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

him in fine as if he were not uttering truths, but making pretty figures for her diversion. “My vessel, dear Prince?” she smiled. “What vessel, in the world, have I? This little house is all our ship, Bob’s and mine⁠—and thankful we are, now, to have it. We’ve wandered far, living, as you may say, from hand to mouth, without rest for the soles of our feet. But the time has come for us at last to draw in.”

He made at this, the young man, an indignant protest. “You talk about rest⁠—it’s too selfish!⁠—when you’re just launching me on adventures?”

She shook her head with her kind lucidity. “Not adventures⁠—heaven forbid! You’ve had yours⁠—as I’ve had mine; and my idea has been, all along, that we should neither of us begin again. My own last, precisely, has been doing for you all you so prettily mention. But it consists simply in having conducted you to rest. You talk about ships, but they’re not the comparison. Your tossings are over⁠—you’re practically in port. The port,” she concluded, “of the Golden Isles.”

He looked about, to put himself more in relation with the place; then, after an hesitation, seemed to speak certain words instead of certain others. “Oh, I know where I am⁠—! I do decline to be left, but what I came for, of course, was to thank you. If today has seemed, for the first time, the end of preliminaries, I feel how little there would have been any at all without you. The first were wholly yours.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Assingham, “they were remarkably easy. I’ve seen them, I’ve had them,” she smiled, “more difficult. Everything, you must feel, went of itself. So, you must feel, everything still goes.”

The Prince quickly agreed. “Oh, beautifully! But you had the conception.”

“Ah, Prince, so had you!”

He looked at her harder a moment. “You had it first. You had it most.”

She returned his look as if it had made her wonder. “I liked it, if that’s what you mean. But you liked it surely yourself. I protest, that I had easy work with you. I had only at last⁠—when I thought it was time⁠—to speak for you.”

“All that is quite true. But you’re leaving me, all the same, you’re leaving me⁠—you’re washing your hands of me,” he went on. “However, that won’t be easy; I won’t be left.” And he had turned his eyes about again, taking in the pretty room that she had just described as her final refuge, the place of peace for a world-worn couple, to which she had lately retired with “Bob.” “I shall keep this spot in sight. Say what you will, I shall need you. I’m not, you know,” he declared, “going to give you up for anybody.”

“If you’re afraid⁠—which of course you’re not⁠—are you trying to make me the same?” she asked after a moment.

He waited a minute too, then answered her with a question. “You say you ‘liked’ it, your undertaking to make my engagement possible. It remains beautiful for me that you did; it’s charming and unforgettable. But, still more, it’s mysterious and wonderful. why, you dear delightful woman, did you like it?”

“I scarce know what to make,” she said, “of such an inquiry. If you haven’t by this time found out yourself, what meaning can anything I say have for you? Don’t you really after all feel,” she added while nothing came from him⁠—“aren’t you conscious every minute, of the perfection of the creature of whom I’ve put you into possession?”

“Every minute⁠—gratefully conscious. But that’s exactly the ground of my question. It wasn’t only a matter of your handing me over⁠—it was a matter of your handing her. It was a matter of her fate still more than of mine. You thought all the good of her that one woman can think of another, and yet, by your account, you enjoyed assisting at her risk.”

She had kept her eyes on him while he spoke, and this was what, visibly, determined a repetition for her. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Ah, that’s a foolish view⁠—I should be too vulgar. You apparently can’t understand either my good faith or my humility. I’m awfully humble,” the young man insisted; “that’s the way I’ve been feeling today, with everything so finished and ready. And you won’t take me for serious.”

She continued to face him as if he really troubled her a little. “Oh, you deep old Italians!”

“There you are,” he returned⁠—“it’s what I wanted you to come to. That’s the responsible note.”

“Yes,” she went on⁠—“if you’re ‘humble’ you must be dangerous.”

She had a pause while he only smiled; then she said: “I don’t in the least want to lose sight of you. But even if I did I shouldn’t think it right.”

“Thank you for that⁠—it’s what I needed of you. I’m sure, after all, that the more you’re with me the more I shall understand. It’s the only thing in the world I want. I’m excellent, I really think, all round⁠—except that I’m stupid. I can do pretty well anything I see. But I’ve got to see it first.” And he pursued his demonstration. “I don’t in the least mind its having to be shown me⁠—in fact I like that better. Therefore it is that I want, that I shall always want, your eyes. Through them I wish to look⁠—even at any risk of their showing me what I mayn’t like. For then,” he wound up, “I shall know. And of that I shall never be afraid.”

She might quite have been waiting to see what he would come to, but she spoke with a certain impatience. “What on earth are you talking about?”

But he could perfectly say: “Of my real, honest fear of being ‘off’ some day, of being wrong, without knowing it. That’s what I shall always trust you for⁠—to tell me when I am. No⁠—with you people it’s a sense. We haven’t got it⁠—not as you have. Therefore⁠—!” But he had said enough. “Ecco!” he simply smiled.

It was not