The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James

  Such incongruities were not a help to answering Mr. Goodwood’s letter, and Isabel determined to leave it awhile unanswered. If he had determined to persecute her, he must take the consequences; foremost among which was his being left to perceive that she did not approve of his coming to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the incursions of one suitor at this place, and though it might be pleasant to be appreciated in opposite quarters, Isabel had a personal shrinking from entertaining two lovers at once, even in a case where the entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She sent no answer to Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord Warburton, and the letter belongs to our history. It ran as follows.

  DEAR LORD WARBURTON—A great deal of careful reflection has not led me to change my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make me the other day. I do not find myself able to regard you in the light of a husband, or to regard your home—your various homes—in the light of my own. These things cannot be reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to the subject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from our own point of view; that is the privilege of the weakest and humblest of us; and I shall never be able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly let this suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given your proposal the deeply respectful consideration it deserves. It is with this feeling of respect that I remain very truly yours,

  ISABEL ARCHER.

  While the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it, Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolution which was accompanied by no hesitation. She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and when he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to testify to his high expectations, she informed him that she had a favour to ask of him. It may be confided to the reader that at this information the young man flinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as indiscreet. The movement was unreasonable, however; for he had measured the limits of her discretion as little as he had explored its extent; and he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He was afraid of her, and he presently told her so.

  ‘‘When you look at me in a certain way,’’ he said, ‘‘my knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I am filled with trepidation, and I ask only for strength to execute your commands. You have a look which I have never encountered in any woman.’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ Henrietta replied, good-humouredly, ‘‘if I had not known before that you were trying to turn me into ridicule, I should know it now. Of course I am easy game—I was brought up with such different customs and ideas. I am not used to your arbitrary standards, and I have never been spoken to in America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with me over there were to speak to me like that, I shouldn’t know what to make of it. We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all, we are a great deal more simple. I admit that; I am very simple myself. Of course, if you choose to laugh at me for that, you are very welcome; but I think on the whole I would rather be myself than you. I am quite content to be myself; I don’t want to change. There are plenty of people that appreciate me just as I am; it is true they are only Americans!’’ Henrietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence and large concession. ‘‘I want you to assist me a little,’’ she went on. ‘‘I don’t care in the least whether I amuse you while you do so; or, rather, I am perfectly willing that your amusement should be your reward. I want you to help me about Isabel.’’

  ‘‘Has she injured you?’’ Ralph asked.

  ‘‘If she had I shouldn’t mind, and I should never tell you. What I am afraid of is that she will injure herself.’’

  ‘‘I think that is very possible,’’ said Ralph.

  His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him a gaze which may perhaps have contained the quality that caused his knees to knock together. ‘‘That, too, would amuse you, I suppose. The way you do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent.’’

  ‘‘To Isabel? Never in the world.’’

  ‘‘Well, you are not in love with her, I hope.’’

  ‘‘How can that be, when I am in love with another?’’

  ‘‘You are in love with yourself; that’s the other!’’ Miss Stackpole declared. ‘‘Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once in your life, here’s a chance; and if you really care for your cousin, here is an opportunity to prove it. I don’t expect you to understand her; that’s too much to ask. But you needn’t do that to grant my favour. I will supply the necessary intelligence.’’

  ‘‘I shall enjoy that immensely!’’ Ralph exclaimed. ‘‘I will be Caliban, and you shall be Ariel.’’

  ‘‘You are not at all like Caliban, because you are sophisticated, and Caliban was not. But I am not talking about imaginary characters; I am talking about Isabel. Isabel is intensely real. What I wish to tell you is that I find her fearfully changed.’’

  ‘‘Since you came, do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Since I came, and before I came. She is not the same as she was.’’

  ‘‘As she was in America?’’

  ‘‘Yes, in America. I suppose you know that she comes from there. She can’t help it, but she does.’’

  ‘‘Do you want to change her back again?’’

  ‘‘Of course I do; and I want you to help me.’’

  ‘‘Ah,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘I am only Caliban; I am not Prospero.’’

  ‘‘You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You have acted on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett.’’

  ‘‘I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted on me—yes; she acts on every one. But I have been absolutely passive.’’

  ‘‘You are too passive, then. You had better stir yourself and be careful. Isabel is changing every day; she is drifting away—right out to sea. I have watched her and I can see it. She is not the bright American girl she was. She is taking different views, and turning away from her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that is where you come in.’’

  ‘‘Not surely as an ideal?’’

  ‘‘Well, I hope not,’’ Henrietta replied, promptly. ‘‘I have got a fear in my heart that she is going to marry one of these Europeans, and I want to prevent it.’’

  ‘‘Ah, I see,’’ cried Ralph; ‘‘and to prevent it, you want me to step in and marry her?’’

  ‘‘Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you are the typical European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I wish you to take an interest in another person—a young man to whom she once gave great encouragement, and whom she now doesn’t seem to think good enough. He’s a noble fellow, and a very dear friend of mine, and I wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here.’’

  Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his fault was that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really be as candid as this request of Miss Stackpole’s appeared. That a young woman should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear friend should be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable to another young woman, whose attention had wandered and whose charms were greater—this was an anomaly which for the moment challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account was the sign not so much of a vulgar, as of an embarrassed, mind. Even from this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force that I can scarcely call anything less than inspiration. With no more outward light on the subject than he already possessed, he suddenly acquired the conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers. This convict
ion passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was perhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady’s imperturbable gaze. He returned this gaze a moment, consciously, resisting an inclination to frown, as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries. ‘‘Who is the gentleman you speak of?’’

  ‘‘Mr. Caspar Goodwood, from Boston. He has been extremely attentive to Isabel—just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out here, and he is at present in London. I don’t know his address, but I guess I can obtain it.’’

  ‘‘I have never heard of him,’’ said Ralph.

  ‘‘Well, I suppose you haven’t heard of every one. I don’t believe he has ever heard of you; but that is no reason why Isabel shouldn’t marry him.’’

  Ralph gave a small laugh. ‘‘What a rage you have for marrying people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?’’

  ‘‘I have got over that. You don’t know how to take such ideas. Mr. Goodwood does, however; and that’s what I like about him. He’s a splendid man and a perfect gentleman; and Isabel knows it.’’

  ‘‘Is she very fond of him?’’

  ‘‘If she isn’t she ought to be. He is simply wrapped up in her.’’

  ‘‘And you wish me to ask him here,’’ said Ralph, reflectively.

  ‘‘It would be an act of true hospitality.’’

  ‘‘Caspar Goodwood,’’ Ralph continued, ‘‘—it’s rather a striking name.’’

  ‘‘I don’t care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and I should say the same. He is the only man I have ever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel.’’

  ‘‘You are a very devoted friend,’’ said Ralph.

  ‘‘Of course I am. If you say that to laugh at me, I don’t care.’’

  ‘‘I don’t say it to laugh at you; I am very much struck with it.’’

  ‘‘You are laughing worse than ever; but I advise you not to laugh at Mr. Goodwood.’’

  ‘‘I assure you I am very serious; you ought to understand that,’’ said Ralph.

  In a moment his companion understood it. ‘‘I believe you are; now you are too serious.’’

  ‘‘You are difficult to please.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you are very serious indeed. You won’t invite Mr. Goodwood.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Ralph. ‘‘I am capable of strange things. Tell me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What is he like?’’

  ‘‘He is just the opposite of you. He is at the head of a cotton-factory; a very fine one.’’

  ‘‘Has he pleasant manners?’’ asked Ralph.

  ‘‘Splendid manners—in the American style.’’

  ‘‘Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think he would care much about our little circle. He would concentrate on Isabel.’’

  ‘‘And how would my cousin like that?’’

  ‘‘Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call back her thoughts.’’

  ‘‘Call them back—from where?’’

  ‘‘From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose that he was acceptable to her, and it is not worthy of Isabel to turn her back upon a real friend simply because she has changed the scene. I have changed the scene too, and the effect of it has been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It’s my belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. I know her well enough to know that she would never be truly happy over here, and I wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a preservative.’’

  ‘‘Are you not a little too much in a hurry?’’ Ralph inquired. ‘‘Don’t you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old England?’’

  ‘‘A chance to ruin her bright young life? One is never too much in a hurry to save a precious human creature from drowning.’’

  ‘‘As I understand it, then,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘you wish me to push Mr. Goodwood overboard after her. Do you know,’’ he added, ‘‘that I have never heard her mention his name?’’

  Henrietta Stackpole gave a brilliant smile. ‘‘I am delighted to hear that; it proves how much she thinks of him.’’

  Ralph appeared to admit that there was a good deal in this, and he surrendered himself to meditation, while his companion watched him askance. ‘‘If I should invite Mr. Goodwood,’’ he said, ‘‘it would be to quarrel with him.’’

  ‘‘Don’t do that; he would prove the better man.’’

  ‘‘You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really don’t think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him.’’

  ‘‘It’s just as you please,’’ said Henrietta. ‘‘I had no idea you were in love with her yourself.’’

  ‘‘Do you really believe that?’’ the young man asked, with lifted eyebrows.

  ‘‘That’s the most natural speech I have ever heard you make! Of course I believe it,’’ Miss Stackpole answered, ingeniously.

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘to prove to you that you are wrong, I will invite him. It must be, of course, as a friend of yours.’’

  ‘‘It will not be as a friend of mine that he will come; and it will not be to prove to me that I am wrong that you will ask him—but to prove it to yourself!’’

  These last words of Miss Stackpole’s (on which the two presently separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged to recognize; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a recognition that, in spite of his suspecting that it would be rather more indiscreet to keep his promise than it would be to break it, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six lines, expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that he should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker whom Henrietta suggested) he waited in some suspense. He had heard of Mr. Caspar Goodwood by name for the first time; for when his mother mentioned to him on her arrival that there was a story about the girl’s having an ‘‘admirer’’ at home, the idea seemed deficient in reality, and Ralph took no pains to ask questions, the answers to which would suggest only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native admiration of which his cousin was the object had become more concrete; it took the form of a young man who had followed her to London; who was interested in a cotton-mill, and had manners in the American style. Ralph had two theories about this young man. Either his passion was a sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole’s (there was always a sort of tacit understanding among women, born of the solidarity of the sex, that they should discover or invent lovers for each other), in which case he was not to be feared, and would probably not accept the invitation; or else he would accept the invitation, and in this event would prove himself a creature too irrational to demand further consideration. The latter clause of Ralph’s argument might have seemed incoherent; but it embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in Isabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stackpole, he would not care to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter lady. ‘‘On this supposition,’’ said Ralph, ‘‘he must regard her as a thorn on the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must find her wanting in tact.’’

  Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible, and presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, when she had read it, exclaimed: ‘‘Well, I never have heard of anything so stiff!’’

  ‘‘I am afraid he doesn’t care so much about my cousin as you suppose,’’ Ralph observed.

  ‘‘No, it’s not that; it’s some deeper motive. His nature is very deep. But I am determined to fathom it, and I will write to him to know what he means.’’

  His refusal of Ralph’s overtures made this young man vaguely uncomfortable; from th
e moment he declined to come to Gardencourt Ralph began to think him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether Isabel’s admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not rivals of his, and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius. Nevertheless, he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole’s promised inquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood’s stiffness—a curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her three days later whether she had written to London, she was obliged to confess that she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not answered her.

  ‘‘I suppose he is thinking it over,’’ she said; ‘‘he thinks everything over; he is not at all impulsive. But I am accustomed to having my letters answered the same day.’’

  Whether it was to pursue her investigations, or whether it was in compliance with still larger interests, is a point which remains somewhat uncertain; at all events, she presently proposed to Isabel that they should make an excursion to London together.

  ‘‘If I must tell the truth,’’ she said, ‘‘I am not seeing much at this place, and I shouldn’t think you were either. I have not even seen that aristocrat—what’s his name?— Lord Washburton. He seems to let you severely alone.’’

  ‘‘Lord Warburton is coming to-morrow, I happen to know,’’ replied Isabel, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer to her own letter. ‘‘You will have every opportunity of examining him.’’

  ‘‘Well he may do for one letter, but what is one letter when you want to write fifty? I have described all the scenery in this vicinity, and raved about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please; scenery makes a thin letter. I must go back to London and get some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came away, and that is hardly time to get started.’’