“And Madame Grandoni then?” he asked, all loth to turn away. He felt
pretty sure he should never knock at that door again, and the desire
was strong in him to see once more, for the last time, the ancient,
afflicted, titular “companion” of the Princess, whom he had always
liked. She had struck him as ever in the slightly ridiculous position
of a confidant of tragedy in whom the heroine, stricken with reserves
unfavourable to the dramatic progression, should have ceased to
confide.
“_È andata via, caro signorino_,” said Assunta, smiling at him as she
held the door open.
“She has gone away? Bless me! when did she go?”
“It’s now five days, dear young sir. She has returned to _our_ fine
country.”
“Is it possible?” He felt it somehow as a personal loss.
“_È possibilissimo!_” Then Assunta added: “There were many times when
she almost went; but this time, _capisce_——!” And without finishing
her sentence this most exiled of Romans and expertest of tire-women
indulged in a subtle, suggestive, indefinable play of expression to
which hands and shoulders contributed as well as lips and eyebrows.
Hyacinth looked at her long enough to catch any meaning she might have
wished to convey, but gave no sign of apprehending it. He only remarked
gravely: “In short she’s off!”
“Eh, and the worst is she’ll probably never come back. She didn’t
move, as she kept threatening, for a long time; but when at last she
decided——!” And Assunta’s flattened hand, sweeping the air sidewise,
figured the straightness of the old lady’s course. “_Peccato!_” she
ended with a sigh.
“I should have liked to see her again—I should have liked to bid her
good-bye.” He lingered, suddenly helpless, though, informed of the
Princess’s own more temporary absence, he had no reason for remaining
save the possibility she might reappear before he turned away. This
possibility, however, was small, since it was only nine o’clock, the
middle of the evening—too early an hour for her return if, as Assunta
said, she had gone out after tea. He looked up and down the Crescent,
gently swinging his stick, and became aware in a moment of some tender
interest on the part of his humbler friend.
“You should have come back sooner; then perhaps Madama wouldn’t have
gone, _povera vecchia_,” she rejoined in a moment. “It’s too many days
since you’ve been here. She liked you—I know that.”
“She liked me, but she didn’t like me to come,” said Hyacinth. “Wasn’t
that why she went—because we keep coming?”
“Ah that other one—with the long legs—yes. But you’re better.”
“The Princess doesn’t think so, and she’s the right judge,” Hyacinth
smiled.
“Eh, who knows what she thinks? It’s not for me to say. But you had
better come in and wait. I daresay she won’t be long, and she’ll be
content to find you.”
Hyacinth wondered. “I’m not sure of that.” Then he asked: “Did she go
out alone?”
“_Sola, sola._ Oh don’t be afraid; you were the first!” And Assunta,
delightfully, frankly insidious, flung open the door of the little
drawing-room.
He sat there nearly an hour, in the chair the Princess habitually used,
under her shaded lamp, with a dozen objects round him which seemed as
much a part of herself as if they had been folds of her dress or even
tones of her voice. His thoughts rattled like the broken ice of a drink
he had once wistfully seen mixed at an “American Bar,” but he was too
tired for unrest; he had not been to work and had walked about all day
to fill the time; so that he simply lay back there with his head on one
of the Princess’s cushions, his feet on one of her little stools—one
of the ugly ones that belonged to the house—and his respiration coming
as quick as that of a man in sharp suspense. He was agitated beneath
his fatigue, yet not because he was waiting for the Princess; a
deeper source of emotion had been opened to him and he had not on the
present occasion more mere “nervous” intensity than he had known at
other moments of the past twenty hours. He had not closed his eyes the
night before, and the day had not made up for that torment. A fever
of reflexion had descended on him and the range of his imagination
been wide. It whirled him through circles of immeasurable compass; and
this is the reason for which, thinking of many things while he sat
in the Princess’s place, he wondered why, after all, he had come to
Madeira Crescent and what interest he could have in seeing the lady
of the house. Wasn’t everything over between them and the link snapped
which had for its brief hour bound them so closely together? And this
not simply because for a long time now he had received no sign nor
communication from her, no invitation to come back, no inquiry as to
why his visits had stopped; not even because he had seen her go in and
out with Paul Muniment and it had suited Prince Casamassima to point to
him the moral of her doing so; nor still because, quite independently
of the Prince, he believed her to be more deeply absorbed in her
acquaintance with that superior young man than she had ever been in her
relations with himself. The ground of his approach, so far as he became
conscious of it in his fitful meditations, could only be a strange,
detached curiosity—strange and detached because everything else of his
past had been engulfed in the abyss that opened before him when, after
his separation from Mr. Vetch, he stood under the lamp in the paltry
Westminster street. That had swallowed up all familiar feelings, and
yet out of the ruin had sprung the impulse of which this vigil was the
result.
The solution of his difficulty—he flattered himself he had arrived
at it—involved a winding-up of his affairs; and though, even had no
solution been required, he would have felt clearly that he had been
dropped, yet since even in that case it would have been sweet to him
to bid her good-bye, so at present the desire for some last vision of
her own hurrying fate could still appeal to him. If things had not gone
well for him he was still capable of wondering if they looked better
for her. There rose in his mind all perversely, yet all humanly, a
yearning need to pity her. These were odd feelings enough, and by the
time half an hour had elapsed they had throbbed themselves into the
stupor of exhaustion. While it came to him in how different a frame he
was waiting now from that of his first visit in South Street he closed
his eyes and lost himself. His unconsciousness lasted, he afterwards
supposed, nearly half an hour; it ended in his feeling the lady of the
house stand there before him. Assunta was behind and as he opened his
eyes took from her the bonnet and mantle of which she divested herself.
“It’s charming of you to have waited,” the Princess said, smiling down
at him with all her old kindness. “You’re very tired—don’t get up;
that’s the best chair and you must keep it.” She made him remain where
he was; she placed herself near him on a smaller seat; she declared
she wasn’t tired herself, that she didn’t know what was the matter
with her—nothing tired her now; she exclaimed on the time that had
elapsed since he had last called, as if she were reminded of it simply
by seeing him again; and she insisted that he should have some tea—he
looked so much as if he needed it. She considered him with deeper
attention and wished to know where he ailed—what he had done to use
himself up; adding that she must begin to look after him again, since
while she had had the care of him that kind of thing didn’t happen.
In response to this Hyacinth made a great confession: he admitted he
had stayed away from work and simply amused himself—amused himself by
loafing about London all day. This didn’t pay—he had arrived at that
wisdom as he grew older; it was doubtless a sign of increasing years
when one felt one’s self finding wanton pleasures hollow and that to
stick to one’s tools was not only more profitable but more refreshing.
However, he did stick to them as a general thing: that was no doubt
partly why, from the absence of the habit of it, a day off turned out
rather a sell. Meanwhile, when he hadn’t seen her for some time he
always on meeting the Princess again had a renewed, formidable sense of
her beauty, and he had it to-night in an extraordinary degree. Splendid
as that beauty had ever been it shone on this occasion, like a trimmed
lamp, clearer and further, so that—if what was already supremely fine
could be capable of greater refinement—it might have worked itself
free of all earthly grossness and been purified and consecrated by her
new life. Her gentleness, when she turned it on, was quite divine—it
had always the irresistible charm that it was the humility of a high
spirit—and on this occasion she gave herself up to it. Whether it was
because he had the consciousness of resting his eyes on her for the
last time, or because she wished to be particularly pleasant to him in
order to make up for having amid other preoccupations rather dropped
him of late—it was probable the effect sprang from both causes—at all
events the sight of each great, easy, natural, yet all so coercive,
fact of her seemed no poorer a privilege than when, the other year,
he had gone into her box at the play. She affected him as raising and
upholding the weight that rested on him very much after the form of
some high, bland caryatid crowned with a crushing cornice. He suffered
himself to be coddled and absently, even if radiantly, smiled at, and
his state of mind was such that it could produce no alteration of his
pain to see that these were on the Princess’s part inexpensive gifts.
She had sent Assunta to bring them tea, and when the tray arrived she
gave him cup after cup with every grace of hospitality; but he had
not sat with her a quarter of an hour before he was sure she scarcely
measured a word he said to her or a word she herself uttered. If she
had the best intention of being “balmy” by way of making up, she was
still rather vague about what she was to make up _for_. Two points
became perfectly clear: first that she was thinking of something quite
other than her present, her past, or her future relations with Hyacinth
Robinson; second that he was superseded indeed. This was so completely
the case that it didn’t even occur to her, evidently, how cruel the
sense of supersession might be to one who was sick and sore. If she was
charming to such weakness wasn’t it because she was good-natured and
he had been hanging off, and not because she had done him an injury?
Perhaps after all she hadn’t, for he got the impression it might be
no great loss of comfort to any shuffler not to constitute part of
her intimate life to-day. It was manifest from things in her face,
from her every movement and tone, and indeed from all the irradiation
of her beauty, that this life was involving intimacies and efforts
arduous all round. If he had called from curiosity about her success
it was sufficiently implied for him that her success was good: she was
living more than ever on high hopes and bold plans and far-reaching
combinations. These things, from his own point of view, were not now
so quite the secret of joy, and to be mixed up with them was perhaps
not so much greater a sign that one hadn’t lived for nothing than the
grim understanding he had in the interest of peace just arrived at with
himself. She asked why he hadn’t been to her for so long, much as if
this failure were only a vulgar form of social neglect; and she scarce
seemed to note it either as a good or as a poor excuse when he said
he had stayed away because he knew her to be deep in business. But she
didn’t deny the impeachment; she admitted she had been busier than ever
in her life before. She looked at him as if he would know what that
meant, and he said he was very sorry for her.
“Because you think it’s all a mistake? Yes, I know that. Perhaps it is,
but if so it’s a magnificent one. If you were scared about me three or
four months ago I don’t know what you’d think to-day—if you knew! I’ve
risked,” she yet all portentously simply stated, “everything.”
“Fortunately I don’t know anything,” he said.
“No indeed. How should you?”
“And to tell the truth,” he went on, “that’s really the reason I
haven’t been back here till to-night. I haven’t wanted to know—I’ve
feared and hated to know.”
“Then why did you come at last?”
“Well, out of the most illogical of curiosities.”
“I suppose then you’d like me to tell you where I’ve been to-night,
eh?” she asked.
“No, my curiosity’s satisfied. I’ve learnt something—what I mainly
wanted to know—without your telling me.”
She stared an instant. “Ah you mean whether Madame Grandoni had gone?
I suppose Assunta told you.”
“Yes, Assunta told me, and I was sorry to hear it.”
The Princess looked grave, as if her old friend’s departure had been
indeed a very awkward affair. “You may imagine how I feel it! It leaves
me completely alone; it makes, in the eyes of the world, an immense
difference in my position. However, I don’t consider the eyes of the
world. At any rate she couldn’t put up with me any more; it appears I’m
more and more of a scandal—and it was written!” On Hyacinth’s asking
what the old lady would do she said: “I suppose she’ll go and live with
my husband. Funny, isn’t it? that it should have always to be with one
of us and that it should matter so little which.” Five minutes later
she inquired of him if the same reason he had mentioned just before was
the explanation of his absence from Audley Court. Mr. Muniment had told
her he hadn’t been near him and the sister for more than a month.
“No, it isn’t the fear of learning something that would make me uneasy:
because somehow, in the first place, it isn’t natural to feel uneasy
about Paul, and because in the second, if it were, he never lets
one see anything—of any effect or impression on him. It’s simply the
general sense of real divergence of view. When that divergence becomes
sharp there are forms and lame pretences——”
“It’s best not to try to keep up? I see what you mean—when you’re
grimly sincere. But you might go and see the sister.”
“I don’t like the sister,” Hyacinth frankly averred.
“Ah neither do I!” the Princess said; while her visitor remained
conscious of the perfect composure, the absence of false shame, with
which she had named their common friend. But she was silent after
this, and he judged he had stayed long enough and sufficiently taxed
a preoccupied attention. He got up and was bidding her good-night
when she suddenly brought out: “By the way, your not going to see
so good a friend as Mr. Muniment because you disapprove to-day of
his work suggests to me that you’ll be in an awkward fix, with your
disapprovals, the hour you’re called upon to serve the cause according
to your vow.”
“Oh of course I’ve thought of that,” Hyacinth smiled.
“And would it be indiscreet to ask what you’ve thought?”
“Ah so many things, Princess! It would take me a long time to say.”
“I’ve never talked to you of this, because it seemed to me indelicate
and the whole thing too much a secret of your own breast for even
so intimate a friend as I’ve been to have a right to meddle with
it. But I’ve wondered much, seeing you take all the while less and
less interest—in the real business, I mean, less and less—how you’d
reconcile your change of heart with your meeting your engagement. I
pity you, my poor friend,” she went on with a noble benignity, “for I
can imagine nothing more terrible than to find yourself face to face
with your obligation and to feel at the same time the spirit originally
prompting it dead within you.”
“Terrible, terrible, most terrible.” And he looked at her gravely.
“But I pray God it may never be your fate!” The Princess had a pause,
after which she added: “I see you feel it. Heaven help us all! Why
shouldn’t I tell you when I worry?” she went on. “A short time ago I
had a visit from Mr. Vetch.”
“It was kind of you to see him,” Hyacinth said.
“He was delightful, I assure you. But do you know what he came for? To
beg me on his knees to snatch you away.”
“Away from what?”
“From the danger that hangs over you. He was most touching.”
“Oh yes, he has talked to me about it,” our young man said. “He has
picked up the idea, but is utterly at sea. And how did he expect you’d
be able to snatch me?”
“He left that to me; he had only a general—and such a flattering—belief
in my possible effect on you.”
“And he thought you’d set it in motion to make me back out? He does
you injustice. You wouldn’t!” Hyacinth finely laughed. “In that case,
taking one false position with another, yours would be no better than
mine.”
“Oh, speaking seriously, I’m perfectly quiet about you and about
myself. I know you won’t be called,” the Princess returned.
“May I be told how you know it?”
She waited but an instant. “Mr. Muniment keeps me informed.”
“And how does _he_ know?”
“We’ve information. My poor dear friend,” the Princess went on, “you’re
so much out of it now that if I were to tell you I fear you wouldn’t
understand.”
“Yes, no doubt I’m out of it; but I still have a right to say, all
the same, in contradiction to your charge of a moment ago, that I take
interest in the ‘real business’ exactly as much as I ever did.”
“My poor Hyacinth, my dear, infatuated, little aristocrat, was that
ever very much?” she asked.
“It was enough, and it’s still enough, to make me willing to lay down
my life for anything that will clearly help.”
“Yes, and of course you must decide for yourself what that is—or rather
what it’s not.”
“I didn’t decide when I gave my promise. I agreed to abide by the
decision of others,” Hyacinth answered.
“Well, you said just now that in relation to this business of yours
you had thought of many things,” his friend pursued. “Have you ever by
chance thought of anything that _will_ do their work?”
“Their work?”
“The people’s.”
“Ah you call me fantastic names, but I’m one of them myself!” he cried.
“I know what you’re going to say,” the Princess broke in. “You’re going
to say it will help them to do what you do—to do their work themselves
and earn their wages. That’s beautiful so far as it goes. But what
do you propose for the thousands and hundreds of thousands for whom
no work—on the overcrowded earth, under the pitiless heaven—is to be
found? There’s less and less work in the world, and there are more and
more people to do the little there is. The old ferocious selfishness
_must_ come down. They won’t come down gracefully, so they must just be
assisted.”
The tone in which she spoke made his heart beat fast, and there was
something so inspiring in the great union of her beauty, her sincerity
and her energy that the image of a heroism not less great flashed
up again before him in all the splendour it had lost—the idea of a
tremendous risk and an unregarded sacrifice. Such a woman as that, at
such an hour, one who could shine like silver and ring like crystal,
made every scruple a poor prudence and every compunction a cowardice.
“I wish to God I could see it as you see it!” he wailed after he had
looked at her some seconds in silent admiration.
“I see simply this: that what we’re doing is at least worth trying,
and that as none of those who have the power, the place, the means,
will bethink themselves of anything else, on _their_ head be the
responsibility, on _their_ head be the blood!”
“Princess,” said Hyacinth, clasping his hands and feeling that he
trembled, “dearest Princess, if anything should happen to _you_——!”
But his voice fell; the horror of it, a dozen hideous images of her
possible perversity and her possible punishment were again before him,
as he had already seen them in sinister musings: they seemed to him
worse than anything he had imagined for himself.
She threw back her head, looking at him almost in anger. “To me! And
pray why not to me? What title have I to exemption, to security, more
than any one else? Why am I so sacrosanct and so precious?”
“Simply because there’s no one in the world and has never been any one
in the world like you.”
“Oh thank you!” said the Princess impatiently. And she turned from him
as with a beat of great white wings that raised her straight out of
the bad air of the personal. It took her up too high, it put an end to
their talk; expressing an indifference to what it might interest him to
think of her to-day, and even a contempt for it, which brought tears to
his eyes. His tears, however, were concealed by the fact that he bent
his head low over the hand he had taken to kiss; after which he left
the room without looking at her.