 Chapter 51 of The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mindy H. The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2, by Henry James, Chapter 51 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 Garden Court, and bearing the stamp of Mrs. Tuckett'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 Garden Court, where he had taken to his bed, which, as Mrs. Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave again. She added that she had really two patients on her hands instead of one, in as much as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly use, was quite ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Tuckett. Afterward, she wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to Mrs. Tuckett, who had just returned from America, and had promptly given her to understand that she didn't wish any interviewing at Garden Court. 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. Tuckett 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 a 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 watercolours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had already transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper, the delicate, finely tinted disc. His back was turned towards 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 were 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 me. I must go to Garden Court. Why must you go to Garden Court? 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 not will be 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 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 the 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 today, 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 as 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 you against her judgment. You've no reason for such a wish, said Isabel. And I have 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 forever 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 council. 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 are 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 a reflective 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 Osman'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 inquired. How can it be anything but a rapture? she went on, especially if all you say is true. She was unable to see how it could be anything but a rapture. 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 eyes 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 Isabelle'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 hears of a dreariness. Do you think this would do me any good? Isabelle 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 Tachette, is dying. The Countess threw down her book. Ah, he was so sympathical. I'm awfully sorry for you. You would be sorry as 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 Isabelle 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 flittered at her. I'm sure then he has been odious, the Countess cried. Did he say he was glad poor Mr. Tachette'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 Tachette would die, Isabelle would go into mourning, and 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'd already overstayed her invitation, and then she cared enough for Isabelle's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabelle'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'd wished to see Osmond over-stopped, the conditions looked favourable now. Of course, if Isabelle should go to England, she herself would immediately leave Palazzo Ratanera. Nothing would induce her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless, she felt an immense desire to hear that Isabelle 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 had thus began to question her, however, Isabelle drew back. She disengaged her hand, which the Countess affectionately had taken. But she answered this inquiry with frank bitterness. Because we're so happy together that we cannot separate even for a fortnight. Ah! cried the Countess while Isabelle turned away. When I want to make a journey, my husband simply tells me I can have no money. Isabelle 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 to be easily 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 Osman 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 finesse with which he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew. What he was, 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 a 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 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 pretentious. But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject. In your place, I should have guessed at ages ago. Have you never really suspected? I've guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? You 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 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 anti-climax. 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 of his wife. I thought it mightn't be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, might 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 imperfection. But no one else's husband's. Someone else's wife's. My good Isabel cried the countess. With you one must dot one's eyes. 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 recognized Miss Pansy, nor knowing what he was about, would have anything to say to her. And there was no reason why he should. Osman 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, and nobody cared to look into it. But, of course, I knew, without researchers, the countess lucidly proceeded. And also you'll understand, without a word said between us. I mean between Osman 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 honor, 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 pansies 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'd ever had to meet. She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could butt-check on her own lips an echo of the unspoken. She sank into his seat again, hanging her head. Why have you told me this? She asked in a voice the countess hardly recognized. 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. Summer de Paz, 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 connection, that of keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has, at any rate, finally found itself exhausted. It's not a black line 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's 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'd expected to kindle some response of 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 recognize how the child could never pass for her husband's? That is, with Monsieur Mel 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, and she had not been dead too longed but a certain accommodation of daves 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 forever. 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 is very kind of you to pity her, she discordantly laughed. Yes, indeed, you have a way of your own. He must have been forced 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 labyrinth he had been, caramia, 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 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 someone whom Pansy would like. She knows it, she knows everything. Will she know you've told me this? That will depend on whether you tell her. She's prepared for it, and 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 anyone 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 it first, and then I suppose she would have married him, but at that time her husband was living. By the time Monsieur Meryl 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's 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's never succeeded. I don't call Madame Meryl a success, you know. I don't know what she may accomplish yet, but at present, she is very little to show. The only tangible result she has ever achieved—except, of course, getting to know everyone 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 forever 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 of 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 a 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 unseen 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 small and more one. She betrayed herself to me the other day, though I didn't recognise her. There appeared to have been a chance of pansies making a great marriage, and in her disappointment, at its not coming off, she almost dropped the mask. Ah, that's where she 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 wonderful. She murmured, and in this bewildering impression she'd 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 has become yours. Yes, she has become mine, and how the poor woman must have suffered it's seen me. Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought. I don't believe she has suffered. On the contrary, she hasn't enjoyed. Osmond's marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before that, she lived in a hole. And 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 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 as 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 is 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. Isabelle rose from her sofa again. She felt bruised and scant of breath. Her head was humming with new knowledge. I much obliged to you. She repeated again. And then she added abruptly in quite a different tone. How do you know all this? This inquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabelle'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 Isabelle's arm said, With the penetration of her sharp, bright smile, Now will you give up your journey? Isabelle 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 a dizzy head with closed eyes and pale lips. I've done wrong to speak. I've made you ill. The Countess cried. I must see Ralph. Isabelle wailed. Not in resentment. Not in the quick passion her companion had looked for. But in a tone of far-reaching, infinite sadness. End of chapter 51, recording by Mindy H. Chapter 52 of The Portrait of a Lady, volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mindy H. The Portrait of a Lady, volume 2. By Henry James. Chapter 52. There was a train from Turin and Paris that evening, and after the Countess had left her, Isabelle 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 Pernsey. 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 Pizaza Navona, and was admitted by the Portress of the Convent, a genial and obsequious person. Isabelle had been at this institution before. She had come with Pernsey 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 today, more than before, the impression of a well-appointed prison, for it was not possible to pretend Pernsey 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 Isabelle had thought it less like Rome than like Philadelphia, but today she made no reflections. The apartment only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The Portress returned at the end of five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabelle 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, seen a painted picture move. Isabelle 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 night as she entered the room. Her being there had all the character of ugly evidence, of handwriting, of profane relics, of grim things produced in court. It made Isabelle 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 fortress, and Isabelle 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 Isabelle saw that she was more than ever plain apart, 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 illusion 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 fortress. In five minutes this lady will ring for you, and then she turned to Isabelle, who, after noting what had 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 were surprised to find me here, and I'm afraid you're not pleased. This lady went on. You don't see why I should 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 Isabelle, 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'd 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 conventional, 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 Madame Catherine, who has a very good room, too. I assure you, I don't find the poor sisters at all monastic. Madame Catherine has a most coquettish little toilet-table, something that looked uncommonly like a bottle of old 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 porteress 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 how she supposed I would treat you. So Madame Mel 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 Isabelle's ear. Though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not proceeded far before Isabelle 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 Mel had guessed in the space of an instant that everything was at an 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'd been touched with a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her will to repress her agitation. Isabelle 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 Mel 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, Isabelle 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 with in 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 would never give her the opportunity to defend herself. I come to bid panzy goodbye. A young woman said at last, I go to England tonight. Go to England tonight. Madame Merle repeated sitting there and looking up at her. I'm going to garden court. Ralph Touchette'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. Touchette 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 garden court 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 have entered 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 recognized 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 visit to Madame Merle. Will you let me remain 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, George 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 the pleasure of seeing you, she's very happy. Elle est clair 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 case. 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 hit 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 are very comfortable. Isabel scarcely knew what she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she'd come to pity her and on the other it would be dull mockery to pretend to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment. I've come to bid you goodbye. I'm going to England. Pansy's little face turned white. To England? Not to come back. I don't know when I shall come back. Ah, I'm sorry. Breathed Pansy with faintness. She spoke as if she had no right to criticise but a tone expressed a depth of disappointment. My cousin, Mr. Touchette, 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 reflections, 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 in discreet 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 of 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 are 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. Today 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. That's all 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, or do anything, or 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 though 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 the 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 well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles. Isabel got up, her time was rapidly shortening. Goodbye then. I leave Rome tonight. 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 saw now 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. Goodbye, 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 reflection assured her that she would do well not to betray 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, chère madame, qu'en pensais-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 she had been thinking to some purpose. She'd recovered her balance. She was in full possession of her resources. I found I wished to wait for you, she said, obeyingly. 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. Tachette. Madame Merle added. Have you reasoned 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 veterans. 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 luster 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 illuminated 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 Mel 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 to never see you again. Madame Mel raised her eyes. I shall go to America. She quietly remarked while Isabel passed out. End of Chapter 52. Recording by Mindy H. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To volunteer or to find out more information, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Randy Peterson. The Portrait of a Lady, Volume 2 by Henry James. Chapter 53. It was not a surprise it was with a feeling which in other circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy. That is, 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 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 country 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 reflection nor a 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 biologic 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 whilst with an imperfect pack of cards, the truths 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 today. All purpose, all intention was suspended. All desire, too, saved the single desire to reach her much embracing refuge. Garden Court had been her starting point, and to those muffled chambers it was at least a temporary solution to her turn. 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 bat 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. Whenever 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 Isabelle no more. She had 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 mutated 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 could someday be happy again. It couldn't be she was only to live and 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 enlargent, 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 Isabelle recognized, 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 gray 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 Isabelle 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, foraging vault of the station. The strange, livid light. The dense, dark, pushing crowd. Filled her with nervous fear, and made her put her arm into her friends. 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 Houston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded streets five years before. She could not have done that today, 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 Isabelle might have 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. Isabelle looked about her without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another figure, however, which she felt she had seen before, and in a moment she recognized the genial countenance of Mr. Bandling. 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. Bandling, said Isabelle gently, irreverently, scarcely caring, much now, whether she should find her maid or not. Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bandling," Henrietta exclaimed, whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile. Isabelle smiled 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 discussion. He said you wouldn't. I said you would. I thought you always agreed, Isabelle smiled in return. She felt she could smile now. She had seen, in an instant, in Mr. Bandling'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. Isabelle gave him her hand. She thought of him extravagantly as a beautiful, blameless knight. Oh, I always agree, said Mr. Bandling. But she doesn't, you know. Didn't I tell you that maid was a nuisance? Henrietta inquired. Your young lady has remained at Calais. I don't care, said Isabelle, looking at Mr. Bandling, whom she had never found so interesting. Stay where I go and see, Henrietta commanded, leaving two omen together. They stood there first in silence, and then Mr. Bandling asked Isabelle how it had been on the channel. Very fine. No, I believe it was very... She said, to her paintings, obvious surprise. After she added, you've been to Garden Court, I know. Now, how do you know that? I can't tell you, except that you look like a person who has been to Garden Court. Do you think I look all sad? It's all sad there, though. I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind, said Isabelle with a breath that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment. Poor Mr. Bandling, 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 Garden Court two days ago. Did you see my cousin? Only for a little, but he had been seeing people. Or Burton 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. Bandling pursued. He was awfully jolly and funny at 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. Bandling. She wants you to stop with me. I made Two Shets Man promise to telegraph me today, and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. Clit and easy, that's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can wait till tomorrow. You must be awfully tired. Yes, I'm awfully tired, and I thank you again. Oh, said Mr. Bandling. 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 excellenton, 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 tonight, Henrietta remarked to her. It doesn't matter whether there's a train or not. I'm 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. Bandling inquired jacosly. Henrietta fixed him a moment, speculative glades. I see you're in a great hurry to get your own, be at the Paddington station tomorrow morning at 10. Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bandling, said Isabel. He'll come for mine, Henrietta declared, as she ushered her friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlor in Wimpole Street, to do her justice that 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 Ms. Stackpole's first inquiry. 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 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 to herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy as they were tolerably definite. For the she offered her no new information. Well, said Ms. Stackpole at last, I've only one criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Ms. 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 for 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 have a little time. Coming away was a complication, but we're all going to be back. 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'll be a scene of the rest of my life. For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and then Ms. Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested, announced abruptly, I've been to stay with Lady Pencil. 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. Asmond, at least, was born on the other side. It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning. The sense was so modesty, 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. Banthling and locate right here in London. It seems very strange, said Isabel, smiling now. Well, yes, I suppose it does. I'll 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 explain one's marriage, Isabel answered, and yours doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Banthling 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 you 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 us a little significant sigh. That's the key to the mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I have as good a right as anyone, she added with an 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 hit her toe 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. Bandling 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. Bandling himself was at least 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 Pencil. 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 mastermind. 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 think she thinks it's my duty to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's a moral that I should marry her brother. But, after all, that isn't moral 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 Mista, poor 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 humor 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. Bandling, 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 an 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, that she gave him her hand. I daresay you think it awfully odd, Mr. Bandling 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. Bandling serenely. End of Chapter 53. Recording by Randy Peterson. Chapter 54 of The Portrait of a Lady. Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Portrait of a Lady. Volume 2 by Henry James. Chapter 54. Isabel's arrival at Garden Court 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 Isabel, instead of being conducted to her own apartment, 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 to be in no hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last. She grew nervous and even frightened. The day was dark and cold. The dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was perfectly still. 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 footsteps made an echo. Nothing was changed. She recognized everything that she had seen years before. It might have been only yesterday that she stood there. She reflected that things change but little, while people change so much. And she became aware that she was walking about as her aunt had done on the day that she came 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 today she might have been a happier woman. She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture, a beautiful and valuable Bonnington, upon which her eyes rested for 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 Casper Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabelle 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 is erect. Her thin lip seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore a little gray dress of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabelle wondered, as she had wondered the first time, whether her remarkable kinswoman resembled more queen regent or the matron of a jail. Her lips felt very thin indeed as Isabelle kissed her. I have kept you waiting because I have been sitting with Ralph, Mrs. Touchett said. The nurse had gone to her lunch and I had taken her place. He has a man who is supposed to look after him, but the man is good for nothing. He is 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 that you knew the house. I find I know it better even than I thought. I have been walking, Isabelle answered. And then she asked whether Ralph slept much. He lies with his eyes closed. He doesn't move, but I am not sure that it's always sleep. Will he see me? Can he speak to me? Mrs. Touchett hesitated a moment. You can try him, she said. And then she offered to conduct Isabelle 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 had brought much. Not that I care, however. I believe they have 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? Oh, my dear. He doesn't chatter as he used, cried Mrs. Touchett as she proceeded her niece up the staircase. It was the same room and something told Isabelle that it had not been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and it was not voluminous. Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. Is there really no hope? Isabelle asked, standing before her aunt. None, whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful life. No, it has only been a beautiful one. Isabelle found herself already contradicting her aunt. She was irritated by her dryness. I don't know what you mean by that. There is no beauty without health. That is a very odd dress to travel in. Isabelle glanced at her garment. I left realm at an hour's notice. I took the first that came. Your sisters in America wish 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 am more brilliant than I am. I am afraid to tell them the truth, said Isabelle. Lily wrote me that 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. At this repast, the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the melancholy dining room. Here, after a little, Isabelle saw that her aunt was not 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. It seemed to her she would find it a blessing today to be able to indulge her regret. She wondered whether Mrs. Touchett were not trying, whether she had not a desire for the recreation of grief. On the other hand, perhaps she was afraid. If she began to regret, it might take her too far. Isabelle could perceive, however, that it had come over her that she had missed 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 as yet had 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 Isabelle a little, as it seemed an intimation that this personage was in the neighborhood and that an accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy. She had not come to England to converse with Lord Warburton. She 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 rejoined. And she paused, with a gaze like a gimlet. Isabelle saw that 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 is not thinking of the Lords. He is thinking of the ladies. At least he is thinking of one of them. He told Ralph he was engaged to be married. To be married, Isabelle gently 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 is to take place very soon. And who is the young lady? A member of the aristocracy, Lady Flora, Lady Felicia, something of that sort. I am very glad, Isabelle said. It must be a sudden decision. Sudden enough, I believe, a courtship of three weeks. It has only just been made public. I am very glad, Isabelle repeated, with a larger emphasis. She knew her aunt was watching her, looking for the signs of some curious emotion, 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. Isabelle'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 sad she 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. Oh, 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 lunch. She sat with her hands folded on the edge of the table. I should like to ask you three questions, she said to Isabel, 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 Isabel left the table and walked rather consciously to one of the deep windows while her aunt followed her with her eyes. Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton? Mrs. Touchett inquired. Isabel shook her head slowly, smiling. No, dear aunt. Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say. You're believing me as an immense temptation, Isabel replied, smiling still. A temptation to lie. I don't recommend you to do that, for when I misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow over you. It is my husband that doesn't get on with me, said Isabel. I could have told him that. I don't call that crowing over you, Mrs. Touchett added. Do you still like Serena Murl, 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 everyone. She will 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 he 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 the celebrated man to whom he had asked his mother to send word that he was now dead, and was therefore without further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Mr. 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 towards evening he raised himself and said he knew that she had come. How he knew it 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 that she might go, that she herself would sit with him for the rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognized her, and had moved his hand, which lay very 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, but this was worse. There was only one change possible now. There was a strange tranquility in his face. It was as still as the little 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 a measurable 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 for three days in a kind of grateful silence. He recognized her, and at moments he seemed to wish to speak, but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he too were waiting for something, or 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 from the Countess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last on the evening of the third day. I feel better tonight, he murmured abruptly, in the soundless dimness of her vigil. I think I can say something. She sank upon her knees and 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 smile, but its owner apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. What does it matter if I am tired when I have all eternity to rest, he asked. There is no harm in making an effort when it is the very last. I feel better just before the end. I have often heard of that. It is what I was waiting for. Ever since you have been here I thought it would come. I tried two or three times. I was afraid you would 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. But I wasn't sure. I was not sure either, till I came, said Isabel. You have been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talked about the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You have been like that, as if you were waiting for me. I wasn't waiting for your death. I was waiting for... for this. This is not death, dear Ralph. Not for you, no. There is nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see others die. That's the sensation of life. The sense that we remain. I have had it, even I. But now I am 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 could not 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. 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 wished to hide things. Now he might 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. Oh Ralph, you have been everything. What have I done for you? What can I do today? 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 will keep me. Keep me in your heart. I shall be nearer to you than I have ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better. For in life there is love. Death is good. But there is 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 were in a 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 today because there are people less stupid than I. Don't mind people, said Ralph. I think I am 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 have 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 it last. 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 added softly. 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 my 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 would not 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 want to keep you from understanding. 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 have been punished, Isabelle 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 is over. Are you going back to him? Ralph stammered. 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 is enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my knees with you dying in my arms I am happier than I have been for a long time. I don't want to think of anything sad only to feel that I am near you and I love you. Why should there be pain? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That is not the deepest thing. There is something deeper. Ralph evidently found for a 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 are very tired. Said Isabel. I am very tired. You said just now that pain is not the deepest thing. No. No. But it is very deep. If I could stay for me you will 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 are very young. I feel very old. Said Isabel. You will grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe. I don't believe. And he stopped again. His strength failed him. She begged him to be quiet now. We didn't speak to understand each other. She said. I don't believe that such a generous mistake is yours. Can hurt you for more than a little. Oh Ralph I am very happy now. She cried through tears. And remember this he continued. That if you have been hated you have also been loved. Oh my brother. She cried with a movement of still deeper prostration. End of chapter 54.