!" So, woful of spirit one after all Lamented mournfully, moaning in sadness By day and by night, till death with its billows {The fire-dragon} Dashed on his spirit. Then the ancient dusk-scather 50 Found the great treasure standing all open, He who flaming and fiery flies to the barrows, Naked war-dragon, nightly escapeth Encompassed with fire; men under heaven Widely beheld him. 'Tis said that he looks for[4] 55 The hoard in the earth, where old he is guarding The heathenish treasure; he'll be nowise the better. {The dragon meets his match.} So three-hundred winters the waster of peoples Held upon earth that excellent hoard-hall, Till the forementioned earlman angered him bitterly: 60 The beat-plated beaker he bare to his chieftain And fullest remission for all his remissness Begged of his liegelord. Then the hoard[5] was discovered, The treasure was taken, his petition was granted {The hero plunders the dragon's den} The lorn-mooded liegeman. His lord regarded 65 The old-work of earth-folk--'twas the earliest occasion. When the dragon awoke, the strife was renewed there; He snuffed 'long the stone then, stout-hearted found he [78] The footprint of foeman; too far had he gone With cunning craftiness close to the head of 70 The fire-spewing dragon. So undoomed he may 'scape from Anguish and exile with ease who possesseth The favor of Heaven. The hoard-warden eagerly Searched o'er the ground then, would meet with the person That caused him sorrow while in slumber reclining: 75 Gleaming and wild he oft went round the cavern, All of it outward; not any of earthmen Was seen in that desert.[6] Yet he joyed in the battle, Rejoiced in the conflict: oft he turned to the barrow, Sought for the gem-cup;[7] this he soon perceived then {The dragon perceives that some one has disturbed his treasure.} 80 That some man or other had discovered the gold, The famous folk-treasure. Not fain did the hoard-ward Wait until evening; then the ward of the barrow Was angry in spirit, the loathed one wished to Pay for the dear-valued drink-cup with fire. 85 Then the day was done as the dragon would have it, He no longer would wait on the wall, but departed {The dragon is infuriated.} Fire-impelled, flaming. Fearful the start was To earls in the land, as it early thereafter To their giver-of-gold was grievously ended. [1] For 'long-gestreona,' B. suggests 'laengestreona,' and renders, _Of fleeting treasures_. S. accepts H.'s 'long-gestreona,' but renders, _The treasure long in accumulating_. [2] For 'hard-fyrdne' (2246), B. first suggested 'hard-fyndne,' rendering: _A heap of treasures ... so great that its equal would be hard to find_. The same scholar suggests later 'hord-wynne dael' = _A deal of treasure-joy_. [3] Some read 'fec-word' (2247), and render: _Banning words uttered_. [4] An earlier reading of H.'s gave the following meaning to this passage: _He is said to inhabit a mound under the earth, where he, etc._ The translation in the text is more authentic. [5] The repetition of 'hord' in this passage has led some scholars to suggest new readings to avoid the second 'hord.' This, however, is not under the main stress, and, it seems to me, might easily be accepted. [6] The reading of H.-So. is well defended in the notes to that volume. B. emends and renders: _Nor was there any man in that desert who rejoiced in conflict, in battle-work._ That is, the hoard-ward could not find any one who had disturbed his slumbers, for no warrior was there, t.B.'s emendation would give substantially the same translation. [7] 'Sinc-faet' (2301): this word both here and in v. 2232, t.B. renders 'treasure.' BRAVE THOUGH AGED.--REMINISCENCES. {The dragon spits fire.} The stranger began then to vomit forth fire, To burn the great manor; the blaze then glimmered For anguish to earlmen, not anything living [79] Was the hateful air-goer willing to leave there. 5 The war of the worm widely was noticed, The feud of the foeman afar and anear, How the enemy injured the earls of the Geatmen, Harried with hatred: back he hied to the treasure, To the well-hidden cavern ere the coming of daylight. 10 He had circled with fire the folk of those regions, With brand and burning; in the barrow he trusted, In the wall and his war-might: the weening deceived him. {Beowulf hears of the havoc wrought by the dragon.} Then straight was the horror to Beowulf published, Early forsooth, that his own native homestead,[1] 15 The best of buildings, was burning and melting, Gift-seat of Geatmen. 'Twas a grief to the spirit Of the good-mooded hero, the greatest of sorrows: {He fears that Heaven is punishing him for some crime.} The wise one weened then that wielding his kingdom 'Gainst the ancient commandments, he had bitterly angered 20 The Lord everlasting: with lorn meditations His bosom welled inward, as was nowise his custom. The fire-spewing dragon fully had wasted The fastness of warriors, the water-land outward, The manor with fire. The folk-ruling hero, 25 Prince of the Weders, was planning to wreak him. The warmen's defender bade them to make him, Earlmen's atheling, an excellent war-shield {He orders an iron shield to be made from him, wood is useless.} Wholly of iron: fully he knew then That wood from the forest was helpless to aid him, 30 Shield against fire. The long-worthy ruler Must live the last of his limited earth-days, Of life in the world and the worm along with him, Though he long had been holding hoard-wealth in plenty. {He determines to fight alone.} Then the ring-prince disdained to seek with a war-band, 35 With army extensive, the air-going ranger; He felt no fear of the foeman's assaults and He counted for little the might of the dragon, [80] His power and prowess: for previously dared he {Beowulf's early triumphs referred to} A heap of hostility, hazarded dangers, 40 War-thane, when Hrothgar's palace he cleansed, Conquering combatant, clutched in the battle The kinsmen of Grendel, of kindred detested.[2] {Higelac's death recalled.} 'Twas of hand-fights not least where Higelac was slaughtered, When the king of the Geatmen with clashings of battle, 45 Friend-lord of folks in Frisian dominions, Offspring of Hrethrel perished through sword-drink, With battle-swords beaten; thence Beowulf came then On self-help relying, swam through the waters; He bare on his arm, lone-going, thirty 50 Outfits of armor, when the ocean he mounted. The Hetwars by no means had need to be boastful Of their fighting afoot, who forward to meet him Carried their war-shields: not many returned from The brave-mooded battle-knight back to their homesteads. 55 Ecgtheow's bairn o'er the bight-courses swam then, Lone-goer lorn to his land-folk returning, Where Hygd to him tendered treasure and kingdom, {Heardred's lack of capacity to rule.} Rings and dominion: her son she not trusted, To be able to keep the kingdom devised him 60 'Gainst alien races, on the death of King Higelac. {Beowulf's tact and delicacy recalled.} Yet the sad ones succeeded not in persuading the atheling In any way ever, to act as a suzerain To Heardred, or promise to govern the kingdom; Yet with friendly counsel in the folk he sustained him, 65 Gracious, with honor, till he grew to be older, {Reference is here made to a visit which Beowulf receives from Eanmund and Eadgils, why they come is not known.} Wielded the Weders. Wide-fleeing outlaws, Ohthere's sons, sought him o'er the waters: They had stirred a revolt 'gainst the helm of the Scylfings, The best of the sea-kings, who in Swedish dominions 70 Distributed treasure, distinguished folk-leader. [81] 'Twas the end of his earth-days; injury fatal[3] By swing of the sword he received as a greeting, Offspring of Higelac; Ongentheow's bairn Later departed to visit his homestead, 75 When Heardred was dead; let Beowulf rule them, Govern the Geatmen: good was that folk-king. [1] 'Ham' (2326), the suggestion of B. is accepted by t.B. and other scholars. [2] For 'laethan cynnes' (2355), t.B. suggests 'laethan cynne,' apposition to 'maegum.' From syntactical and other considerations, this is a most excellent emendation. [3] Gr. read 'on feorme' (2386), rendering: _He there at the banquet a fatal wound received by blows of the sword._ BEOWULF SEEKS THE DRAGON.--BEOWULF'S REMINISCENCES. He planned requital for the folk-leader's ruin In days thereafter, to Eadgils the wretched Becoming an enemy. Ohthere's son then Went with a war-troop o'er the wide-stretching currents 5 With warriors and weapons: with woe-journeys cold he After avenged him, the king's life he took. {Beowulf has been preserved through many perils.} So he came off uninjured from all of his battles, Perilous fights, offspring of Ecgtheow, From his deeds of daring, till that day most momentous 10 When he fate-driven fared to fight with the dragon. {With eleven comrades, he seeks the dragon.} With eleven companions the prince of the Geatmen Went lowering with fury to look at the fire-drake: Inquiring he'd found how the feud had arisen, Hate to his heroes; the highly-famed gem-vessel 15 Was brought to his keeping through the hand of th' informer. {A guide leads the way, but} That in the throng was thirteenth of heroes, That caused the beginning of conflict so bitter, Captive and wretched, must sad-mooded thenceward {very reluctantly.} Point out the place: he passed then unwillingly 20 To the spot where he knew of the notable cavern, The cave under earth, not far from the ocean, The anger of eddies, which inward was full of Jewels and wires: a warden uncanny, [82] Warrior weaponed, wardered the treasure, 25 Old under earth; no easy possession For any of earth-folk access to get to. Then the battle-brave atheling sat on the naze-edge, While the gold-friend of Geatmen gracious saluted His fireside-companions: woe was his spirit, 30 Death-boding, wav'ring; Weird very near him, Who must seize the old hero, his soul-treasure look for, Dragging aloof his life from his body: Not flesh-hidden long was the folk-leader's spirit. Beowulf spake, Ecgtheow's son: {Beowulf's retrospect.} 35 "I survived in my youth-days many a conflict, Hours of onset: that all I remember. I was seven-winters old when the jewel-prince took me, High-lord of heroes, at the hands of my father, Hrethel the hero-king had me in keeping, {Hrethel took me when I was seven.} 40 Gave me treasure and feasting, our kinship remembered; Not ever was I _any_ less dear to him {He treated me as a son.} Knight in the boroughs, than the bairns of his household, Herebald and Haethcyn and Higelac mine. To the eldest unjustly by acts of a kinsman 45 Was murder-bed strewn, since him Haethcyn from horn-bow {One of the brothers accidentally kills another.} His sheltering chieftain shot with an arrow, Erred in his aim and injured his kinsman, One brother the other, with blood-sprinkled spear: {No fee could compound for such a calamity.} 'Twas a feeless fight, finished in malice, 50 Sad to his spirit; the folk-prince however Had to part from existence with vengeance untaken. {[A parallel case is supposed.]} So to hoar-headed hero 'tis heavily crushing[1] [83] To live to see his son as he rideth Young on the gallows: then measures he chanteth, 55 A song of sorrow, when his son is hanging For the raven's delight, and aged and hoary He is unable to offer any assistance. Every morning his offspring's departure Is constant recalled: he cares not to wait for 60 The birth of an heir in his borough-enclosures, Since that one through death-pain the deeds hath experienced. He heart-grieved beholds in the house of his son the Wine-building wasted, the wind-lodging places Reaved of their roaring; the riders are sleeping, 65 The knights in the grave; there's no sound of the harp-wood, Joy in the yards, as of yore were familiar. [1] 'Gomelum ceorle' (2445).--H. takes these words as referring to Hrethel; but the translator here departs from his editor by understanding the poet to refer to a hypothetical old man, introduced as an illustration of a father's sorrow. Hrethrel had certainly never seen a son of his ride on the gallows to feed the crows. The passage beginning 'swa bieth geomorlic' seems to be an effort to reach a full simile, 'as ... so.' 'As it is mournful for an old man, etc. ... so the defence of the Weders (2463) bore heart-sorrow, etc.' The verses 2451 to 2463-1/2 would be parenthetical, the poet's feelings being so strong as to interrupt the simile. The punctuation of the fourth edition would be better--a comma after 'galgan' (2447). The translation may be indicated as follows: _(Just) as it is sad for an old man to see his son ride young on the gallows when he himself is uttering mournful measures, a sorrowful song, while his son hangs for a comfort to the raven, and he, old and infirm, cannot render him any kelp--(he is constantly reminded, etc., 2451-2463)--so the defence of the Weders, etc._ REMINISCENCES (_continued_).--BEOWULF'S LAST BATTLE. "He seeks then his chamber, singeth a woe-song One for the other; all too extensive Seemed homesteads and plains. So the helm of the Weders {Hrethel grieves for Herebald.} Mindful of Herebald heart-sorrow carried, 5 Stirred with emotion, nowise was able To wreak his ruin on the ruthless destroyer: He was unable to follow the warrior with hatred, With deeds that were direful, though dear he not held him. [84] Then pressed by the pang this pain occasioned him, 10 He gave up glee, God-light elected; He left to his sons, as the man that is rich does, His land and fortress, when from life he departed. {Strife between Swedes and Geats.} Then was crime and hostility 'twixt Swedes and Geatmen, O'er wide-stretching water warring was mutual, 15 Burdensome hatred, when Hrethel had perished, And Ongentheow's offspring were active and valiant, Wished not to hold to peace oversea, but Round Hreosna-beorh often accomplished Cruelest massacre. This my kinsman avenged, 20 The feud and fury, as 'tis found on inquiry, Though one of them paid it with forfeit of life-joys, {Haethcyn's fall at Ravenswood.} With price that was hard: the struggle became then Fatal to Haethcyn, lord of the Geatmen. Then I heard that at morning one brother the other 25 With edges of irons egged on to murder, Where Ongentheow maketh onset on Eofor: The helmet crashed, the hoary-haired Scylfing Sword-smitten fell, his hand then remembered Feud-hate sufficient, refused not the death-blow. {I requited him for the jewels he gave me.} 30 The gems that he gave me, with jewel-bright sword I 'Quited in contest, as occasion was offered: Land he allowed me, life-joy at homestead, Manor to live on. Little he needed From Gepids or Danes or in Sweden to look for 35 Trooper less true, with treasure to buy him; 'Mong foot-soldiers ever in front I would hie me, Alone in the vanguard, and evermore gladly Warfare shall wage, while this weapon endureth That late and early often did serve me {Beowulf refers to his having slain Daeghrefn.} 40 When I proved before heroes the slayer of Daeghrefn, Knight of the Hugmen: he by no means was suffered To the king of the Frisians to carry the jewels, The breast-decoration; but the banner-possessor Bowed in the battle, brave-mooded atheling. [85] 45 No weapon was slayer, but war-grapple broke then The surge of his spirit, his body destroying. Now shall weapon's edge make war for the treasure, And hand and firm-sword." Beowulf spake then, Boast-words uttered--the latest occasion: {He boasts of his youthful prowess, and declares himself still fearless.} 50 "I braved in my youth-days battles unnumbered; Still am I willing the struggle to look for, Fame-deeds perform, folk-warden prudent, If the hateful despoiler forth from his cavern Seeketh me out!" Each of the heroes, 55 Helm-bearers sturdy, he thereupon greeted {His last salutations.} Beloved co-liegemen--his last salutation: "No brand would I bear, no blade for the dragon, Wist I a way my word-boast to 'complish[1] Else with the monster, as with Grendel I did it; 60 But fire in the battle hot I expect there, Furious flame-burning: so I fixed on my body Target and war-mail. The ward of the barrow[2] I'll not flee from a foot-length, the foeman uncanny. At the wall 'twill befall us as Fate decreeth, {Let Fate decide between us.} 65 Each one's Creator. I am eager in spirit, With the winged war-hero to away with all boasting. Bide on the barrow with burnies protected, {Wait ye here till the battle is over.} Earls in armor, which of _us_ two may better Bear his disaster, when the battle is over. 70 'Tis no matter of yours, and man cannot do it, But me and me only, to measure his strength with The monster of malice, might-deeds to 'complish. I with prowess shall gain the gold, or the battle, [86] Direful death-woe will drag off your ruler!" 75 The mighty champion rose by his shield then, Brave under helmet, in battle-mail went he 'Neath steep-rising stone-cliffs, the strength he relied on Of one man alone: no work for a coward. Then he saw by the wall who a great many battles 80 Had lived through, most worthy, when foot-troops collided, {The place of strife is described.} Stone-arches standing, stout-hearted champion, Saw a brook from the barrow bubbling out thenceward: The flood of the fountain was fuming with war-flame: Not nigh to the hoard, for season the briefest 85 Could he brave, without burning, the abyss that was yawning, The drake was so fiery. The prince of the Weders Caused then that words came from his bosom, So fierce was his fury; the firm-hearted shouted: His battle-clear voice came in resounding 90 'Neath the gray-colored stone. Stirred was his hatred, {Beowulf calls out under the stone arches.} The hoard-ward distinguished the speech of a man; Time was no longer to look out for friendship. The breath of the monster issued forth first, Vapory war-sweat, out of the stone-cave: {The terrible encounter.} 95 The earth re-echoed. The earl 'neath the barrow Lifted his shield, lord of the Geatmen, Tow'rd the terrible stranger: the ring-twisted creature's Heart was then ready to seek for a struggle. {Beowulf brandishes his sword,} The excellent battle-king first brandished his weapon, 100 The ancient heirloom, of edges unblunted,[3] To the death-planners twain was terror from other. {and stands against his shield.} The lord of the troopers intrepidly stood then 'Gainst his high-rising shield, when the dragon coiled him {The dragon coils himself.} Quickly together: in corslet he bided. [87] 105 He went then in blazes, bended and striding, Hasting him forward. His life and body The targe well protected, for time-period shorter Than wish demanded for the well-renowned leader, Where he then for the first day was forced to be victor, 110 Famous in battle, as Fate had not willed it. The lord of the Geatmen uplifted his hand then, Smiting the fire-drake with sword that was precious, That bright on the bone the blade-edge did weaken, Bit more feebly than his folk-leader needed, 115 Burdened with bale-griefs. Then the barrow-protector, {The dragon rages} When the sword-blow had fallen, was fierce in his spirit, Flinging his fires, flamings of battle Gleamed then afar: the gold-friend of Weders {Beowulf's sword fails him.} Boasted no conquests, his battle-sword failed him 120 Naked in conflict, as by no means it ought to, Long-trusty weapon. 'Twas no slight undertaking That Ecgtheow's famous offspring would leave The drake-cavern's bottom; he must live in some region Other than this, by the will of the dragon, 125 As each one of earthmen existence must forfeit. 'Twas early thereafter the excellent warriors {The combat is renewed.} Met with each other. Anew and afresh The hoard-ward took heart (gasps heaved then his bosom): {The great hero is reduced to extremities.} Sorrow he suffered encircled with fire 130 Who the people erst governed. His companions by no means Were banded about him, bairns of the princes, {His comrades flee!} With valorous spirit, but they sped to the forest, Seeking for safety. The soul-deeps of one were {Blood is thicker than water.} Ruffled by care: kin-love can never 135 Aught in him waver who well doth consider. [88] [1] The clause 2520(2)-2522(1), rendered by 'Wist I ... monster,' Gr., followed by S., translates substantially as follows: _If I knew how else I might combat the boastful defiance of the monster_.--The translation turns upon 'wiethgripan,' a word not understood. [2] B. emends and translates: _I will not flee the space of a foot from the guard of the barrow, but there shall be to us a fight at the wall, as fate decrees, each one's Creator._ [3] The translation of this passage is based on 'unslaw' (2565), accepted by H.-So., in lieu of the long-standing 'ungleaw.' The former is taken as an adj. limiting 'sweord'; the latter as an adj. c. 'gueth-cyning': _The good war-king, rash with edges, brandished his sword, his old relic._ The latter gives a more rhetorical Anglo-Saxon (poetical) sentence. WIGLAF THE TRUSTY.--BEOWULF IS DESERTED BY FRIENDS AND BY SWORD. {Wiglaf remains true--the ideal Teutonic liegeman.} The son of Weohstan was Wiglaf entitled, Shield-warrior precious, prince of the Scylfings, AElfhere's kinsman: he saw his dear liegelord Enduring the heat 'neath helmet and visor. 5 Then he minded the holding that erst he had given him, {Wiglaf recalls Beowulf's generosity.} The Waegmunding warriors' wealth-blessed homestead, Each of the folk-rights his father had wielded; He was hot for the battle, his hand seized the target, The yellow-bark shield, he unsheathed his old weapon, 10 Which was known among earthmen as the relic of Eanmund, Ohthere's offspring, whom, exiled and friendless, Weohstan did slay with sword-edge in battle, And carried his kinsman the clear-shining helmet, The ring-made burnie, the old giant-weapon 15 That Onela gave him, his boon-fellow's armor, Ready war-trappings: he the feud did not mention, Though he'd fatally smitten the son of his brother. Many a half-year held he the treasures, The bill and the burnie, till his bairn became able, 20 Like his father before him, fame-deeds to 'complish; Then he gave him 'mong Geatmen a goodly array of Weeds for his warfare; he went from life then Old on his journey. 'Twas the earliest time then {This is Wiglaf's first battle as liegeman of Beowulf.} That the youthful champion might charge in the battle 25 Aiding his liegelord; his spirit was dauntless. Nor did kinsman's bequest quail at the battle: This the dragon discovered on their coming together. Wiglaf uttered many a right-saying, Said to his fellows, sad was his spirit: {Wiglaf appeals to the pride of the cowards.} 30 "I remember the time when, tasting the mead-cup, We promised in the hall the lord of us all [89] Who gave us these ring-treasures, that this battle-equipment, Swords and helmets, we'd certainly quite him, Should need of such aid ever befall him: {How we have forfeited our liegelord's confidence!} 35 In the war-band he chose us for this journey spontaneously, Stirred us to glory and gave me these jewels, Since he held and esteemed us trust-worthy spearmen, Hardy helm-bearers, though this hero-achievement Our lord intended alone to accomplish, 40 Ward of his people, for most of achievements, Doings audacious, he did among earth-folk. {Our lord is in sore need of us.} The day is now come when the ruler of earthmen Needeth the vigor of valiant heroes: Let us wend us towards him, the war-prince to succor, 45 While the heat yet rageth, horrible fire-fight. {I would rather die than go home with out my suzerain.} God wot in me, 'tis mickle the liefer The blaze should embrace my body and eat it With my treasure-bestower. Meseemeth not proper To bear our battle-shields back to our country, 50 'Less first we are able to fell and destroy the Long-hating foeman, to defend the life of {Surely he does not deserve to die alone.} The prince of the Weders. Well do I know 'tisn't Earned by his exploits, he only of Geatmen Sorrow should suffer, sink in the battle: 55 Brand and helmet to us both shall be common, [1]Shield-cover, burnie." Through the bale-smoke he stalked then, Went under helmet to the help of his chieftain, {Wiglaf reminds Beowulf of his youthful boasts.} Briefly discoursing: "Beowulf dear, Perform thou all fully, as thou formerly saidst, 60 In thy youthful years, that while yet thou livedst [90] Thou wouldst let thine honor not ever be lessened. Thy life thou shalt save, mighty in actions, Atheling undaunted, with all of thy vigor; {The monster advances on them.} I'll give thee assistance." The dragon came raging, 65 Wild-mooded stranger, when these words had been uttered ('Twas the second occasion), seeking his enemies, Men that were hated, with hot-gleaming fire-waves; With blaze-billows burned the board to its edges: The fight-armor failed then to furnish assistance 70 To the youthful spear-hero: but the young-aged stripling Quickly advanced 'neath his kinsman's war-target, Since his own had been ground in the grip of the fire. {Beowulf strikes at the dragon.} Then the warrior-king was careful of glory, He soundly smote with sword-for-the-battle, 75 That it stood in the head by hatred driven; Naegling was shivered, the old and iron-made {His sword fails him.} Brand of Beowulf in battle deceived him. 'Twas denied him that edges of irons were able To help in the battle; the hand was too mighty 80 [2]Which every weapon, as I heard on inquiry, Outstruck in its stroke, when to struggle he carried The wonderful war-sword: it waxed him no better. {The dragon advances on Beowulf again.} Then the people-despoiler--third of his onsets-- Fierce-raging fire-drake, of feud-hate was mindful, 85 Charged on the strong one, when chance was afforded, Heated and war-grim, seized on his neck With teeth that were bitter; he bloody did wax with Soul-gore seething; sword-blood in waves boiled. [1] The passage '_Brand ... burnie_,' is much disputed. In the first place, some eminent critics assume a gap of at least two half-verses.--'Urum' (2660), being a peculiar form, has been much discussed. 'Byrdu-scrud' is also a crux. B. suggests 'bywdu-scrud' = _splendid vestments_. Nor is 'bam' accepted by all, 'beon' being suggested. Whatever the individual words, the passage must mean, "_I intend to share with him my equipments of defence_." [2] B. would render: _Which, as I heard, excelled in stroke every sword that he carried to the strife, even the strongest (sword)._ For 'onne' he reads 'one,' rel. pr. [91] THE FATAL STRUGGLE.--BEOWULF'S LAST MOMENTS. {Wiglaf defends Beowulf.} Then I heard that at need of the king of the people The upstanding earlman exhibited prowess, Vigor and courage, as suited his nature; [1]He his head did not guard, but the high-minded liegeman's 5 Hand was consumed, when he succored his kinsman, So he struck the strife-bringing strange-comer lower, Earl-thane in armor, that _in_ went the weapon Gleaming and plated, that 'gan then the fire[2] {Beowulf draws his knife,} Later to lessen. The liegelord himself then 10 Retained his consciousness, brandished his war-knife, Battle-sharp, bitter, that he bare on his armor: {and cuts the dragon.} The Weder-lord cut the worm in the middle. They had felled the enemy (life drove out then[3] Puissant prowess), the pair had destroyed him, 15 Land-chiefs related: so a liegeman should prove him, A thaneman when needed. To the prince 'twas the last of His era of conquest by his own great achievements, [92] {Beowulf's wound swells and burns.} The latest of world-deeds. The wound then began Which the earth-dwelling dragon erstwhile had wrought him 20 To burn and to swell. He soon then discovered That bitterest bale-woe in his bosom was raging, Poison within. The atheling advanced then, {He sits down exhausted.} That along by the wall, he prudent of spirit Might sit on a settle; he saw the giant-work, 25 How arches of stone strengthened with pillars The earth-hall eternal inward supported. Then the long-worthy liegeman laved with his hand the {Wiglaf bathes his lord's head.} Far-famous chieftain, gory from sword-edge, Refreshing the face of his friend-lord and ruler, 30 Sated with battle, unbinding his helmet. Beowulf answered, of his injury spake he, His wound that was fatal (he was fully aware He had lived his allotted life-days enjoying The pleasures of earth; then past was entirely 35 His measure of days, death very near): {Beowulf regrets that he has no son.} "My son I would give now my battle-equipments, Had any of heirs been after me granted, Along of my body. This people I governed Fifty of winters: no king 'mong my neighbors 40 Dared to encounter me with comrades-in-battle, Try me with terror. The time to me ordered I bided at home, mine own kept fitly, Sought me no snares, swore me not many {I can rejoice in a well-spent life.} Oaths in injustice. Joy over all this 45 I'm able to have, though ill with my death-wounds; Hence the Ruler of Earthmen need not charge me With the killing of kinsmen, when cometh my life out Forth from my body. Fare thou with haste now {Bring me the hoard, Wiglaf, that my dying eyes may be refreshed by a sight of it.} To behold the hoard 'neath the hoar-grayish stone, 50 Well-loved Wiglaf, now the worm is a-lying, Sore-wounded sleepeth, disseized of his treasure. Go thou in haste that treasures of old I, Gold-wealth may gaze on, together see lying [93] The ether-bright jewels, be easier able, 55 Having the heap of hoard-gems, to yield my Life and the land-folk whom long I have governed." [1] B. renders: _He_ (_W_.) did not regard his (_the dragon's_) _head_ (since Beowulf had struck it without effect), _but struck the dragon a little lower down.--_One crux is to find out _whose head_ is meant; another is to bring out the antithesis between 'head' and 'hand.' [2] 'aet aet fyr' (2702), S. emends to 'a aet fyr' = _when the fire began to grow less intense afterward_. This emendation relieves the passage of a plethora of conjunctive _aet_'s. [3] For 'gefyldan' (2707), S. proposes 'gefylde.' The passage would read: _He felled the foe (life drove out strength), and they then both had destroyed him, chieftains related_. This gives Beowulf the credit of having felled the dragon; then they combine to annihilate him.--For 'ellen' (2707), Kl. suggests 'e(a)llne.'--The reading '_life drove out strength_' is very unsatisfactory and very peculiar. I would suggest as follows: Adopt S.'s emendation, remove H.'s parenthesis, read 'ferh-ellen wraec,' and translate: _He felled the foe, drove out his life-strength_ (that is, made him _hors de combat_), _and then they both, etc_. WIGLAF PLUNDERS THE DRAGON'S DEN.--BEOWULF'S DEATH. {Wiglaf fulfils his lord's behest.} Then heard I that Wihstan's son very quickly, These words being uttered, heeded his liegelord Wounded and war-sick, went in his armor, His well-woven ring-mail, 'neath the roof of the barrow. 5 Then the trusty retainer treasure-gems many {The dragon's den.} Victorious saw, when the seat he came near to, Gold-treasure sparkling spread on the bottom, Wonder on the wall, and the worm-creature's cavern, The ancient dawn-flier's, vessels a-standing, 10 Cups of the ancients of cleansers bereaved, Robbed of their ornaments: there were helmets in numbers, Old and rust-eaten, arm-bracelets many, Artfully woven. Wealth can easily, Gold on the sea-bottom, turn into vanity[1] 15 Each one of earthmen, arm him who pleaseth! And he saw there lying an all-golden banner High o'er the hoard, of hand-wonders greatest, Linked with lacets: a light from it sparkled, That the floor of the cavern he was able to look on, {The dragon is not there.} 20 To examine the jewels. Sight of the dragon [94] Not any was offered, but edge offcarried him. {Wiglaf bears the hoard away.} Then I heard that the hero the hoard-treasure plundered, The giant-work ancient reaved in the cavern, Bare on his bosom the beakers and platters, 25 As himself would fain have it, and took off the standard, The brightest of beacons;[2] the bill had erst injured (Its edge was of iron), the old-ruler's weapon, Him who long had watched as ward of the jewels, Who fire-terror carried hot for the treasure, 30 Rolling in battle, in middlemost darkness, Till murdered he perished. The messenger hastened, Not loth to return, hurried by jewels: Curiosity urged him if, excellent-mooded, Alive he should find the lord of the Weders 35 Mortally wounded, at the place where he left him. 'Mid the jewels he found then the famous old chieftain, His liegelord beloved, at his life's-end gory: He thereupon 'gan to lave him with water, Till the point of his word pierced his breast-hoard. 40 Beowulf spake (the gold-gems he noticed), {Beowulf is rejoiced to see the jewels.} The old one in sorrow: "For the jewels I look on Thanks do I utter for all to the Ruler, Wielder of Worship, with words of devotion, The Lord everlasting, that He let me such treasures 45 Gain for my people ere death overtook me. Since I've bartered the aged life to me granted For treasure of jewels, attend ye henceforward {He desires to be held in memory by his people.} The wants of the war-thanes; I can wait here no longer. The battle-famed bid ye to build them a grave-hill, 50 Bright when I'm burned, at the brim-current's limit; As a memory-mark to the men I have governed, [95] Aloft it shall tower on Whale's-Ness uprising, That earls of the ocean hereafter may call it Beowulf's barrow, those who barks ever-dashing 55 From a distance shall drive o'er the darkness of waters." {The hero's last gift} The bold-mooded troop-lord took from his neck then The ring that was golden, gave to his liegeman, The youthful war-hero, his gold-flashing helmet, His collar and war-mail, bade him well to enjoy them: {and last words.} 60 "Thou art latest left of the line of our kindred, Of Waegmunding people: Weird hath offcarried All of my kinsmen to the Creator's glory, Earls in their vigor: I shall after them fare." 'Twas the aged liegelord's last-spoken word in 65 His musings of spirit, ere he mounted the fire, The battle-waves burning: from his bosom departed His soul to seek the sainted ones' glory. [1] The word 'oferhigian' (2767) being vague and little understood, two quite distinct translations of this passage have arisen. One takes 'oferhigian' as meaning 'to exceed,' and, inserting 'hord' after 'gehwone,' renders: _The treasure may easily, the gold in the ground, exceed in value every hoard of man, hide it who will._ The other takes 'oferhigian' as meaning 'to render arrogant,' and, giving the sentence a moralizing tone, renders substantially as in the body of this work. (Cf. 28_13 et seq.) [2] The passage beginning here is very much disputed. 'The bill of the old lord' is by some regarded as Beowulf's sword; by others, as that of the ancient possessor of the hoard. 'AEr gescod' (2778), translated in this work as verb and adverb, is by some regarded as a compound participial adj. = _sheathed in brass_. THE DEAD FOES.--WIGLAF'S BITTER TAUNTS. {Wiglaf is sorely grieved to see his lord look so un-warlike.} It had wofully chanced then the youthful retainer To behold on earth the most ardent-beloved At his life-days' limit, lying there helpless. The slayer too lay there, of life all bereaved, 5 Horrible earth-drake, harassed with sorrow: {The dragon has plundered his last hoard.} The round-twisted monster was permitted no longer To govern the ring-hoards, but edges of war-swords Mightily seized him, battle-sharp, sturdy Leavings of hammers, that still from his wounds 10 The flier-from-farland fell to the earth Hard by his hoard-house, hopped he at midnight Not e'er through the air, nor exulting in jewels Suffered them to see him: but he sank then to earthward Through the hero-chief's handwork. I heard sure it throve then [96] {Few warriors dared to face the monster.} 15 But few in the land of liegemen of valor, Though of every achievement bold he had proved him, To run 'gainst the breath of the venomous scather, Or the hall of the treasure to trouble with hand-blows, If he watching had found the ward of the hoard-hall 20 On the barrow abiding. Beowulf's part of The treasure of jewels was paid for with death; Each of the twain had attained to the end of Life so unlasting. Not long was the time till {The cowardly thanes come out of the thicket.} The tardy-at-battle returned from the thicket, 25 The timid truce-breakers ten all together, Who durst not before play with the lances In the prince of the people's pressing emergency; {They are ashamed of their desertion.} But blushing with shame, with shields they betook them, With arms and armor where the old one was lying: 30 They gazed upon Wiglaf. He was sitting exhausted, Foot-going fighter, not far from the shoulders Of the lord of the people, would rouse him with water; No whit did it help him; though he hoped for it keenly, He was able on earth not at all in the leader 35 Life to retain, and nowise to alter The will of the Wielder; the World-Ruler's power[1] Would govern the actions of each one of heroes, {Wiglaf is ready to excoriate them.} As yet He is doing. From the young one forthwith then Could grim-worded greeting be got for him quickly 40 Whose courage had failed him. Wiglaf discoursed then, Weohstan his son, sad-mooded hero, {He begins to taunt them.} Looked on the hated: "He who soothness will utter Can say that the liegelord who gave you the jewels, The ornament-armor wherein ye are standing, 45 When on ale-bench often he offered to hall-men Helmet and burnie, the prince to his liegemen, As best upon earth he was able to find him,-- [97] {Surely our lord wasted his armor on poltroons.} That he wildly wasted his war-gear undoubtedly When battle o'ertook him.[2] The troop-king no need had 50 To glory in comrades; yet God permitted him, {He, however, got along without you} Victory-Wielder, with weapon unaided Himself to avenge, when vigor was needed. I life-protection but little was able To give him in battle, and I 'gan, notwithstanding, {With some aid, I could have saved our liegelord} 55 Helping my kinsman (my strength overtaxing): He waxed the weaker when with weapon I smote on My mortal opponent, the fire less strongly Flamed from his bosom. Too few of protectors Came round the king at the critical moment. {Gift-giving is over with your people: the ring-lord is dead.} 60 Now must ornament-taking and weapon-bestowing, Home-joyance all, cease for your kindred, Food for the people; each of your warriors Must needs be bereaved of rights that he holdeth In landed possessions, when faraway nobles 65 Shall learn of your leaving your lord so basely, {What is life without honor?} The dastardly deed. Death is more pleasant To every earlman than infamous life is!" [1] For 'daedum raedan' (2859) B. suggests 'deaeth araedan,' and renders: _The might (or judgment) of God would determine death for every man, as he still does._ [2] Some critics, H. himself in earlier editions, put the clause, 'When ... him' (A.-S. 'a ... beget') with the following sentence; that is, they make it dependent upon 'orfte' (2875) instead of upon 'forwurpe' (2873). THE MESSENGER OF DEATH. {Wiglaf sends the news of Beowulf's death to liegemen near by.} Then he charged that the battle be announced at the hedge Up o'er the cliff-edge, where the earl-troopers bided The whole of the morning, mood-wretched sat them, Bearers of battle-shields, both things expecting, 5 The end of his lifetime and the coming again of The liegelord beloved. Little reserved he Of news that was known, who the ness-cliff did travel, But he truly discoursed to all that could hear him: [98] {The messenger speaks.} "Now the free-giving friend-lord of the folk of the Weders, 10 The folk-prince of Geatmen, is fast in his death-bed, By the deeds of the dragon in death-bed abideth; Along with him lieth his life-taking foeman Slain with knife-wounds: he was wholly unable To injure at all the ill-planning monster {Wiglaf sits by our dead lord.} 15 With bite of his sword-edge. Wiglaf is sitting, Offspring of Wihstan, up over Beowulf, Earl o'er another whose end-day hath reached him, Head-watch holdeth o'er heroes unliving,[1] {Our lord's death will lead to attacks from our old foes.} For friend and for foeman. The folk now expecteth 20 A season of strife when the death of the folk-king To Frankmen and Frisians in far-lands is published. The war-hatred waxed warm 'gainst the Hugmen, {Higelac's death recalled.} When Higelac came with an army of vessels Faring to Friesland, where the Frankmen in battle 25 Humbled him and bravely with overmight 'complished That the mail-clad warrior must sink in the battle, Fell 'mid his folk-troop: no fret-gems presented The atheling to earlmen; aye was denied us Merewing's mercy. The men of the Swedelands 30 For truce or for truth trust I but little; But widely 'twas known that near Ravenswood Ongentheow {Haethcyn's fall referred to.} Sundered Haethcyn the Hrethling from life-joys, When for pride overweening the War-Scylfings first did Seek the Geatmen with savage intentions. 35 Early did Ohthere's age-laden father, Old and terrible, give blow in requital, Killing the sea-king, the queen-mother rescued, The old one his consort deprived of her gold, Onela's mother and Ohthere's also, [99] 40 And then followed the feud-nursing foemen till hardly, Reaved of their ruler, they Ravenswood entered. Then with vast-numbered forces he assaulted the remnant, Weary with wounds, woe often promised The livelong night to the sad-hearted war-troop: 45 Said he at morning would kill them with edges of weapons, Some on the gallows for glee to the fowls. Aid came after to the anxious-in-spirit At dawn of the day, after Higelac's bugle And trumpet-sound heard they, when the good one proceeded 50 And faring followed the flower of the troopers. [1] 'Hige-meethum' (2910) is glossed by H. as dat. plu. (= for the dead). S. proposes 'hige-meethe,' nom. sing. limiting Wiglaf; i.e. _W., mood-weary, holds head-watch o'er friend and foe_.--B. suggests taking the word as dat. inst. plu. of an abstract noun in -'u.' The translation would be substantially the same as S.'s. THE MESSENGER'S RETROSPECT. {The messenger continues, and refers to the feuds of Swedes and Geats.} "The blood-stained trace of Swedes and Geatmen, The death-rush of warmen, widely was noticed, How the folks with each other feud did awaken. The worthy one went then[1] with well-beloved comrades, 5 Old and dejected to go to the fastness, Ongentheo earl upward then turned him; Of Higelac's battle he'd heard on inquiry, The exultant one's prowess, despaired of resistance, With earls of the ocean to be able to struggle, 10 'Gainst sea-going sailors to save the hoard-treasure, His wife and his children; he fled after thenceward Old 'neath the earth-wall. Then was offered pursuance To the braves of the Swedemen, the banner[2] to Higelac. [100] They fared then forth o'er the field-of-protection, 15 When the Hrethling heroes hedgeward had thronged them. Then with edges of irons was Ongentheow driven, The gray-haired to tarry, that the troop-ruler had to Suffer the power solely of Eofor: {Wulf wounds Ongentheow.} Wulf then wildly with weapon assaulted him, 20 Wonred his son, that for swinge of the edges The blood from his body burst out in currents, Forth 'neath his hair. He feared not however, Gray-headed Scylfing, but speedily quited {Ongentheow gives a stout blow in return.} The wasting wound-stroke with worse exchange, 25 When the king of the thane-troop thither did turn him: The wise-mooded son of Wonred was powerless To give a return-blow to the age-hoary man, But his head-shielding helmet first hewed he to pieces, That flecked with gore perforce he did totter, 30 Fell to the earth; not fey was he yet then, But up did he spring though an edge-wound had reached him. {Eofor smites Ongentheow fiercely.} Then Higelac's vassal, valiant and dauntless, When his brother lay dead, made his broad-bladed weapon, Giant-sword ancient, defence of the giants, 35 Bound o'er the shield-wall; the folk-prince succumbed then, {Ongentheow is slain.} Shepherd of people, was pierced to the vitals. There were many attendants who bound up his kinsman, Carried him quickly when occasion was granted That the place of the slain they were suffered to manage. 40 This pending, one hero plundered the other, His armor of iron from Ongentheow ravished, His hard-sword hilted and helmet together; {Eofor takes the old king's war-gear to Higelac.} The old one's equipments he carried to Higelac. He the jewels received, and rewards 'mid the troopers 45 Graciously promised, and so did accomplish: The king of the Weders requited the war-rush, Hrethel's descendant, when home he repaired him, {Higelac rewards the brothers.} To Eofor and Wulf with wide-lavished treasures, To each of them granted a hundred of thousands [101] 50 In land and rings wrought out of wire: {His gifts were beyond cavil.} None upon mid-earth needed to twit him[3] With the gifts he gave them, when glory they conquered; {To Eofor he also gives his only daughter in marriage.} And to Eofor then gave he his one only daughter, The honor of home, as an earnest of favor. 55 That's the feud and hatred--as ween I 'twill happen-- The anger of earthmen, that earls of the Swedemen Will visit on us, when they hear that our leader Lifeless is lying, he who longtime protected His hoard and kingdom 'gainst hating assailers, 60 Who on the fall of the heroes defended of yore The deed-mighty Scyldings,[4] did for the troopers What best did avail them, and further moreover {It is time for us to pay the last marks of respect to our lord.} Hero-deeds 'complished. Now is haste most fitting, That the lord of liegemen we look upon yonder, 65 And _that_ one carry on journey to death-pyre Who ring-presents gave us. Not aught of it all Shall melt with the brave one--there's a mass of bright jewels, Gold beyond measure, grewsomely purchased And ending it all ornament-rings too 70 Bought with his life; these fire shall devour, Flame shall cover, no earlman shall wear A jewel-memento, nor beautiful virgin Have on her neck rings to adorn her, But wretched in spirit bereaved of gold-gems 75 She shall oft with others be exiled and banished, Since the leader of liegemen hath laughter forsaken, [102] Mirth and merriment. Hence many a war-spear Cold from the morning shall be clutched in the fingers, Heaved in the hand, no harp-music's sound shall 80 Waken the warriors, but the wan-coated raven Fain over fey ones freely shall gabble, Shall say to the eagle how he sped in the eating, When, the wolf his companion, he plundered the slain." So the high-minded hero was rehearsing these stories 85 Loathsome to hear; he lied as to few of {The warriors go sadly to look at Beowulf's lifeless body.} Weirds and of words. All the war-troop arose then, 'Neath the Eagle's Cape sadly betook them, Weeping and woful, the wonder to look at. They saw on the sand then soulless a-lying, 90 His slaughter-bed holding, him who rings had given them In days that were done; then the death-bringing moment Was come to the good one, that the king very warlike, Wielder of Weders, with wonder-death perished. First they beheld there a creature more wondrous, {They also see the dragon.} 95 The worm on the field, in front of them lying, The foeman before them: the fire-spewing dragon, Ghostly and grisly guest in his terrors, Was scorched in the fire; as he lay there he measured Fifty of feet; came forth in the night-time[5] 100 To rejoice in the air, thereafter departing To visit his den; he in death was then fastened, He would joy in no other earth-hollowed caverns. There stood round about him beakers and vessels, Dishes were lying and dear-valued weapons, 105 With iron-rust eaten, as in earth's mighty bosom A thousand of winters there they had rested: {The hoard was under a magic spell.} That mighty bequest then with magic was guarded, Gold of the ancients, that earlman not any The ring-hall could touch, save Ruling-God only, [103] 110 Sooth-king of Vict'ries gave whom He wished to {God alone could give access to it.} [6](He is earth-folk's protector) to open the treasure, E'en to such among mortals as seemed to Him proper. [1] For 'goda,' which seems a surprising epithet for a Geat to apply to the "terrible" Ongentheow, B. suggests 'gomela.' The passage would then stand: '_The old one went then,' etc._ [2] For 'segn Higelace,' K., Th., and B. propose 'segn Higelaces,' meaning: _Higelac's banner followed the Swedes (in pursuit)._--S. suggests 'saecc Higelaces,' and renders: _Higelac's pursuit._--The H.-So. reading, as translated in our text, means that the banner of the enemy was captured and brought to Higelac as a trophy. [3] The rendering given in this translation represents the king as being generous beyond the possibility of reproach; but some authorities construe 'him' (2996) as plu., and understand the passage to mean that no one reproached the two brothers with having received more reward than they were entitled to. [4] The name 'Scyldingas' here (3006) has caused much discussion, and given rise to several theories, the most important of which are as follows: (1) After the downfall of Hrothgar's family, Beowulf was king of the Danes, or Scyldings. (2) For 'Scyldingas' read 'Scylfingas'--that is, after killing Eadgils, the Scylfing prince, Beowulf conquered his land, and held it in subjection. (3) M. considers 3006 a thoughtless repetition of 2053. (Cf. H.-So.) [5] B. takes 'nihtes' and 'hwilum' (3045) as separate adverbial cases, and renders: _Joy in the air had he of yore by night, etc_. He thinks that the idea of vanished time ought to be expressed. [6] The parenthesis is by some emended so as to read: (1) (_He_ (i.e. _God_) _is the hope of men_); (2) (_he is the hope of heroes_). Gr.'s reading has no parenthesis, but says: ... _could touch, unless God himself, true king of victories, gave to whom he would to open the treasure, the secret place of enchanters, etc_. The last is rejected on many grounds. WIGLAF'S SAD STORY.--THE HOARD CARRIED OFF. Then 'twas seen that the journey prospered him little Who wrongly within had the ornaments hidden[1] Down 'neath the wall. The warden erst slaughtered Some few of the folk-troop: the feud then thereafter 5 Was hotly avenged. 'Tis a wonder where,[2] When the strength-famous trooper has attained to the end of Life-days allotted, then no longer the man may Remain with his kinsmen where mead-cups are flowing. So to Beowulf happened when the ward of the barrow, 10 Assaults, he sought for: himself had no knowledge How his leaving this life was likely to happen. So to doomsday, famous folk-leaders down did Call it with curses--who 'complished it there-- [104] That that man should be ever of ill-deeds convicted, 15 Confined in foul-places, fastened in hell-bonds, Punished with plagues, who this place should e'er ravage.[3] He cared not for gold: rather the Wielder's Favor preferred he first to get sight of.[4] {Wiglaf addresses his comrades.} Wiglaf discoursed then, Wihstan his son: 20 "Oft many an earlman on one man's account must Sorrow endure, as to us it hath happened. The liegelord beloved we could little prevail on, Kingdom's keeper, counsel to follow, Not to go to the guardian of the gold-hoard, but let him 25 Lie where he long was, live in his dwelling Till the end of the world. Met we a destiny Hard to endure: the hoard has been looked at, Been gained very grimly; too grievous the fate that[5] The prince of the people pricked to come thither. 30 _I_ was therein and all of it looked at, The building's equipments, since access was given me, Not kindly at all entrance permitted {He tells them of Beowulf's last moments.} Within under earth-wall. Hastily seized I And held in my hands a huge-weighing burden 35 Of hoard-treasures costly, hither out bare them To my liegelord beloved: life was yet in him, And consciousness also; the old one discoursed then Much and mournfully, commanded to greet you, {Beowulf's dying request.} Bade that remembering the deeds of your friend-lord 40 Ye build on the fire-hill of corpses a lofty Burial-barrow, broad and far-famous, As 'mid world-dwelling warriors he was widely most honored While he reveled in riches. Let us rouse us and hasten [105] Again to see and seek for the treasure, 45 The wonder 'neath wall. The way I will show you, That close ye may look at ring-gems sufficient And gold in abundance. Let the bier with promptness Fully be fashioned, when forth we shall come, And lift we our lord, then, where long he shall tarry, 50 Well-beloved warrior, 'neath the Wielder's protection." {Wiglaf charges them to build a funeral-pyre.} Then the son of Wihstan bade orders be given, Mood-valiant man, to many of heroes, Holders of homesteads, that they hither from far, [6]Leaders of liegemen, should look for the good one 55 With wood for his pyre: "The flame shall now swallow (The wan fire shall wax[7]) the warriors' leader Who the rain of the iron often abided, When, sturdily hurled, the storm of the arrows Leapt o'er linden-wall, the lance rendered service, 60 Furnished with feathers followed the arrow." Now the wise-mooded son of Wihstan did summon The best of the braves from the band of the ruler {He takes seven thanes, and enters the den.} Seven together; 'neath the enemy's roof he Went with the seven; one of the heroes 65 Who fared at the front, a fire-blazing torch-light Bare in his hand. No lot then decided Who that hoard should havoc, when hero-earls saw it Lying in the cavern uncared-for entirely, Rusting to ruin: they rued then but little 70 That they hastily hence hauled out the treasure, {They push the dragon over the wall.} The dear-valued jewels; the dragon eke pushed they, The worm o'er the wall, let the wave-currents take him, [106] The waters enwind the ward of the treasures. {The hoard is laid on a wain.} There wounden gold on a wain was uploaded, 75 A mass unmeasured, the men-leader off then, The hero hoary, to Whale's-Ness was carried. [1] For 'gehydde,' B. suggests 'gehyethde': the passage would stand as above except the change of 'hidden' (v. 2) to 'plundered.' The reference, however, would be to the thief, not to the dragon. [2] The passage 'Wundur ... buan' (3063-3066), M. took to be a question asking whether it was strange that a man should die when his appointed time had come.--B. sees a corruption, and makes emendations introducing the idea that a brave man should not die from sickness or from old age, but should find death in the performance of some deed of daring.--S. sees an indirect question introduced by 'hwar' and dependent upon 'wundur': _A secret is it when the hero is to die, etc_.--Why may the two clauses not be parallel, and the whole passage an Old English cry of '_How wonderful is death!'?_--S.'s is the best yet offered, if 'wundor' means 'mystery.' [3] For 'strude' in H.-So., S. suggests 'stride.' This would require 'ravage' (v. 16) to be changed to 'tread.' [4] 'He cared ... sight of' (17, 18), S. emends so as to read as follows: _He (Beowulf) had not before seen the favor of the avaricious possessor._ [5] B. renders: _That which drew the king thither_ (i.e. _the treasure_) _was granted us, but in such a way that it overcomes us._ [6] 'Folc-agende' (3114) B. takes as dat. sing. with 'godum,' and refers it to Beowulf; that is, _Should bring fire-wood to the place where the good folk-ruler lay_. [7] C. proposes to take 'weaxan' = L. 'vescor,' and translate _devour_. This gives a parallel to 'fretan' above. The parenthesis would be discarded and the passage read: _Now shall the fire consume, the wan-flame devour, the prince of warriors, etc_. THE BURNING OF BEOWULF. {Beowulf's pyre.} The folk of the Geatmen got him then ready A pile on the earth strong for the burning, Behung with helmets, hero-knights' targets, And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them; 5 Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain, Their liegelord beloved, laid in the middle. {The funeral-flame.} Soldiers began then to make on the barrow The largest of dead-fires: dark o'er the vapor The smoke-cloud ascended, the sad-roaring fire, 10 Mingled with weeping (the wind-roar subsided) Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces, Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin; And mournful measures the much-grieving widow 15 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 20 * * * * * * * {The Weders carry out their lord's last request.} The men of the Weders made accordingly A hill on the height, high and extensive, Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance, And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was, 25 In ten-days' space, with a wall surrounded it, As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it. They placed in the barrow rings and jewels, [107] {Rings and gems are laid in the barrow.} All such ornaments as erst in the treasure War-mooded men had won in possession: 30 The earnings of earlmen to earth they entrusted, The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras. 'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle, Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people, {They mourn for their lord, and sing his praises.} 35 More would they mourn, lament for their ruler, Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure, Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his Liegelord in words and love him in spirit, 40 When forth from his body he fares to destruction. So lamented mourning the men of the Geats, Fond-loving vassals, the fall of their lord, {An ideal king.} Said he was kindest of kings under heaven, Gentlest of men, most winning of manner, 45 Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor. [109] ADDENDA. Several discrepancies and other oversights have been noticed in the H.-So. glossary. Of these a good part were avoided by Harrison and Sharp, the American editors of Beowulf, in their last edition, 1888. The rest will, I hope, be noticed in their fourth edition. As, however, this book may fall into the hands of some who have no copy of the American edition, it seems best to notice all the principal oversights of the German editors. ~From ham~ (194).--Notes and glossary conflict; the latter not having been altered to suit the conclusions accepted in the former. ~aer gelyfan sceal dryhtnes dome~ (440).--Under 'dom' H. says 'the might of the Lord'; while under 'gelyfan' he says 'the judgment of the Lord.' ~Eal bencelu~ (486).--Under 'benc-elu' H. says _nom. plu._; while under 'eal' he says _nom. sing._ ~Heatho-raemas~ (519).--Under 'aetberan' H. translates 'to the Heathoremes'; while under 'Heatho-raemas' he says 'Heathoraemas reaches Breca in the swimming-match with Beowulf.' Harrison and Sharp (3d edition, 1888) avoid the discrepancy. ~Fah feond-scaetha~ (554).--Under 'feond-scaetha' H. says 'a gleaming sea-monster'; under 'fah' he says 'hostile.' ~Onfeng hraethe inwit-ancum~ (749).--Under 'onfon' H. says 'he _received_ the maliciously-disposed one'; under 'inwit-anc' he says 'he _grasped_,' etc. ~Nieth-wundor seon~ (1366).--Under 'nieth-wundor' H. calls this word itself _nom. sing._; under 'seon' he translates it as accus. sing., understanding 'man' as subject of 'seon.' H. and S. (3d edition) make the correction. ~Forgeaf hilde-bille~ (1521).--H., under the second word, calls it instr. dat.; while under 'forgifan' he makes it the dat. of indir. obj. H. and S. (3d edition) make the change. ~Brad~ and ~brun-ecg~ (1547).--Under 'brad' H. says 'das breite Hueftmesser mit bronzener Klinge'; under 'brun-ecg' he says 'ihr breites Hueftmesser mit blitzender Klinge.' [110] ~Yethelice~ (1557).--Under this word H. makes it modify 'astod.' If this be right, the punctuation of the fifth edition is wrong. See H. and S., appendix. ~Selran gesohte~ (1840).--Under 'sel' and 'gesecan' H. calls these two words accus. plu.; but this is clearly an error, as both are nom. plu., pred. nom. H. and S. correct under 'sel.' ~Wieth sylfne~ (1978).--Under 'wieth' and 'gesittan' H. says 'wieth = near, by'; under 'self' he says 'opposite.' ~eow~ (2225) is omitted from the glossary. ~For duguethum~ (2502).--Under 'dugueth' H. translates this phrase, 'in Tuechtigkeit'; under 'for,' by 'vor der edlen Kriegerschaar.' ~aer~ (2574).--Under 'wealdan' H. translates _aer_ by 'wo'; under 'motan,' by 'da.' H. and S. suggest 'if' in both passages. ~Wunde~ (2726).--Under 'wund' H. says 'dative,' and under 'wael-bleate' he says 'accus.' It is without doubt accus., parallel with 'benne.' ~Strengum gebaeded~ (3118).--Under 'strengo' H. says 'Strengum' = mit Macht; under 'gebaeded' he translates 'von den Sehnen.' H. and S. correct this discrepancy by rejecting the second reading. ~Bronda be lafe~ (3162).--A recent emendation. The fourth edition had 'bronda betost.' In the fifth edition the editor neglects to change the glossary to suit the new emendation. See 'bewyrcan.'

1-98

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Beowulf begins with the legends of the warrior kings of the Danes. The most famous was Shield Sheafson, the founder of the ruling house. He was revered by his own subjects, and outlying clans were forced to pay tribute to him. Shield had a son named Beow, who became famous throughout the region for his exploits. Shield died while still at the height of his powers. His warriors placed his body in a boat, piled it up with treasure, weapons and armor, and sent it out to sea. No one knows, the poet says, who salvaged all the treasure. After Shield's death, it was Beow's job to defend the Danish forts. He was well respected and ruled for a long time. He was succeeded by Halfdane, who had three sons, Heorogar, Hrothgar, and Halga, and an unnamed daughter who was married off to Onela the Swede. Hrothgar was an extremely successful king. People flocked to his service and he created a large army. He decided to build a huge hall, and intended it to be one of the wonders of the world. He called the hall Heorot. It was a magnificent, towering building. The poet states, however, that in the future it would be burned down during a battle between members of the same family. The poet introduces the story by giving some background information about the Danish warrior kings. This a way of introducing Hrothgar, who plays an important role in the story. In 1939, archeologists discovered at Sutton Hoo, in Suffolk, England, a buried ship of treasure dating probably from the seventh century A.D. The find included a warrior's sword, a great gold buckle, silver serving vessels, and other items. It showed that warriors and kings from this period were indeed buried with their riches, just as the poet describes in the lines about the death of Shield.