The Golden Bowl, Henry James [best books to read for young adults .TXT] 📗

might divert him, her mention, in fine, of his fortitude under presents, having meanwhile, naturally, it should be said, much less an amplitude of insistence on the speaker’s lips than a power to produce on the part of the listener herself the prompt response and full comprehension of memory and sympathy, of old amused observation. The picture was filled out by the latter’s fond fancy. But Maggie was at any rate under arms; she knew what she was doing and had already her plan⁠—a plan for making, for allowing, as yet, “no difference”; in accordance with which she would still dine out, and not with red eyes, nor convulsed features, nor neglected items of appearance, nor anything that would raise a question. Yet there was some knowledge that, exactly to this support of her not breaking down, she desired, she required, possession of; and, with the sinister rise and fall of lightning unaccompanied by thunder, it played before Mrs. Assingham’s eyes that she herself should have, at whatever risk or whatever cost, to supply her with the stuff of her need. All our friend’s instinct was to hold off from this till she should see what the ground would bear; she would take no step nearer unless intelligibly to meet her, and, awkward though it might be to hover there only pale and distorted, with mere imbecilities of vagueness, there was a quality of bald help in the fact of not as yet guessing what such an ominous start could lead to. She caught, however, after a second’s thought, at the Princess’s allusion to her lost reassurance.

“You mean you were so at your ease on Monday⁠—the night you dined with us?”

“I was very happy then,” said Maggie.

“Yes⁠—we thought you so gay and so brilliant.” Fanny felt it feeble, but she went on. “We were so glad you were happy.”

Maggie stood a moment, at first only looking at her. “You thought me all right, eh?”

“Surely, dearest; we thought you all right.”

“Well, I daresay it was natural; but in point of fact I never was more wrong in my life. For, all the while, if you please, this was brewing.”

Mrs. Assingham indulged, as nearly as possible to luxury, her vagueness. “ ‘This’⁠—?”

“That!” replied the Princess, whose eyes, her companion now saw, had turned to an object on the chimneypiece of the room, of which, among so many precious objects⁠—the Ververs, wherever they might be, always revelled peculiarly in matchless old mantel ornaments⁠—her visitor had not taken heed.

“Do you mean the gilt cup?”

“I mean the gilt cup.”

The piece now recognised by Fanny as new to her own vision was a capacious bowl, of old-looking, rather strikingly yellow gold, mounted, by a short stem, on an ample foot, which held a central position above the fireplace, where, to allow it the better to show, a clearance had been made of other objects, notably of the Louis-Seize clock that accompanied the candelabra. This latter trophy ticked at present on the marble slab of a commode that exactly matched it in splendour and style. Mrs. Assingham took it, the bowl, as a fine thing; but the question was obviously not of its intrinsic value, and she kept off from it, admiring it at a distance. “But what has that to do⁠—?”

“It has everything. You’ll see.” With which again, however, for the moment, Maggie attached to her strange wide eyes. “He knew her before⁠—before I had ever seen him.”

“ ‘He’ knew⁠—?” But Fanny, while she cast about her for the links she missed, could only echo it.

“Amerigo knew Charlotte⁠—more than I ever dreamed.”

Fanny felt then it was stare for stare. “But surely you always knew they had met.”

“I didn’t understand. I knew too little. Don’t you see what I mean?” the Princess asked.

Mrs. Assingham wondered, during these instants, how much she even now knew; it had taken a minute to perceive how gently she was speaking. With that perception of its being no challenge of wrath, no heat of the deceived soul, but only a free exposure of the completeness of past ignorance, inviting derision even if it must, the elder woman felt, first, a strange, barely credible relief: she drew in, as if it had been the warm summer scent of a flower, the sweet certainty of not meeting, any way she should turn, any consequence of judgment. She shouldn’t be judged⁠—save by herself; which was her own wretched business. The next moment, however, at all events, she blushed, within, for her immediate cowardice: she had thought of herself, thought of “getting off,” before so much as thinking⁠—that is of pitifully seeing⁠—that she was in presence of an appeal that was all an appeal, that utterly accepted its necessity. “In a general way, dear child, yes. But not⁠—a⁠—in connection with what you’ve been telling me.”

“They were intimate, you see. Intimate,” said the Princess.

Fanny continued to face her, taking from her excited eyes this history, so dim and faint for all her anxious emphasis, of the faraway other time. “There’s always the question of what one considers⁠—!”

“What one considers intimate? Well, I know what I consider intimate now. Too intimate,” said Maggie, “to let me know anything about it.”

It was quiet⁠—yes; but not too quiet for Fanny Assingham’s capacity to wince. “Only compatible with letting me, you mean?” She had asked it after a pause, but turning again to the new ornament of the chimney and wondering, even while she took relief from it, at this gap in her experience. “But here are things, my dear, of which my ignorance is perfect.”

“They went about together⁠—they’re known to have done it. And I don’t mean only before⁠—I mean after.”

“After?” said Fanny Assingham.

“Before we were married⁠—yes; but after we were engaged.”

“Ah, I’ve known nothing about that!” And she said it with a braver assurance⁠—clutching, with comfort, at something that was apparently new to her.

“That bowl,” Maggie went on, “is, so strangely⁠—too strangely, almost, to believe at this time of day⁠—the proof. They were together all the while⁠—up to the very eve of our marriage. Don’t