THE GOLDEN BOWL 267 4 page

THE GOLDEN BOWL

as afraid to move together would count for them as the greater danger: which would be die danger, you see, of my feeling myself wronged. Their least danger, tbey know, is in going on with all the things that I've seemed to accept and diat I've given no indication, at any moment, of not accepting. Everything that has come up for them has come up, in an extraordinary manner, without my having by a sound or a sign given myself away - so that it's all as wonderful as you may conceive. They move at any rate among the dangers I speak of-between that of their doing too much and that of their not having any longer the confidence, or the nerve, or whatever you may call it, to do enough.' Her tone, by this time, might have shown a strangeness to match her smile; which was still more marked as she wound up. 'And that's how I make them do what I like!'

It had an effect on Mrs Assingham, who rose with the deliberation that, from point to point, marked the widening of her grasp. 'My dear child, you're amazing.'

'Amazing - ?'

'You're terrible.'

Maggie thoughtfully shook her head. 'No; I'm not terrible, and you don't think me so. I do strike you as surprising, no doubt - but surprisingly mild. Because - don't you see? - I am mild. I can bear anything.'

'Oh, "bear"!' Mrs Assingham fluted.

'For love,' said the Princess.

Fanny hesitated. 'Of your father?'

'For love,' Maggie repeated.

It kept her friend watching. 'Of your husband?'

'For love,' Maggie said again.

It was, for die moment, as if the distinctness of this might have determined in her companion a choice between two or three highly different alternatives. Mrs Assingham's rejoinder, at all events -however much or however little it was a choice - was presently a triumph. 'Speaking with this love of your own then, have you undertaken to convey to me that you believe your husband and your father's wife to be in act and in fact lovers of each other?' And then as the Princess didn't at first answer: 'Do you call such an allegation as that "mild"?'

'Oh, I'm not pretending to be mild to you. But I've told you, and moreover you must have seen for yourself, how much so I've been to them.'

Mrs Assingham, more brightly again, bridled. 'Is that what you call it when you make them, for terror as you say, do as you like?'

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'Ah, there wouldn't be any terror for them if they had nothing to hide.'

Mrs Assingham faced her - quite steady now. 'Are you really conscious, love, of what you're saying?'

'I'm saying that I'm bewildered and tormented, and that I've no one but you to speak to. I've thought, I've in fact been sure, that you've seen for yourself how much this is the case. It's why I've believed you would meet me halfway.'

'Half way to what? To denouncing,' Fanny asked, 'two persons, friends of years, whom I've always immensely admired and liked, and against whom I haven't the shadow of a charge to make?'

Maggie looked at her with wide eyes. 'I had much rather you should denounce me than denounce them. Denounce me, denounce me,' she said, 'if you can see your way.' It was exactly what she appeared to have argued out with herself. 'If, conscientiously, you can denounce me; if, conscientiously, you can revile me; if, conscien­tiously, you can put me in my place for a low-minded little pig - !'

'Well?' said Mrs Assingham, consideringly, as she paused for emphasis.

'I think I shall be saved.'

Her friend took it, for a minute, however, by carrying thoughtful eyes, eyes verily portentous, over her head. 'You say you've no one to speak to, and you make a point of your having so disguised your feelings - not having, as you call it, given yourself away. Have you then never seen it not only as your right, but as your bounden duty, worked up to such a pitch, to speak to your husband?'

'I've spoken to him,' said Maggie.

Mrs Assingham stared. 'Ah, then it isn't true that you've made no sign.'

Maggie had a silence. 'I've made no trouble. I've made no scene. I've taken no stand. I've neither reproached nor accused him. You'll say there's a way in all that of being nasty enough.'

'Oh!' dropped from Fanny as if she couldn't help it.

'But I don't think - strangely enough - that he regards me as nasty. I think that at bottom - for that is,' said the Princess, 'the strangeness -he's sorry for me. Yes, I think that, deep within, he pities me.'

Her companion wondered. 'For the state you've let yourself get into?'

'For not being happy when I've so much to make me so.'

'You've everything,' said Mrs Assingham with alacrity. Yet she remained for an instant embarrassed as to a further advance. 'I don't understand, however, how, if you've done nothing - '

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An impatience from Maggie had checked her. 'I've not done absolutely "nothing".'

'But what then - ?'

'Well,' she went on after a minute, 'he knows what I've done.'

It produced on Mrs Assingham's part, her whole tone and manner exquisitely aiding, a hush not less prolonged, and the very duration of which inevitably gave it something of the character of an equal recognition. 'And what then has he done?'

Maggie took again a minute. 'He has been splendid.'

' "Splendid"? Then what more do you want?'

'Ah, what you see!' said Maggie. 'Not to be afraid.'

It made her guest again hang fire. 'Not to be afraid really to speak?'

'Not to be afraid not to speak.'

Mrs Assingham considered further. 'You can't even to Charlotte?' But as, at this, after a look at her, Maggie turned off with a movement of suppressed despair, she checked herself and might have been watching her, for all the difficulty and the pity of it, vaguely moving to the window and the view of the dull street. It was almost as if she had had to give up, from failure of responsive wit in her friend - the last failure she had feared - the hope of the particular relief she had been working for. Mrs Assingham resumed the next instant, how­ever, in the very tone that seemed most to promise her she should have to give up nothing. 'I see, I see; you would have in that case too many things to consider.' It brought the Princess round again, proving itself thus the note of comprehension she wished most to clutch at. 'Don't be afraid.'

Maggie took it where she stood - which she was soon able to signify. 'Thank you.'

It very properly encouraged her counsellor. 'What your idea imputes is a criminal intrigue carried on, from day to day, amid perfect trust and sympathy, not only under your eyes, but under your father's. That's an idea it's impossible for me for a moment to entertain.'

'Ah, there you are then! It's exactly what I wanted from you.'

'You're welcome to it!' Mrs Assingham breathed.

'You never have entertained it?' Maggie pursued.

'Never for an instant,' said Fanny with her head very high.

Maggie took it again, yet again as wanting more. 'Pardon my being so horrid. But by all you hold sacred?'

Mrs Assingham faced her. 'Ah, my dear, upon my positive word as an honest woman.'

'Thank you, then,' said the Princess.

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So they remained a little; after which, 'But do you believe it, love?' Fanny inquired.

'I believe you.'

'Well, as I've faith in them, it comes to the same thing.'

Maggie, at this last, appeared for a moment to think again; but she embraced the proposition. 'The same thing.'

'Then you're no longer unhappy?' her guest urged, coming more gaily toward her.

'I doubtless shan't be a great while.'

But it was now Mrs Assingham's turn to want more. 'I've convinced you it's impossible?'

She had held out her arms, and Maggie, after a moment, meeting her, threw herself into them with a sound that had its oddity as a sign of relief. 'Impossible, impossible,' she emphatically, more than emphatically, replied; yet the next minute she had burst into tears over the impossibility, and a few seconds later, pressing, clinging, sobbing, had even caused them to flow, audibly, sympathetically and perversely, from her friend.

Chapter 51

The understanding appeared to have come to be that the Colonel and his wife were to present themselves toward the middle of July for the 'good long visit' at Fawns on which Maggie had obtained from her father that he should genially insist; as well as that the couple from Eaton Square should welcome there earlier in the month, and less than a week after their own arrival, the advent of the couple from Portland Place. 'Oh, we shall give you time to breathe!' Fanny remarked, in reference to the general prospect, with a gaiety that announced itself as heedless of criticism, to each member of the party in turn; sustaining and bracing herself by her emphasis, pushed even to an amiable cynicism, of the confident view of these punctualities of the Assingharns. The ground she could best occupy, to her sense, was that of her being moved, as in this connection she had always been moved, by the admitted grossness of her avidity, the way the hospitality of the Ververs met her convenience and ministered to her ease, destitute as the Colonel had kept her, from the first, of any rustic retreat, any leafy bower of her own, any fixed base for the stale season now at hand. She had explained at home, she had repeatedly

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reexplained, the terms of her dilemma, the real difficulty of her, or -as she now put it - of their, position. When the pair could do nothing else, in Cadogan Place, they could still talk of marvellous little Maggie, and of the charm, the sinister charm, of their having to hold their breath to watch her; a topic the momentous midnight discus­sion at which we have been present was so far from having exhausted. It came up, irrepressibly, at all private hours; they had planted it there between them, and it grew, from day to day, in a manner to make their sense of responsibility almost yield to their sense of fascination. Mrs Assingham declared at such moments that in the interest of this admirable young thing - to whom, she also declared, she had quite 'come over' - she was ready to pass with all the world else, even with the Prince himself, the object, inconsequently, as well, of her continued, her explicitly shameless appreciation, for a vulgar, indelicate, pestilential woman, showing her true character in an abandoned old age. The Colonel's confessed attention had been enlisted, we have seen, as never yet, under pressure from his wife, by any guaranteed imbroglio; but this, she could assure him she perfectly knew, was not a bit because he was sorry for her, or touched by what she had let herself in for, but because, when once they had been opened, he couldn't keep his eyes from resting complacently, resting almost intelligently, on the Princess. If he was in love with her now, however, so much the better; it would help them both not to wince at what they would have to do for her. Mrs Assingham had come back to that, whenever he groaned or grunted; she had at no beguiled moment - since Maggie's little march was positively beguiling - let him lose sight of the grim necessity awaiting them. 'We shall have, as I've again and again told you, to lie for her - to lie till we're black in the face.'

'To lie "for" her?' The Colonel often, at these hours, as from a vague vision of old chivalry in a new form, wandered into apparent lapses from lucidity.

'To lie to her, up and down, and in and out - it comes to the same thing. It will consist just as much of lying to the others too: to the Prince about one's belief in him; to Charlotte about one's belief in her; to Mr Verver, dear sweet man, about one's belief in everyone. So we've work cut out - with the biggest lie, on top of all, being that we like to be there for such a purpose. We hate it unspeakably - I'm more ready to be a coward before it, to let the whole thing, to let everyone, selfishly and pusillanimously, slide, than before any social duty, any felt human call, that has ever forced me to be decent. I speak at least for myself. For you,' she had added, 'as I've given you so

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perfect an opportunity to fall in love with Maggie, you'll doubtless find your account in being so much nearer to her.'

'And what do you make,' the Colonel could, at this, always imperturbably enough ask, 'of the account you yourself will find in being so much nearer to the Prince; of your confirmed, if not exasperated, infatuation with whom - to say nothing of my weak good-nature about it - you give such a pretty picture?'

To the picture in question she had been always, in fact, able contemplatively to return. 'The difficulty of my enjoyment of that is, don't you see? that I'm making, in my loyalty to Maggie, a sad hash of his affection for me.'

'You find means to call it then, this whitewashing of his crime, being "loyal" to Maggie?'

'Oh, about that particular crime there is always much to say. It is always more interesting to us than any other crime; it has at least that for it. But of course I call everything I have in mind at all being loyal to Maggie. Being loyal to her is, more than anything else, helping her with her father - which is what she most wants and needs.'

The Colonel had had it before, but he could apparently never have too much of it. 'Helping her "with" him - ?'

'Helping her against him then. Against what we've already so fully talked of- its having to be recognised between them that he doubts. That's where my part is so plain - to see her through, to see her through to the end.' Exaltation, for the moment, always lighted Mrs Assingham's reference to this plainness; yet she at the same time seldom failed, the next instant, to qualify her view of it. 'When I talk of my obligation as clear I mean that it's absolute; for just how, from day to day and dirough thick and thin, to keep the thing up is, I grant you, another matter. There's one way, luckily, nevertheless, in which I'm strong. I can so perfectly count on her.'

The Colonel seldom failed here, as from the insidious growth of an excitement, to wonder, to encourage. 'Not to see you're lying?'

'To stick to me fast, whatever she sees. If I stick to her - that is to my own poor struggling way, under providence, of watching over them all - she'll stand by me to the death. She won't give me away. For, you know, she easily can.'

This, regularly, was the most lurid turn of their road; but Bob Assingham, with each journey, met it as for the first time. 'Easily?'

'She can utterly dishonour me with her father. She can let him know that I was aware, at the time of his marriage - as I had been aware at the time of her own - of the relations that had pre-existed between his wife and her husband.'

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'And how can she do so if, up to this minute, by your own statement, she is herself in ignorance of your knowledge?'

It was a question that Mrs Assingham had ever, for dealing with, a manner to which repeated practice had given almost a grand effect; very much as if she was invited by it to say that about this, exactly, she proposed to do her best lying. But she said, and with full lucidity, something quite other: it could give itself a little the air, still, of a triumph over his coarseness. 'By acting, immediately with the blind resentment with which, in her place, ninety-nine women out of a hundred would act; and by so making Mr Verver, in turn, act with the same natural passion, the passion of ninety-nine men out of a hundred. They've only to agree about me,' the poor lady said; 'they've only to feel at one over it, feel bitterly practised upon, cheated and injured; they've only to denounce me to each other as false and infamous, for me to be quite irretrievably dished. Of course it's I who have been, and who continue to be, cheated - cheated by the Prince and Charlotte; but they're not obliged to give me the benefit of that, or to give either of us the benefit of anything. They'll be within their rights to lump us all together as a false, cruel, conspiring crew, and, if they can find the right facts to support them, get rid of us root and branch.'

This, on each occasion, put the matter so at the worst that repetition even scarce controlled the hot flush with which she was compelled to see the parts of the whole history, all its ugly consistency and its temporary gloss, hang together. She enjoyed, invariably, the sense of making her danger present, of making it real, to her husband, and of his almost turning pale, when their eyes met, at this possibility of their compromised state and their shared discredit. The beauty was that, as under a touch of one of the ivory notes at the left of the keyboard, he sounded out with the short sharpness of the dear fond stupid uneasy man. 'Conspiring - so far as you were concerned - to what end?'

'Why, to the obvious end of getting the Prince a wife - at Maggie's expense. And then to that of getting Charlotte a husband at Mr Verver's.'

'Of rendering friendly services, yes - which have produced, as it turns out, complications. But from the moment you didn't do it for the complications, why shouldn't you have rendered them?'

It was extraordinary for her, always, in this connection, how, with time given him, he fell to speaking better for her than she could, in the presence of her clear-cut image of the 'worst,' speak for herself. Troubled as she was she thus never wholly failed of her amusement

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 828