Henry James: The Portrait of a Lady, The Bostonians, The Tragic Muse & Daisy Miller (4 Books in One Edition). Henry Foss James

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      “I think you’re much more likely to start on your voyage round the world. You’re under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what you choose; you can roam through space.”

      “Well, Italy’s a part of space,” Isabel answered. “I can take it on the way.”

      “On the way round the world? No, don’t do that. Don’t put us in a parenthesis — give us a chapter to ourselves. I don’t want to see you on your travels. I’d rather see you when they’re over. I should like to see you when you’re tired and satiated,” Osmond added in a moment. “I shall prefer you in that state.”

      Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. “You turn things into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think, without intending it. You’ve no respect for my travels — you think them ridiculous.”

      “Where do you find that?”

      She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the paper-knife. “You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about as if the world belonged to me, simply because — because it has been put into my power to do so. You don’t think a woman ought to do that. You think it bold and ungraceful.”

      “I think it beautiful,” said Osmond. “You know my opinions — I’ve treated you to enough of them. Don’t you remember my telling you that one ought to make one’s life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first; but then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be trying to do with your own.”

      She looked up from her book. “What you despise most in the world is bad, is stupid art.”

      “Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good.”

      “If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me,” she went on.

      Osmond gave a smile — a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had seen it before. “You have one!”

      “That’s exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd.”

      “I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it’s one of the countries I want most to see. Can’t you believe that, with my taste for old lacquer?”

      “I haven’t a taste for old lacquer to excuse me,” said Isabel.

      “You’ve a better excuse — the means of going. You’re quite wrong in your theory that I laugh at you. I don’t know what has put it into your head.”

      “It wouldn’t be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should have the means to travel when you’ve not; for you know everything and I know nothing.”

      “The more reason why you should travel and learn,” smiled Osmond. “Besides,” he added as if it were a point to be made, “I don’t know everything.”

      Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life — so it pleased her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages or historians to hold up — that this felicity was coming to an end. That most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be as well. Happy things don’t repeat themselves, and her adventure wore already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different — this strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. “Go everywhere,” he said at last, in a low, kind voice; “do everything; get everything out of life. Be happy,— be triumphant.”

      “What do you mean by being triumphant?”

      “Well, doing what you like.”

      “To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things one likes is often very tiresome.”

      “Exactly,” said Osmond with his quiet quickness. “As I intimated just now, you’ll be tired some day.” He paused a moment and then he went on: “I don’t know whether I had better not wait till then for something I want to say to you.”

      “Ah, I can’t advise you without knowing what it is. But I’m horrid when I’m tired,” Isabel added with due inconsequence.

      “I don’t believe that. You’re angry, sometimes — that I can believe, though I’ve never seen it. But I’m sure you’re never ‘cross.’”

      “Not even when I lose my temper?”

      “You don’t lose it — you find it, and that must be beautiful.” Osmond spoke with a noble earnestness. “They must be great moments to see.”

      “If I could only find it now!” Isabel nervously cried.

      “I’m not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I’m speaking very seriously.” He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he bent his eyes on the floor. “What I wish to say to you,” he went on at last, looking up, “is that I find I’m in love with you.”

      She instantly rose. “Ah, keep that till I am tired!”

      “Tired of hearing it from others?” He sat there raising his eyes to her. “No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must say it now.” She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this situation, exchanging a long look — the large, conscious look of the critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. “I’m absolutely in love with you.”

      He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow the slipping of a fine bolt — backward, forward, she couldn’t have said which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but, morally speaking, she retreated before them — facing him still — as she had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. “Oh don’t say that, please,” she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread — the sense of something within herself, deep down, that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there like a large sum stored in a bank — which there was a terror in having to begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.

      “I haven’t the idea that it will matter much to you,” said Osmond. “I’ve too little to offer you. What I have — it’s enough for me; but it’s not enough for you. I’ve neither fortune, nor fame, СКАЧАТЬ