THE GOLDEN BOWL 105 4 page

'Oh - existence!' the Prince vaguely commented.

'You think I ought to argue for more than mere existence?' she asked. 'I don't see why my existence - even reduced as much as you like to being merely mine - should be so impossible. There are things, of sorts, I should be able to have - things I should be able to be. The position of a single woman today is very favourable, you know.'

'Favourable to what?'

'Why, just to existence - which may contain, after all, in one way and another, so much. It may contain, at the worst, even affections; affections in fact quite particularly fixed, that is, on one's friends. I'm extremely fond of Maggie, for instance - I quite adore her. How could I adore her more if I were married to one of the people you speak of?'

The Prince gave a laugh. 'You might adore him more - !'

'Ah, but it isn't, is it?' she asked, 'a question of that.'

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'My dear friend,' he returned, 'it's always a question of doing the best for one's self one can - without injury to others.' He felt by this time that they were indeed on an excellent basis; so he went on again, as if to show frankly his sense of its firmness. 'I venture therefore to repeat my hope that you'll marry some capital fellow; and also to repeat my belief that such a marriage will be more favourable to you, as you call it, than even the spirit of the age.'

She looked at him at first only for answer, and would have appeared to take it with meekness had she not perhaps appeared a little more to take it with gaiety. 'Thank you very much,' she simply said; but at that moment their friend was with them again. It was undeniable that, as she came in, Mrs Assingham looked, with a certain smiling sharpness, from one of them to the other; the perception of which was perhaps what led Charlotte, for reassurance, to pass the question on. 'The Prince hopes so much I shall still marry some good person.'

Whether it worked for Mrs Assingham or not, the Prince was himself, at this, more than ever reassured. He was safe, in a word -that was what it all meantj and he had required to be safe. He was really safe enough for almost any joke. 'It's only,' he explained to their hostess, 'because of what Miss Stant has been telling me. Don't we want to keep up her courage?' If the joke was broad he had at least not begun it - not, that is, as a joke; which was what his companion's address to their friend made of it. 'She has been trying in America, she says, but hasn't brought it off.'

The tone was somehow not what Mrs Assingham had expected, but she made the best of it. 'Well then,' she replied to the young man, 'if you take such an interest you must bring it off.'

'And you must help, dear,' Charlotte said unperturbed - 'as you've helped, so beautifully, in such things before.' with which, before Mrs Assingham could meet the appeal, she had addressed herself to the Prince on a matter much nearer to him. 'Your marriage is on Friday? -on Saturday?'

'Oh, on Friday, no! For what do you take us? There's not a vulgar omen³⁰ we're neglecting. On Saturday, please, at the Oratory, at three o'clock - before twelve assistants exactly.'

'Twelve including meV

It struck him - he laughed. 'You'll make the thirteenth. It won't do!'

'Not,' said Charlotte, 'if you're going in for "omens." Should you like me to stay away?'

'Dear no - we'll manage. We'll make the round number - we'll have in some old woman. They must keep them there for that, don't they?' Mrs Assingham's return had at last indicated for him his

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departure; he had possessed himself again of his hat and approached her to take leave. But he had another word for Charlotte. 'I dine tonight with Mr Verver. Have you any message?'

The girl seemed to wonder a little. 'For Mr Verver?'

'For Maggie - about her seeing you early. That, I know, is what she'll like.'

'Then I'll come early - thanks.'

'I dare say,' he went on, 'she'll send for you. I mean send a carriage.'

'Oh, I don't require that, thanks. I can go, for a penny, can't I?' she asked of Mrs Assingham, 'in an omnibus.'

'Oh, I say!' said the Prince while Mrs Assingham looked at her blandly.

'Yes, love - and I'll give you the penny. She shall get there,' the good lady added to their friend.

But Charlotte, as the latter took leave of her, thought of something else. 'There's a great favour, Prince, that I want to ask of you. I want, between this and Saturday, to make Maggie a marriage-present.'

'Oh, I say!' the young man again soothingly exclaimed.

'Ah, but I must,' she went on. 'It's really almost for that I came back. It was impossible to get in America what I wanted.'

Mrs Assingham showed anxiety. 'What is it then, dear, you want?'

But the girl looked only at their companion. 'That's what the Prince, if he'll be so good, must help me to decide.'

'Can't /,' Mrs Assingham asked, 'help you to decide?'

'Certainly, darling, we must talk it well over.' And she kept her eyes on the Prince. 'But I want him, if he kindly will, to go with me to look. I want him to judge with me and choose. That, if you can spare the hour,' she said, 'is the great favour I mean.'

He raised his eyebrows at her - he wonderfully smiled. 'What you came back from America to ask? Ah, certainly then, I must find the hour!' He wonderfully smiled, but it was rather more, after all, than he had been reckoning with. It went somehow so little with the rest that, directly, for him, it wasn't the note of safety; it preserved this character, at the best, but by being the note of publicity. Quickly, quickly, however, the note of publicity struck him as better than any other. In another moment even it seemed positively what he wanted; for what so much as publicity put their relation on the right footing? By this appeal to Mrs Assingham it was established as right, and she immediately showed that such was her own understanding.

'Certainly, Prince,' she laughed, 'you must find the hour!' And it was really so express a license from her, as representing friendly judgment, public opinion, the moral law, the margin allowed a

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husband about to be, or whatever, that, after observing to Charlotte that, should she come to Portland Place in the morning, he would make a point of being there to see her and so, easily, arrange with her about a time, he took his departure with the absolutely confirmed impression of knowing, as he put it to himself, where he was. Which was what he had prolonged his visit for. He was where he could stay.

Chapter 4

'I don't quite see, my dear,' Colonel Assingham said to his wife the night of Charlotte's arrival, 'I don't quite see, I'm bound to say, why you take it, even at the worst, so ferociously hard. It isn't your fault, after all, is it? I'll be hanged, at any rate, if it's mine.'

The hour was late, and the young lady who had disembarked at Southampton that morning to come up by the 'steamer special,' and who had then setded herself at an hotel only to resettle herself a couple of hours later at a private house, was by this time, they might hope, peacefully resting from her exploits. There had been two men at dinner, ratber battered brothers-in-arms, of his own period, casually picked up by her host the day before, and when me gendemen, after the meal, rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room, Charlotte, pleading fatigue, had already excused herself. The beguiled warriors, however, had stayed till after eleven - Mrs Assingham, though finally quite without illusions, as she said, about the military character, was always beguiling to old soldiers; and as die Colonel had come in, before dinner, only in time to dress, he had not till this moment really been summoned to meet his companion over the situation that, as he was now to learn, their visitor's advent had created for them. It was actually more than midnight, the servants had been sent to bed, the ratde of the wheels had ceased to come in through a window still open to the August air, and Robert Assingham had been steadily learning, all the while, what it thus behoved him to know. But the words just quoted from him presented themselves, for the moment, as the essence of his spirit and his attitude. He disengaged, he would be damned if he didn't - they were both phrases he repeatedly used - his responsibility. The simplest, the sanest, the most obliging of men, he habitually indulged in extravagant language. His wife had once told him, in relation to his violence of speech, that such excesses, on his part, made her think of a retired General whom she had once seen

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playing with toy soldiers, fighting and winning battles, carrying on sieges and annihilating enemies with little fortresses of wood and little armies of tin. Her husband's exaggerated emphasis was his box of toy soldiers, his military game. It harmlessly gratified in him, for his declining years, the military instinct; bad words, when sufficiently numerous and arrayed in their might, could represent battalions, squadrons, tremendous cannonades and glorious charges of cavalry. It was natural, it was delightful - the romance, and for her as well, of camp life and of the perpetual booming of guns. It was fighting to the end, to the death, but no one was ever killed.

Less fortunate than she, nevertheless, in spite of his wealth of expression, he had not yet found the image that described her favourite game; all he could do was practically to leave it to her, emulating her own philosophy. He had again and again sat up late to discuss those situations in which her finer consciousness abounded, but he had never failed to deny that anything in life, anything of hers, could be a situation for himself. She might be in fifty at once if she liked - and it was what women did like, at their ease, after all; there always being, when they had too much of any, some man, as they were well aware, to get them out. He wouldn't, at any price, have one, of any sort whatever, of his own, or even be in one along with her. He watched her, accordingly, in her favourite element, very much as he had sometimes watched, at the Aquarium, the celebrated lady who, in a slight, though tight, bathing-suit, turned somersaults and did tricks in the tank of water which looked so cold and uncomfortable to the non-amphibious. He listened to his companion tonight, while he smoked his last pipe, he watched her through her demonstration, quite as if he had paid a shilling. But it was true that, this being the case, he desired the value of his money. What was it, in the name of wonder, that she was so bent on being responsible/or? What did she pretend was going to happen, and what, at the worst, could the poor girl do, even granting she wanted to do anything? What, at the worst, for that matter, could she be conceived to have in her head?

'If she had told me the moment she got here,' Mrs Assingham replied, 'I shouldn't have my difficulty in finding out. But she wasn't so obliging, and I see no sign at all of her becoming so. What's certain is that she didn't come for nothing. She wants' - she worked it out at her leisure - 'to see the Prince again. That isn't what troubles me. I mean that such a fact, as a fact, isn't. But what I ask myself is, What does she want it for?

'What's the good of asking yourself if you know you don't know?' The Colonel sat back at his own ease, with an ankle resting on the

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other knee and his eyes attentive to the good appearance of an extremely slender foot which he kept jerking in its neat integument of fine-spun black silk and patent leather. It seemed to confess, this member, to consciousness of military discipline, everything about it being as polished and perfect, as straight and tight and trim, as a soldier on parade. It went so far as to imply that someone or other would have 'got' something or other, confinement to barracks or suppression of pay, if it hadn't been just as it was. Bob Assingham was distinguished altogether by a leanness of person, a leanness quite distinct from physical laxity, which might have been determined, on the part of superior powers, by views of transport and accommodation, and which in fact verged on the abnormal. He 'did' himself as well as his friends mostly knew, yet remained hungrily thin, with facial, with abdominal cavities quite grim in their effect, and with a consequent looseness of apparel that, combined with a choice of queer light shades and of strange straw-like textures, of the aspect of Chinese mats, provocative of wonder at his sources of supply, suggested the habit of tropic islands, a continual cane-bottomed chair, a governorship exercised on wide verandahs. His smooth round head, with the particular shade of its white hair, was like a silver pot reversed; his cheekbones and the bristle of his moustache were worthy of Attila the Hun.³¹ The hollows of his eyes were deep and darksome, but the eyes, within them, were like little blue flowers plucked that morning. He knew everything that could be known about life, which he regarded as, for far the greater part, a matter of pecuniary arrangement. His wife accused him of a want, alike, of moral and of intellectual reaction, or rather indeed of a complete incapacity for either. He never went even so far as to understand what she meant, and it didn't at all matter, since he could be in spite of the limitation a perfectly social creature. The infirmities, the predicaments of men neither surprised nor shocked him, and indeed - which was perhaps his only real loss in a thrifty career - scarce even amused; he took them for granted without horror, classifying them after their kind and calculating results and chances. He might, in old bewildering climates, in old campaigns of cruelty and license, have had such revelations and known such amazements that he had nothing more to learn. But he was wholly content, in spite of his fondness, in domestic discussion, for the superlative degree; and his kindness, in the oddest way, seemed to have nothing to do with his experience. He could deal with things perfectly, for all his needs, without getting near them.

This was the way he dealt with his wife, a large proportion of whose meanings he knew he could neglect. He edited, for their general

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economy, the play of her mind, just as he edited, savingly, with the stump of a pencil, her redundant telegrams. The thing in the world that was least of a mystery to him was his Club, which he was accepted as perhaps too completely managing, and which he man­aged on lines of perfect penetration. His connection with it was really a masterpiece of editing. This was in fact, to come back, very much the process he might have been proposing to apply to Mrs Assingham's view of what was now before them; that is to their connection with Charlotte Stant's possibilities. They wouldn't lavish on them all their little fortune of curiosity and alarm; certainly they wouldn't spend their cherished savings so early in the day. He liked Charlotte, moreover, who was a smooth and compact inmate, and whom he felt as, with her instincts that made against waste, much more of his own sort than his wife. He could talk with her about Fanny almost better than he could talk with Fanny about Charlotte. However, he made at present the best of the latter necessity, even to the pressing of the question he has been noted as having last uttered. 'If you can't think what to be afraid of, wait till you can think. Then you'll do it much better. Or otherwise, if that's waiting too long, find out from her. Don't try to find out from me. Ask her herself.'

Mrs Assingham denied, as we know, that her husband had a play of mind; so that she could, on her side, treat these remarks only as if they had been senseless physical gestures or nervous facial movements. She overlooked them as from habit and kindness; yet there was no one to whom she talked so persistently of such intimate things. 'It's her friendship with Maggie that's the immense complication. Because that,' she audibly mused, 'is so natural.'

'Then why can't she have come out for it?'

'She came out,' Mrs Assingham continued to meditate, 'because she hates America. There was no place for her there - she didn't fit in. She wasn't in sympathy- no more were the people she saw. Then it's hideously dear; she can't, on her means, begin to live there. Not at all as she can, in a way, here.'

'In the way, you mean, of living with us}'

'Of living with anyone. She can't live by visits alone - and she doesn't want to. She's too good for it even if she could. But she will -she must, sooner or later - stay with them. Maggie will want her -Maggie will make her. Besides, she'll want to herself.'

'Then why won't that do,' the Colonel asked, 'for you to think it's what she has come for?'

'How will it do, how}' - she went on as without hearing him. 'That's what one keeps feeling.'

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'Why shouldn't it do beautifully?'

'That anything of the past,' she brooded, 'should come back now? How will it do, how will it do?'

'It will do, I dare say, without your wringing your hands over it. When, my dear,' the Colonel pursued as he smoked, 'have you ever seen anything of yours - anything that you've done - not do?'

'Ah, I didn't do this!' It brought her answer straight. 'I didn't bring her back.'

'Did you expect her to stay over there all her days to oblige you?'

'Not a bit - for I shouldn't have minded her coming after their marriage. It's her coming, this way, before.' To which she added with inconsequence: 'I'm too sorry for her - of course she can't enjoy it. But I don't see what perversity rides her. She needn't have looked it all so in the face - as she doesn't do it, I suppose, simply for discipline. It's almost - that's the bore of it - discipline to me.'

'Perhaps then,' said Bob Assingham, 'that's what has been her idea. Take it, for God's sake, as discipline to you and have done with it. It will do,' he added, 'for discipline to me as well.'

She was far, however, from having done with it; it was a situation with such different sides, as she said, and to none of which one could, in justice, be blind. 'It isn't in the least, you know, for instance, that I believe she's bad. Never, never,' Mrs Assingham declared. 'I don't think that of her.'

'Then why isn't mat enough?'

Nothing was enough, Mrs Assingham signified, but that she should develop her thought. 'She doesn't deliberately intend, she doesn't consciously wish, the least complication. It's perfectly true that she thinks Maggie a dear - as who doesn't? She's incapable of any plan to hurt a hair of her head. Yet here she is - and there they are,' she wound up.

Her husband again, for a little, smoked in silence. 'What in the world, between them, ever took place?'

'Between Charlotte and the Prince? Why,_nothing - except their having to recognise that nothing could. That was their little romance -it was even dieir little tragedy.'

'But what the deuce did they do?'

'Do? They fell in love with each other - but, seeing it wasn't possible, gave each other up.'

'Then where was the romance?'

'Why, in their frustration, in their having the courage to look the facts in the face.'

'What facts?' the Colonel went on.

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'Well, to begin with, that of their neither of them having the means to marry. If she had had even a little - a little, I mean, for two - I believe he would bravely have done it.' After which, as her husband but emitted an odd vague sound, she corrected herself. 'I mean if he himself had had only a little - or a little more than a little, a little for a prince. They would have done what they could' - she did them justice - 'if there had been a way. But there wasn't a way, and Charlotte, quite to her honour, I consider, understood it. He had to have money - it was a question of life and death. It wouldn't have been a bit amusing, either, to marry him as a pauper -1 mean leaving him one. That was what she had - as he had - the reason to see.'

'And their reason is what you call their romance?'

She looked at him a moment, 'What do you want more?'

'Didn't he,' the Colonel inquired, 'want anything more? Or didn't, for that matter, poor Charlotte herself?'

She kept her eyes on him; there was a manner in it that half answered. 'They were thoroughly in love. She might have been his -' She checked herself; she even for a minute lost herself. 'She might have been anything she liked - except his wife.'

'But she wasn't,' said the Colonel very smokingly.

'She wasn't,' Mrs Assingham echoed.

The echo, not loud but deep, filled for a little the room. He seemed to listen to it die away; then he began again. 'How are you sure?'

She waited before saying, but when she spoke it was definite. 'There wasn't time.'

He had a small laugh for her reason; he might have expected some other. 'Does it take so much time?'

She herself, however, remained serious. 'It takes more than they had.'

He was detached, but he wondered. 'What was the matter with their time?' After which, as, remembering it all, living it over and piecing it together, she only considered, 'You mean that you came in with your idea?' he demanded.

It brought her quickly to the point, and as if also in a measure to answer herself. 'Not a bit of it-then. But you surely recall,' she went on, 'the way, a year ago, everything took place. They had parted before he had ever heard of Maggie.'

'Why hadn't he heard of her from Charlotte herself?'

'Because she had never spoken of her.'

'Is that also,' the Colonel inquired, 'what she has told you?'

'I'm not speaking,' his wife returned, 'of what she has told me. That's one thing. I'm speaking of what I know by myself. That's another.'

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'You feel,-in other words, that she lies to you?' Bob Assingham more sociably asked.

She neglected die question, treating it as gross. 'She never so much, at die time, as named Maggie.'

It was so positive diat it appeared to strike him. 'It's he then who has told you?'

She after a moment admitted it. 'It's he.'

'And he doesn't lie?'

'No - to do him justice. I believe he absolutely doesn't. If I hadn't believed it,' Mrs Assingham declared, for her general justification, 'I would have had nothing to do with him - that is, in this connection. He's a gentleman -1 mean alt as much of one as he ought to be. And he had nothing to gain. That helps,' she added, 'even a gentleman. It was I who named Maggie to him - a year from last May. He had never heard of her before.'

'Then it's grave,' said the Colonel.

She hesitated. 'Do you mean grave for me?'

'Oh, that everything's grave for "you" is what we take for granted and are fundamentally talking about. It's grave - it was — for Charlotte. And it's grave for Maggie. That is, it was - when he did see her. Or when she did see him.''

'You don't torment me as much as you would like,' she presently went on, 'because you think of nothing that I haven't a thousand times thought of, and because I diink of everything that you never will. It would all,' she recognised, 'have been grave if it hadn't all been right. You can't make out,' she contended, 'that we got to Rome before the end of February.'

He more than agreed. 'There's nothing in life, my dear, that I can make out.'

Well, there was nothing in life, apparently, that she, at real need, couldn't. 'Charlotte, who had been there, that year from early, quite from November, left suddenly, you'll quite remember, about the ioth of April. She was to have stayed on - she was to have stayed, naturally, more or less, for us; and she was to have stayed all the more diat the Ververs, due all winter, but delayed, week after week, in Paris, were at last really coming. They were coming - that is Maggie was - largely to see her, and above all to be with her there. It was all altered - by Charlotte's going to Florence. She went from one day to die other - you forget everything. She gave her reasons, but I diought it odd, at the time; I had a sense that something must have happened. The difficulty was that, though I knew a little, I didn't know enough. I didn't know her relation with him had been, as you

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say, a "near" thing - that is I didn't know haw near. The poor girl's departure was a flight - she went to save herself.'

He had listened more than he showed - as came out in his tone. 'To save herself?'

'Well, also, really, I think, to save him too. I saw it afterwards - I see it all now. He would have been sorry - he didn't want to hurt her.'

'Oh, I dare say,' the Colonel laughed. 'They generally don't!'

'At all events,' his wife pursued, 'she escaped - they both did; for they had had simply to face it. Their marriage couldn't Be, and, if that was so, the sooner they put the Apennines³² between them the better. It had taken them, it is true, some time to feel this and to find it out. They had met constantly, and not always publicly, all that winter; they had met more than was known - though it was a good deal known. More, certainly,' she said, 'than I then imagined - though I don't know what difference it would after all have made with me. I liked him, I thought him charming, from the first of our knowing him; and now, after more than a year, he has done nothing to spoil it. And there are things he might have done - things that many men easily would. Therefore I believe in him, and I was right, at first, in knowing I was going to. So I haven't' - and she stated it as she might have quoted from a slate, after adding up the items, the sum of a column of figures - 'so I haven't, I say to myself, been a fool.'

'Well, are you trying to make out that I've said you have? All their case wants, at any rate,' Bob Assingham declared, 'is that you should leave it well alone. It's theirs now; they've bought it, over the counter, and paid for it. It has ceased to be yours.'

'Of which case,' she asked, 'are you speaking?'

He smoked a minute; then with a groan: 'Lord, are there so many?'

'There's Maggie's and the Prince's, and there's the Prince's and Charlotte's.'

'Oh yes; and then,' the Colonel scoffed, 'there's Charlotte's and the Prince's.'

'There's Maggie's and Charlotte's,' she went on - 'and there's also Maggie's and mine. I think too that there's Charlotte's and mine. Yes,' she mused, 'Charlotte's and mine is certainly a case. In short, you see, there are plenty. But I mean,' she said, 'to keep my head.'

'Are we to settle them all,' he inquired, 'tonight?'

'I should lose it if things had happened otherwise - if I had acted with any folly.' She had gone on in her earnestness, unheeding of his question. 'I shouldn't be able to bear that now. But my good conscience is my strength; no one can accuse me. The Ververs came on to Rome alone - Charlotte, after their days with her in Florence,

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had decided about America. Maggie, I dare say, had helped her; she must have made her a present, and a handsome one, so that many things were easy. Charlotte left them, came to England, "joined" somebody or other, sailed for New York. I have still her letter from Milan, telling me; I didn't know at the moment all that was behind it, but I felt in it nevertheless the undertaking of a new life. Certainly, in any case, it cleared that air -1 mean the dear old Roman, in which we were steeped. It left the field free - it gave me a free hand. There was no question for me of anybody else when I brought the two others together. More than that, there was no question for them. So you see,' she concluded, 'where that puts me.'

She got up, on the words, very much as if they were the blue daylight towards which, through a darksome tunnel, she had been pushing her way, and the elation in her voice, combined with her recovered alertness, might have signified the sharp whistle of the train that shoots at last into the open. She turned about the room; she looked out a moment into the August night; she stopped, here and there, before the flowers in bowls and vases. Yes, it was distinctly as if she had proved what was needing proof, as if the issue of her operation had been, almost unexpectedly, a success. Old arithmetic had perhaps been fallacious, but the new settled the question. Her husband, oddly, however, kept his place without apparently measur­ing these results. As he had been amused at her intensity, so he was not uplifted by her relief; his interest might in fact have been more enlisted than he allowed. 'Do you mean,' he presently asked, 'that he had already forgot about Charlotte?'

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 517