The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1 by Henry James

CHAPTER XIX

As Mrs. Touchett had foretold, Isabel and Madame Merle were thrownmuch together during the illness of their host, so that if they hadnot become intimate it would have been almost a breach of good manners.Their manners were of the best, but in addition to this they happenedto please each other. It is perhaps too much to say that they sworean eternal friendship, but tacitly at least they called the future towitness. Isabel did so with a perfectly good conscience, though shewould have hesitated to admit she was intimate with her new friend inthe high sense she privately attached to this term. She often wonderedindeed if she ever had been, or ever could be, intimate with any one.She had an ideal of friendship as well as of several other sentiments,which it failed to seem to her in this case--it had not seemed to herin other cases--that the actual completely expressed. But she oftenreminded herself that there were essential reasons why one's idealcould never become concrete. It was a thing to believe in, not to see--amatter of faith, not of experience. Experience, however, might supplyus with very creditable imitations of it, and the part of wisdom wasto make the best of these. Certainly, on the whole, Isabel had neverencountered a more agreeable and interesting figure than Madame Merle;she had never met a person having less of that fault which is theprincipal obstacle to friendship--the air of reproducing the moretiresome, the stale, the too-familiar parts of one's own character.The gates of the girl's confidence were opened wider than they had everbeen; she said things to this amiable auditress that she had not yetsaid to any one. Sometimes she took alarm at her candour: it was asif she had given to a comparative stranger the key to her cabinet ofjewels. These spiritual gems were the only ones of any magnitude thatIsabel possessed, but there was all the greater reason for their beingcarefully guarded. Afterwards, however, she always remembered that oneshould never regret a generous error and that if Madame Merle had notthe merits she attributed to her, so much the worse for Madame Merle.There was no doubt she had great merits--she was charming, sympathetic,intelligent, cultivated. More than this (for it had not been Isabel'sill-fortune to go through life without meeting in her own sex severalpersons of whom no less could fairly be said), she was rare, superiorand preeminent. There are many amiable people in the world, and MadameMerle was far from being vulgarly good-natured and restlessly witty. Sheknew how to think--an accomplishment rare in women; and she had thoughtto very good purpose. Of course, too, she knew how to feel; Isabelcouldn't have spent a week with her without being sure of that. This wasindeed Madame Merle's great talent, her most perfect gift. Life had toldupon her; she had felt it strongly, and it was part of the satisfactionto be taken in her society that when the girl talked of what she waspleased to call serious matters this lady understood her so easily andquickly. Emotion, it is true, had become with her rather historic; shemade no secret of the fact that the fount of passion, thanks to havingbeen rather violently tapped at one period, didn't flow quite sofreely as of yore. She proposed moreover, as well as expected, to ceasefeeling; she freely admitted that of old she had been a little mad, andnow she pretended to be perfectly sane.

”I judge more than I used to,” she said to Isabel, ”but it seems to meone has earned the right. One can't judge till one's forty; before thatwe're too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much too ignorant.I'm sorry for you; it will be a long time before you're forty. But everygain's a loss of some kind; I often think that after forty one can'treally feel. The freshness, the quickness have certainly gone. You'llkeep them longer than most people; it will be a great satisfaction to meto see you some years hence. I want to see what life makes of you. Onething's certain--it can't spoil you. It may pull you about horribly, butI defy it to break you up.”

Isabel received this assurance as a young soldier, still panting froma slight skirmish in which he has come off with honour, might receive apat on the shoulder from his colonel. Like such a recognition of meritit seemed to come with authority. How could the lightest word do lesson the part of a person who was prepared to say, of almost everythingIsabel told her, ”Oh, I've been in that, my dear; it passes, likeeverything else.” On many of her interlocutors Madame Merle might haveproduced an irritating effect; it was disconcertingly difficult tosurprise her. But Isabel, though by no means incapable of desiring tobe effective, had not at present this impulse. She was too sincere, toointerested in her judicious companion. And then moreover Madame Merlenever said such things in the tone of triumph or of boastfulness; theydropped from her like cold confessions.

A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; the days grewshorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the lawn. Butour young woman had long indoor conversations with her fellow visitor,and in spite of the rain the two ladies often sallied forth for a walk,equipped with the defensive apparatus which the English climate andthe English genius have between them brought to such perfection. MadameMerle liked almost everything, including the English rain. ”There'salways a little of it and never too much at once,” she said; ”and itnever wets you and it always smells good.” She declared that in Englandthe pleasures of smell were great--that in this inimitable island therewas a certain mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd itmight sound, was the national aroma, and was most agreeable to thenostril; and she used to lift the sleeve of her British overcoat andbury her nose in it, inhaling the clear, fine scent of the wool. PoorRalph Touchett, as soon as the autumn had begun to define itself, becamealmost a prisoner; in bad weather he was unable to step out of thehouse, and he used sometimes to stand at one of the windows with hishands in his pockets and, from a countenance half-rueful, half-critical,watch Isabel and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under apair of umbrellas. The roads about Gardencourt were so firm, even in theworst weather, that the two ladies always came back with a healthy glowin their cheeks, looking at the soles of their neat, stout boots anddeclaring that their walk had done them inexpressible good. Beforeluncheon, always, Madame Merle was engaged; Isabel admired and enviedher rigid possession of her morning. Our heroine had always passed for aperson of resources and had taken a certain pride in being one; but shewandered, as by the wrong side of the wall of a private garden, roundthe enclosed talents, accomplishments, aptitudes of Madame Merle. Shefound herself desiring to emulate them, and in twenty such ways thislady presented herself as a model. ”I should like awfully to be so!”Isabel secretly exclaimed, more than once, as one after another of herfriend's fine aspects caught the light, and before long she knew thatshe had learned a lesson from a high authority. It took no great timeindeed for her to feel herself, as the phrase is, under an influence.”What's the harm,” she wondered, ”so long as it's a good one? The moreone's under a good influence the better. The only thing is to see oursteps as we take them--to understand them as we go. That, no doubt, Ishall always do. I needn't be afraid of becoming too pliable; isn't itmy fault that I'm not pliable enough?” It is said that imitation is thesincerest flattery; and if Isabel was sometimes moved to gape at herfriend aspiringly and despairingly it was not so much because shedesired herself to shine as because she wished to hold up the lamp forMadame Merle. She liked her extremely, but was even more dazzled thanattracted. She sometimes asked herself what Henrietta Stackpole wouldsay to her thinking so much of this perverted product of their commonsoil, and had a conviction that it would be severely judged. Henriettawould not at all subscribe to Madame Merle; for reasons she could nothave defined this truth came home to the girl. On the other hand shewas equally sure that, should the occasion offer, her new friend wouldstrike off some happy view of her old: Madame Merle was too humorous,too observant, not to do justice to Henrietta, and on becomingacquainted with her would probably give the measure of a tact whichMiss Stackpole couldn't hope to emulate. She appeared to have in herexperience a touchstone for everything, and somewhere in the capaciouspocket of her genial memory she would find the key to Henrietta's value.”That's the great thing,” Isabel solemnly pondered; ”that's the supremegood fortune: to be in a better position for appreciating people thanthey are for appreciating you.” And she added that such, when oneconsidered it, was simply the essence of the aristocratic situation.In this light, if in none other, one should aim at the aristocraticsituation.

I may not count over all the links in the chain which led Isabel tothink of Madame Merle's situation as aristocratic--a view of it neverexpressed in any reference made to it by that lady herself. She hadknown great things and great people, but she had never played a greatpart. She was one of the small ones of the earth; she had not been bornto honours; she knew the world too well to nourish fatuous illusionson the article of her own place in it. She had encountered many of thefortunate few and was perfectly aware of those points at which theirfortune differed from hers. But if by her informed measure she was nofigure for a high scene, she had yet to Isabel's imagination a sort ofgreatness. To be so cultivated and civilised, so wise and so easy,and still make so light of it--that was really to be a great lady,especially when one so carried and presented one's self. It was as ifsomehow she had all society under contribution, and all the arts andgraces it practised--or was the effect rather that of charming usesfound for her, even from a distance, subtle service rendered by her toa clamorous world wherever she might be? After breakfast she wrote asuccession of letters, as those arriving for her appeared innumerable:her correspondence was a source of surprise to Isabel when theysometimes walked together to the village post-office to deposit MadameMerle's offering to the mail. She knew more people, as she told Isabel,than she knew what to do with, and something was always turning up to bewritten about. Of painting she was devotedly fond, and made no more ofbrushing in a sketch than of pulling off her gloves. At Gardencourt shewas perpetually taking advantage of an hour's sunshine to go out with acamp-stool and a box of water-colours. That she was a brave musician wehave already perceived, and it was evidence of the fact that when sheseated herself at the piano, as she always did in the evening, herlisteners resigned themselves without a murmur to losing the graceof her talk. Isabel, since she had known her, felt ashamed of her ownfacility, which she now looked upon as basely inferior; and indeed,though she had been thought rather a prodigy at home, the loss tosociety when, in taking her place upon the music-stool, she turned herback to the room, was usually deemed greater than the gain. When MadameMerle was neither writing, nor painting, nor touching the piano, shewas usually employed upon wonderful tasks of rich embroidery, cushions,curtains, decorations for the chimneypiece; an art in which her bold,free invention was as noted as the agility of her needle. She was neveridle, for when engaged in none of the ways I have mentioned she waseither reading (she appeared to Isabel to read ”everything important”),or walking out, or playing patience with the cards, or talking with herfellow inmates. And with all this she had always the social quality, wasnever rudely absent and yet never too seated. She laid down her pastimesas easily as she took them up; she worked and talked at the same time,and appeared to impute scant worth to anything she did. She gave awayher sketches and tapestries; she rose from the piano or remainedthere, according to the convenience of her auditors, which she alwaysunerringly divined. She was in short the most comfortable, profitable,amenable person to live with. If for Isabel she had a fault it was thatshe was not natural; by which the girl meant, not that she was eitheraffected or pretentious, since from these vulgar vices no woman couldhave been more exempt, but that her nature had been too much overlaid bycustom and her angles too much rubbed away. She had become too flexible,too useful, was too ripe and too final. She was in a word too perfectlythe social animal that man and woman are supposed to have been intendedto be; and she had rid herself of every remnant of that tonic wildnesswhich we may assume to have belonged even to the most amiable personsin the ages before country-house life was the fashion. Isabel found itdifficult to think of her in any detachment or privacy, she existed onlyin her relations, direct or indirect, with her fellow mortals. One mightwonder what commerce she could possibly hold with her own spirit.One always ended, however, by feeling that a charming surface doesn'tnecessarily prove one superficial; this was an illusion in which, inone's youth, one had but just escaped being nourished. Madame Merle wasnot superficial--not she. She was deep, and her nature spoke none theless in her behaviour because it spoke a conventional tongue. ”What'slanguage at all but a convention?” said Isabel. ”She has the goodtaste not to pretend, like some people I've met, to express herself byoriginal signs.”

”I'm afraid you've suffered much,” she once found occasion to say to herfriend in response to some allusion that had appeared to reach far.

”What makes you think that?” Madame Merle asked with the amused smileof a person seated at a game of guesses. ”I hope I haven't too much thedroop of the misunderstood.”

”No; but you sometimes say things that I think people who have alwaysbeen happy wouldn't have found out.”

”I haven't always been happy,” said Madame Merle, smiling still, butwith a mock gravity, as if she were telling a child a secret. ”Such awonderful thing!”

But Isabel rose to the irony. ”A great many people give me theimpression of never having for a moment felt anything.”

”It's very true; there are many more iron pots certainly than porcelain.But you may depend on it that every one bears some mark; even thehardest iron pots have a little bruise, a little hole somewhere. Iflatter myself that I'm rather stout, but if I must tell you the truthI've been shockingly chipped and cracked. I do very well for serviceyet, because I've been cleverly mended; and I try to remain in thecupboard--the quiet, dusky cupboard where there's an odour of stalespices--as much as I can. But when I've to come out and into a stronglight--then, my dear, I'm a horror!”

I know not whether it was on this occasion or on some other that theconversation had taken the turn I have just indicated she said to Isabelthat she would some day a tale unfold. Isabel assured her she shoulddelight to listen to one, and reminded her more than once of thisengagement. Madame Merle, however, begged repeatedly for a respite, andat last frankly told her young companion that they must wait till theyknew each other better. This would be sure to happen, a long friendshipso visibly lay before them. Isabel assented, but at the same timeenquired if she mightn't be trusted--if she appeared capable of abetrayal of confidence.

”It's not that I'm afraid of your repeating what I say,” her fellowvisitor answered; ”I'm afraid, on the contrary, of your taking it toomuch to yourself. You'd judge me too harshly; you're of the cruel age.”She preferred for the present to talk to Isabel of Isabel, and exhibitedthe greatest interest in our heroine's history, sentiments, opinions,prospects. She made her chatter and listened to her chatter withinfinite good nature. This flattered and quickened the girl, who wasstruck with all the distinguished people her friend had known and withher having lived, as Mrs. Touchett said, in the best company in Europe.Isabel thought the better of herself for enjoying the favour of a personwho had so large a field of comparison and it was perhaps partly togratify the sense of profiting by comparison that she often appealed tothese stores of reminiscence. Madame Merle had been a dweller in manylands and had social ties in a dozen different countries. ”I don'tpretend to be educated,” she would say, ”but I think I know my Europe;”and she spoke one day of going to Sweden to stay with an old friend,and another of proceeding to Malta to follow up a new acquaintance. WithEngland, where she had often dwelt, she was thoroughly familiar, andfor Isabel's benefit threw a great deal of light upon the customs ofthe country and the character of the people, who ”after all,” as she wasfond of saying, were the most convenient in the world to live with.

”You mustn't think it strange her remaining here at such a time as this,when Mr. Touchett's passing away,” that gentleman's wife remarked to herniece. ”She is incapable of a mistake; she's the most tactful woman Iknow. It's a favour to me that she stays; she's putting off a lot ofvisits at great houses,” said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that whenshe herself was in England her social value sank two or three degrees inthe scale. ”She has her pick of places; she's not in want of a shelter.But I've asked her to put in this time because I wish you to know her. Ithink it will be a good thing for you. Serena Merle hasn't a fault.”

”If I didn't already like her very much that description might alarmme,” Isabel returned.

”She's never the least little bit 'off.' I've brought you out here and Iwish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told me she hoped I wouldgive you plenty of opportunities. I give you one in putting you inrelation with Madame Merle. She's one of the most brilliant women inEurope.”

”I like her better than I like your description of her,” Isabelpersisted in saying.

”Do you flatter yourself that you'll ever feel her open to criticism? Ihope you'll let me know when you do.”

”That will be cruel--to you,” said Isabel.

”You needn't mind me. You won't discover a fault in her.”

”Perhaps not. But I dare say I shan't miss it.”

”She knows absolutely everything on earth there is to know,” said Mrs.Touchett.

Isabel after this observed to their companion that she hoped she knewMrs. Touchett considered she hadn't a speck on her perfection. On which”I'm obliged to you,” Madame Merle replied, ”but I'm afraid your auntimagines, or at least alludes to, no aberrations that the clock-facedoesn't register.”

”So that you mean you've a wild side that's unknown to her?”

”Ah no, I fear my darkest sides are my tamest. I mean that having nofaults, for your aunt, means that one's never late for dinner--that isfor her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other day, when youcame back from London the clock was just at eight when I came into thedrawing-room: it was the rest of you that were before the time. It meansthat one answers a letter the day one gets it and that when one comes tostay with her one doesn't bring too much luggage and is careful not tobe taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things constitute virtue; it's ablessing to be able to reduce it to its elements.”

Madame Merle's own conversation, it will be perceived, was enriched withbold, free touches of criticism, which, even when they had a restrictiveeffect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured. It couldn't occur to thegirl for instance that Mrs. Touchett's accomplished guest was abusingher; and this for very good reasons. In the first place Isabel roseeagerly to the sense of her shades; in the second Madame Merle impliedthat there was a great deal more to say; and it was clear in thethird that for a person to speak to one without ceremony of one's nearrelations was an agreeable sign of that person's intimacy with one'sself. These signs of deep communion multiplied as the days elapsed, andthere was none of which Isabel was more sensible than of her companion'spreference for making Miss Archer herself a topic. Though she referredfrequently to the incidents of her own career she never lingered uponthem; she was as little of a gross egotist as she was of a flat gossip.

”I'm old and stale and faded,” she said more than once; ”I'm of nomore interest than last week's newspaper. You're young and fresh and ofto-day; you've the great thing--you've actuality. I once had it--we allhave it for an hour. You, however, will have it for longer. Let us talkabout you then; you can say nothing I shall not care to hear. It's asign that I'm growing old--that I like to talk with younger people. Ithink it's a very pretty compensation. If we can't have youth within uswe can have it outside, and I really think we see it and feel it betterthat way. Of course we must be in sympathy with it--that I shall alwaysbe. I don't know that I shall ever be ill-natured with old people--Ihope not; there are certainly some old people I adore. But I shall neverbe anything but abject with the young; they touch me and appeal to metoo much. I give you carte blanche then; you can even be impertinent ifyou like; I shall let it pass and horribly spoil you. I speak as if Iwere a hundred years old, you say? Well, I am, if you please; I was bornbefore the French Revolution. Ah, my dear, je viens de loin; I belong tothe old, old world. But it's not of that I want to talk; I want to talkabout the new. You must tell me more about America; you never tell meenough. Here I've been since I was brought here as a helpless child, andit's ridiculous, or rather it's scandalous, how little I know about thatsplendid, dreadful, funny country--surely the greatest and drollest ofthem all. There are a great many of us like that in these parts, and Imust say I think we're a wretched set of people. You should live in yourown land; whatever it may be you have your natural place there. If we'renot good Americans we're certainly poor Europeans; we've no naturalplace here. We're mere parasites, crawling over the surface; we haven'tour feet in the soil. At least one can know it and not have illusions. Awoman perhaps can get on a woman, it seems to me, has no natural placeanywhere; wherever she finds herself she has to remain on the surfaceand, more or less, to crawl. You protest, my dear? you're horrified?you declare you'll never crawl? It's very true that I don't see youcrawling; you stand more upright than a good many poor creatures.Very good; on the whole, I don't think you'll crawl. But the men, theAmericans; je vous demande un peu, what do they make of it over here?I don't envy them trying to arrange themselves. Look at poor RalphTouchett: what sort of a figure do you call that? Fortunately he has aconsumption I say fortunately, because it gives him something to do.His consumption's his carriere it's a kind of position. You can say:'Oh, Mr. Touchett, he takes care of his lungs, he knows a great dealabout climates.' But without that who would he be, what would herepresent? 'Mr. Ralph Touchett: an American who lives in Europe.' Thatsignifies absolutely nothing--it's impossible anything should signifyless. 'He's very cultivated,' they say: 'he has a very pretty collectionof old snuff-boxes.' The collection is all that's wanted to make itpitiful. I'm tired of the sound of the word; I think it's grotesque.With the poor old father it's different; he has his identity, and it'srather a massive one. He represents a great financial house, and that,in our day, is as good as anything else. For an American, at any rate,that will do very well. But I persist in thinking your cousin very luckyto have a chronic malady so long as he doesn't die of it. It's muchbetter than the snuffboxes. If he weren't ill, you say, he'd dosomething?--he'd take his father's place in the house. My poor child, Idoubt it; I don't think he's at all fond of the house. However, you knowhim better than I, though I used to know him rather well, and he mayhave the benefit of the doubt. The worst case, I think, is a friendof mine, a countryman of ours, who lives in Italy (where he also wasbrought before he knew better), and who is one of the most delightfulmen I know. Some day you must know him. I'll bring you together and thenyou'll see what I mean. He's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Italy; that'sall one can say about him or make of him. He's exceedingly clever, aman made to be distinguished; but, as I tell you, you exhaust thedescription when you say he's Mr. Osmond who lives tout betement inItaly. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no past, no future,no anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please--paints in water-colours;like me, only better than I. His painting's pretty bad; on the whole I'mrather glad of that. Fortunately he's very indolent, so indolent thatit amounts to a sort of position. He can say, 'Oh, I do nothing; I'm toodeadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up at five o'clockin the morning.' In that way he becomes a sort of exception you feelhe might do something if he'd only rise early. He never speaks of hispainting to people at large; he's too clever for that. But he has alittle girl--a dear little girl; he does speak of her. He's devotedto her, and if it were a career to be an excellent father he'd be verydistinguished. But I'm afraid that's no better than the snuff-boxes;perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do in America,” pursuedMadame Merle, who, it must be observed parenthetically, did not deliverherself all at once of these reflexions, which are presented in acluster for the convenience of the reader. She talked of Florence, whereMr. Osmond lived and where Mrs. Touchett occupied a medieval palace; shetalked of Rome, where she herself had a little pied-a-terre with somerather good old damask. She talked of places, of people and even, as thephrase is, of ”subjects”; and from time to time she talked of their kindold host and of the prospect of his recovery. From the first shehad thought this prospect small, and Isabel had been struck with thepositive, discriminating, competent way in which she took the measureof his remainder of life. One evening she announced definitely that hewouldn't live.

”Sir Matthew Hope told me so as plainly as was proper,” she said;”standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makes himself veryagreeable, the great doctor. I don't mean his saying that has anythingto do with it. But he says such things with great tact. I had told himI felt ill at my ease, staying here at such a time; it seemed to me soindiscreet--it wasn't as if I could nurse. 'You must remain, you mustremain,' he answered; 'your office will come later.' Wasn't that a verydelicate way of saying both that poor Mr. Touchett would go and that Imight be of some use as a consoler? In fact, however, I shall not be ofthe slightest use. Your aunt will console herself; she, and she alone,knows just how much consolation she'll require. It would be a verydelicate matter for another person to undertake to administer the dose.With your cousin it will be different; he'll miss his father immensely.But I should never presume to condole with Mr. Ralph; we're not onthose terms.” Madame Merle had alluded more than once to some undefinedincongruity in her relations with Ralph Touchett; so Isabel took thisoccasion of asking her if they were not good friends.

”Perfectly, but he doesn't like me.”

”What have you done to him?”

”Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for that.”

”For not liking you? I think one has need of a very good reason.”

”You're very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the day you begin.”

”Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin.”

”I hope not; because if you do you'll never end. That's the way withyour cousin; he doesn't get over it. It's an antipathy of nature--ifI can call it that when it's all on his side. I've nothing whateveragainst him and don't bear him the least little grudge for not doing mejustice. Justice is all I want. However, one feels that he's a gentlemanand would never say anything underhand about one. Cartes sur table,”Madame Merle subjoined in a moment, ”I'm not afraid of him.”

”I hope not indeed,” said Isabel, who added something about his beingthe kindest creature living. She remembered, however, that on her firstasking him about Madame Merle he had answered her in a manner whichthis lady might have thought injurious without being explicit. Therewas something between them, Isabel said to herself, but she said nothingmore than this. If it were something of importance it should inspirerespect; if it were not it was not worth her curiosity. With all herlove of knowledge she had a natural shrinking from raising curtains andlooking into unlighted corners. The love of knowledge coexisted in hermind with the finest capacity for ignorance.

But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, made her raiseher clear eyebrows at the time and think of the words afterwards. ”I'dgive a great deal to be your age again,” she broke out once with abitterness which, though diluted in her customary amplitude of ease, wasimperfectly disguised by it. ”If I could only begin again--if I couldhave my life before me!”

”Your life's before you yet,” Isabel answered gently, for she wasvaguely awe-struck.

”No; the best part's gone, and gone for nothing.”

”Surely not for nothing,” said Isabel.

”Why not--what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor fortune, norposition, nor the traces of a beauty that I never had.”

”You have many friends, dear lady.”

”I'm not so sure!” cried Madame Merle.

”Ah, you're wrong. You have memories, graces, talents--”

But Madame Merle interrupted her. ”What have my talents brought me?Nothing but the need of using them still, to get through the hours,the years, to cheat myself with some pretence of movement, ofunconsciousness. As for my graces and memories the less said about themthe better. You'll be my friend till you find a better use for yourfriendship.”

”It will be for you to see that I don't then,” said Isabel.

”Yes; I would make an effort to keep you.” And her companion looked ather gravely. ”When I say I should like to be your age I mean with yourqualities--frank, generous, sincere like you. In that case I should havemade something better of my life.”

”What should you have liked to do that you've not done?”

Madame Merle took a sheet of music--she was seated at the piano andhad abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she first spoke--andmechanically turned the leaves. ”I'm very ambitious!” she at lastreplied.

”And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must have been great.”

”They WERE great. I should make myself ridiculous by talking of them.”

Isabel wondered what they could have been--whether Madame Merle hadaspired to wear a crown. ”I don't know what your idea of success may be,but you seem to me to have been successful. To me indeed you're a vividimage of success.”

Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile. ”What's YOUR idea ofsuccess?”

”You evidently think it must be a very tame one. It's to see some dreamof one's youth come true.”

”Ah,” Madame Merle exclaimed, ”that I've never seen! But my dreams wereso great--so preposterous. Heaven forgive me, I'm dreaming now!” And sheturned back to the piano and began grandly to play. On the morrow shesaid to Isabel that her definition of success had been very pretty,yet frightfully sad. Measured in that way, who had ever succeeded? Thedreams of one's youth, why they were enchanting, they were divine! Whohad ever seen such things come to pass?

”I myself--a few of them,” Isabel ventured to answer.

”Already? They must have been dreams of yesterday.”

”I began to dream very young,” Isabel smiled.

”Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood--that of having apink sash and a doll that could close her eyes.”

”No, I don't mean that.”

”Or a young man with a fine moustache going down on his knees to you.”

”No, nor that either,” Isabel declared with still more emphasis.

Madame Merle appeared to note this eagerness. ”I suspect that's whatyou do mean. We've all had the young man with the moustache. He's theinevitable young man; he doesn't count.”

Isabel was silent a little but then spoke with extreme andcharacteristic inconsequence. ”Why shouldn't he count? There are youngmen and young men.”

”And yours was a paragon--is that what you mean?” asked her friend witha laugh. ”If you've had the identical young man you dreamed of, thenthat was success, and I congratulate you with all my heart. Only in thatcase why didn't you fly with him to his castle in the Apennines?”

”He has no castle in the Apennines.”

”What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street? Don't tell methat; I refuse to recognise that as an ideal.”

”I don't care anything about his house,” said Isabel.

”That's very crude of you. When you've lived as long as I you'll seethat every human being has his shell and that you must take the shellinto account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circumstances.There's no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we're each of usmade up of some cluster of appurtenances. What shall we call our 'self'?Where does it begin? where does it end? It overflows into everythingthat belongs to us--and then it flows back again. I know a large partof myself is in the clothes I choose to wear. I've a great respect forTHINGS! One's self--for other people--is one's expression of one's self;and one's house, one's furniture, one's garments, the books one reads,the company one keeps--these things are all expressive.”

This was very metaphysical; not more so, however, than severalobservations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel was fond ofmetaphysics, but was unable to accompany her friend into this boldanalysis of the human personality. ”I don't agree with you. I think justthe other way. I don't know whether I succeed in expressing myself, butI know that nothing else expresses me. Nothing that belongs to me is anymeasure of me; everything's on the contrary a limit, a barrier, anda perfectly arbitrary one. Certainly the clothes which, as you say, Ichoose to wear, don't express me; and heaven forbid they should!”

”You dress very well,” Madame Merle lightly interposed.

”Possibly; but I don't care to be judged by that. My clothes may expressthe dressmaker, but they don't express me. To begin with it's not my ownchoice that I wear them; they're imposed upon me by society.”

”Should you prefer to go without them?” Madame Merle enquired in a tonewhich virtually terminated the discussion.

I am bound to confess, though it may cast some discredit on the sketch Ihave given of the youthful loyalty practised by our heroine toward thisaccomplished woman, that Isabel had said nothing whatever to her aboutLord Warburton and had been equally reticent on the subject of CasparGoodwood. She had not, however, concealed the fact that she had hadopportunities of marrying and had even let her friend know of howadvantageous a kind they had been. Lord Warburton had left Lockleighand was gone to Scotland, taking his sisters with him; and though he hadwritten to Ralph more than once to ask about Mr. Touchett's health thegirl was not liable to the embarrassment of such enquiries as, had hestill been in the neighbourhood, he would probably have felt bound tomake in person. He had excellent ways, but she felt sure that if he hadcome to Gardencourt he would have seen Madame Merle, and that if he hadseen her he would have liked her and betrayed to her that he was in lovewith her young friend. It so happened that during this lady's previousvisits to Gardencourt--each of them much shorter than the present--hehad either not been at Lockleigh or had not called at Mr. Touchett's.Therefore, though she knew him by name as the great man of thatcounty, she had no cause to suspect him as a suitor of Mrs. Touchett'sfreshly-imported niece.

”You've plenty of time,” she had said to Isabel in return for themutilated confidences which our young woman made her and which didn'tpretend to be perfect, though we have seen that at moments the girlhad compunctions at having said so much. ”I'm glad you've done nothingyet--that you have it still to do. It's a very good thing for a girl tohave refused a few good offers--so long of course as they are not thebest she's likely to have. Pardon me if my tone seems horribly corrupt;one must take the worldly view sometimes. Only don't keep on refusingfor the sake of refusing. It's a pleasant exercise of power; butaccepting's after all an exercise of power as well. There's always thedanger of refusing once too often. It was not the one I fell into--Ididn't refuse often enough. You're an exquisite creature, and I shouldlike to see you married to a prime minister. But speaking strictly, youknow, you're not what is technically called a parti. You're extremelygood-looking and extremely clever; in yourself you're quite exceptional.You appear to have the vaguest ideas about your earthly possessions; butfrom what I can make out you're not embarrassed with an income. I wishyou had a little money.”

”I wish I had!” said Isabel, simply, apparently forgetting for themoment that her poverty had been a venial fault for two gallantgentlemen.

In spite of Sir Matthew Hope's benevolent recommendation Madame Merledid not remain to the end, as the issue of poor Mr. Touchett's maladyhad now come frankly to be designated. She was under pledges to otherpeople which had at last to be redeemed, and she left Gardencourt withthe understanding that she should in any event see Mrs. Touchett thereagain, or else in town, before quitting England. Her parting with Isabelwas even more like the beginning of a friendship than their meeting hadbeen. ”I'm going to six places in succession, but I shall see no one Ilike so well as you. They'll all be old friends, however; one doesn'tmake new friends at my age. I've made a great exception for you. Youmust remember that and must think as well of me as possible. You mustreward me by believing in me.”

By way of answer Isabel kissed her, and, though some women kiss withfacility, there are kisses and kisses, and this embrace was satisfactoryto Madame Merle. Our young lady, after this, was much alone; she saw heraunt and cousin only at meals, and discovered that of the hours duringwhich Mrs. Touchett was invisible only a minor portion was now devotedto nursing her husband. She spent the rest in her own apartments, towhich access was not allowed even to her niece, apparently occupiedthere with mysterious and inscrutable exercises. At table she was graveand silent; but her solemnity was not an attitude--Isabel could see itwas a conviction. She wondered if her aunt repented of having taken herown way so much; but there was no visible evidence of this--no tears, nosighs, no exaggeration of a zeal always to its own sense adequate. Mrs.Touchett seemed simply to feel the need of thinking things over andsumming them up; she had a little moral account-book--with columnsunerringly ruled and a sharp steel clasp--which she kept with exemplaryneatness. Uttered reflection had with her ever, at any rate, a practicalring. ”If I had foreseen this I'd not have proposed your coming abroadnow,” she said to Isabel after Madame Merle had left the house. ”I'dhave waited and sent for you next year.”

”So that perhaps I should never have known my uncle? It's a greathappiness to me to have come now.”

”That's very well. But it was not that you might know your uncle thatI brought you to Europe.” A perfectly veracious speech; but, as Isabelthought, not as perfectly timed. She had leisure to think of this andother matters. She took a solitary walk every day and spent vague hoursin turning over books in the library. Among the subjects that engagedher attention were the adventures of her friend Miss Stackpole, withwhom she was in regular correspondence. Isabel liked her friend'sprivate epistolary style better than her public; that is she felt herpublic letters would have been excellent if they had not been printed.Henrietta's career, however, was not so successful as might have beenwished even in the interest of her private felicity; that view of theinner life of Great Britain which she was so eager to take appeared todance before her like an ignis fatuus. The invitation from Lady Pensil,for mysterious reasons, had never arrived; and poor Mr. Bantlinghimself, with all his friendly ingenuity, had been unable to explainso grave a dereliction on the part of a missive that had obviously beensent. He had evidently taken Henrietta's affairs much to heart,and believed that he owed her a set-off to this illusory visit toBedfordshire. ”He says he should think I would go to the Continent,”Henrietta wrote; ”and as he thinks of going there himself I suppose hisadvice is sincere. He wants to know why I don't take a view of Frenchlife; and it's a fact that I want very much to see the new Republic. Mr.Bantling doesn't care much about the Republic, but he thinks of goingover to Paris anyway. I must say he's quite as attentive as I couldwish, and at least I shall have seen one polite Englishman. I keeptelling Mr. Bantling that he ought to have been an American, and youshould see how that pleases him. Whenever I say so he always breaks outwith the same exclamation--'Ah, but really, come now!” A few days latershe wrote that she had decided to go to Paris at the end of the week andthat Mr. Bantling had promised to see her off--perhaps even would goas far as Dover with her. She would wait in Paris till Isabel shouldarrive, Henrietta added; speaking quite as if Isabel were to start onher continental journey alone and making no allusion to Mrs. Touchett.Bearing in mind his interest in their late companion, our heroinecommunicated several passages from this correspondence to Ralph,who followed with an emotion akin to suspense the career of therepresentative of the Interviewer.

”It seems to me she's doing very well,” he said, ”going over to Pariswith an ex-Lancer! If she wants something to write about she has only todescribe that episode.”

”It's not conventional, certainly,” Isabel answered; ”but if you meanthat--as far as Henrietta is concerned--it's not perfectly innocent,you're very much mistaken. You'll never understand Henrietta.”

”Pardon me, I understand her perfectly. I didn't at all at first, butnow I've the point of view. I'm afraid, however, that Bantling hasn't;he may have some surprises. Oh, I understand Henrietta as well as if Ihad made her!”

Isabel was by no means sure of this, but she abstained from expressingfurther doubt, for she was disposed in these days to extend a greatcharity to her cousin. One afternoon less than a week after MadameMerle's departure she was seated in the library with a volume towhich her attention was not fastened. She had placed herself in a deepwindow-bench, from which she looked out into the dull, damp park; and asthe library stood at right angles to the entrance-front of the house shecould see the doctor's brougham, which had been waiting for the last twohours before the door. She was struck with his remaining so long, but atlast she saw him appear in the portico, stand a moment slowly drawing onhis gloves and looking at the knees of his horse, and then get into thevehicle and roll away. Isabel kept her place for half an hour; there wasa great stillness in the house. It was so great that when she at lastheard a soft, slow step on the deep carpet of the room she was almoststartled by the sound. She turned quickly away from the window and sawRalph Touchett standing there with his hands still in his pockets, butwith a face absolutely void of its usual latent smile. She got up andher movement and glance were a question.

”It's all over,” said Ralph.

”Do you mean that my uncle...?” And Isabel stopped.

”My dear father died an hour ago.”

”Ah, my poor Ralph!” she gently wailed, putting out her two hands tohim.