As the door of Mrs. Pocock’s salon was pushed open for him, the next
day, well before noon, he was reached by a voice with a charming sound
that made him just falter before crossing the threshold. Madame de
Vionnet was already on the field, and this gave the drama a quicker
pace than he felt it as yet—though his suspense had increased—in the
power of any act of his own to do. He had spent the previous evening
with all his old friends together yet he would still have described
himself as quite in the dark in respect to a forecast of their
influence on his situation. It was strange now, none the less, that in
the light of this unexpected note of her presence he felt Madame de
Vionnet a part of that situation as she hadn’t even yet been. She was
alone, he found himself assuming, with Sarah, and there was a bearing
in that—somehow beyond his control—on his personal fate. Yet she was
only saying something quite easy and independent—the thing she had
come, as a good friend of Chad’s, on purpose to say. “There isn’t
anything at all—? I should be so delighted.”
It was clear enough, when they were there before him, how she had been
received. He saw this, as Sarah got up to greet him, from something
fairly hectic in Sarah’s face. He saw furthermore that they weren’t, as
had first come to him, alone together; he was at no loss as to the
identity of the broad high back presented to him in the embrasure of
the window furthest from the door. Waymarsh, whom he had to-day not yet
seen, whom he only knew to have left the hotel before him, and who had
taken part, the night previous, on Mrs. Pocock’s kind invitation,
conveyed by Chad, in the entertainment, informal but cordial, promptly
offered by that lady—Waymarsh had anticipated him even as Madame de
Vionnet had done, and, with his hands in his pockets and his attitude
unaffected by Strether’s entrance, was looking out, in marked
detachment, at the Rue de Rivoli. The latter felt it in the air—it was
immense how Waymarsh could mark things—-that he had remained deeply
dissociated from the overture to their hostess that we have recorded on
Madame de Vionnet’s side. He had, conspicuously, tact, besides a stiff
general view; and this was why he had left Mrs. Pocock to struggle
alone. He would outstay the visitor; he would unmistakeably wait; to
what had he been doomed for months past but waiting? Therefore she was
to feel that she had him in reserve. What support she drew from this
was still to be seen, for, although Sarah was vividly bright, she had
given herself up for the moment to an ambiguous flushed formalism. She
had had to reckon more quickly than she expected; but it concerned her
first of all to signify that she was not to be taken unawares. Strether
arrived precisely in time for her showing it. “Oh you’re too good; but
I don’t think I feel quite helpless. I have my brother—and these
American friends. And then you know I’ve been to Paris. I _know_
Paris,” said Sally Pocock in a tone that breathed a certain chill on
Strether’s heart.
“Ah but a woman, in this tiresome place where everything’s always
changing, a woman of good will,” Madame de Vionnet threw off, “can
always help a woman. I’m sure you ‘know’—but we know perhaps different
things.” She too, visibly, wished to make no mistake; but it was a fear
of a different order and more kept out of sight. She smiled in welcome
at Strether; she greeted him more familiarly than Mrs. Pocock; she put
out her hand to him without moving from her place; and it came to him
in the course of a minute and in the oddest way that—yes,
positively—she was giving him over to ruin. She was all kindness and
ease, but she couldn’t help so giving him; she was exquisite, and her
being just as she was poured for Sarah a sudden rush of meaning into
his own equivocations. How could she know how she was hurting him? She
wanted to show as simple and humble—in the degree compatible with
operative charm; but it was just this that seemed to put him on her
side. She struck him as dressed, as arranged, as prepared infinitely to
conciliate—with the very poetry of good taste in her view of the
conditions of her early call. She was ready to advise about dressmakers
and shops; she held herself wholly at the disposition of Chad’s family.
Strether noticed her card on the table—her coronet and her
“Comtesse”—and the imagination was sharp in him of certain private
adjustments in Sarah’s mind. She had never, he was sure, sat with a
“Comtesse” before, and such was the specimen of that class he had been
keeping to play on her. She had crossed the sea very particularly for a
look at her; but he read in Madame de Vionnet’s own eyes that this
curiosity hadn’t been so successfully met as that she herself wouldn’t
now have more than ever need of him. She looked much as she had looked
to him that morning at Notre Dame; he noted in fact the suggestive
sameness of her discreet and delicate dress. It seemed to speak—perhaps
a little prematurely or too finely—of the sense in which she would help
Mrs. Pocock with the shops. The way that lady took her in, moreover,
added depth to his impression of what Miss Gostrey, by their common
wisdom, had escaped. He winced as he saw himself but for that timely
prudence ushering in Maria as a guide and an example. There was however
a touch of relief for him in his glimpse, so far as he had got it, of
Sarah’s line. She “knew Paris.” Madame de Vionnet had, for that matter,
lightly taken this up. “Ah then you’ve a turn for that, an affinity
that belongs to your family. Your brother, though his long experience
makes a difference, I admit, has become one of us in a marvellous way.”
And she appealed to Strether in the manner of a woman who could always
glide off with smoothness into another subject. Wasn’t _he_ struck with
the way Mr. Newsome had made the place his own, and hadn’t he been in a
position to profit by his friend’s wondrous expertness?
Strether felt the bravery, at the least, of her presenting herself so
promptly to sound that note, and yet asked himself what other note,
after all, she _could_ strike from the moment she presented herself at
all. She could meet Mrs. Pocock only on the ground of the obvious, and
what feature of Chad’s situation was more eminent than the fact that he
had created for himself a new set of circumstances? Unless she hid
herself altogether she could show but as one of these, an illustration
of his domiciled and indeed of his confirmed condition. And the
consciousness of all this in her charming eyes was so clear and fine
that as she thus publicly drew him into her boat she produced in him
such a silent agitation as he was not to fail afterwards to denounce as
pusillanimous. “Ah don’t be so charming to me!—for it makes us
intimate, and after all what _is_ between us when I’ve been so
tremendously on my guard and have seen you but half a dozen times?” He
recognised once more the perverse law that so inveterately governed his
poor personal aspects: it would be exactly _like_ the way things always
turned out for him that he should affect Mrs. Pocock and Waymarsh as
launched in a relation in which he had really never been launched at
all. They were at this very moment—they could only be—attributing to
him the full licence of it, and all by the operation of her own tone
with him; whereas his sole licence had been to cling with intensity to
the brink, not to dip so much as a toe into the flood. But the flicker
of his fear on this occasion was not, as may be added, to repeat
itself; it sprang up, for its moment, only to die down and then go out
for ever. To meet his fellow visitor’s invocation and, with Sarah’s
brilliant eyes on him, answer, _was_ quite sufficiently to step into
her boat. During the rest of the time her visit lasted he felt himself
proceed to each of the proper offices, successively, for helping to
keep the adventurous skiff afloat. It rocked beneath him, but he
settled himself in his place. He took up an oar and, since he was to
have the credit of pulling, pulled.
“That will make it all the pleasanter if it so happens that we _do_
meet,” Madame de Vionnet had further observed in reference to Mrs.
Pocock’s mention of her initiated state; and she had immediately added
that, after all, her hostess couldn’t be in need with the good offices
of Mr. Strether so close at hand. “It’s he, I gather, who has learnt to
know his Paris, and to love it, better than any one ever before in so
short a time; so that between him and your brother, when it comes to
the point, how can you possibly want for good guidance? The great
thing, Mr. Strether will show you,” she smiled, “is just to let one’s
self go.”
“Oh I’ve not let myself go very far,” Strether answered, feeling quite
as if he had been called upon to hint to Mrs. Pocock how Parisians
could talk. “I’m only afraid of showing I haven’t let myself go far
enough. I’ve taken a good deal of time, but I must quite have had the
air of not budging from one spot.” He looked at Sarah in a manner that
he thought she might take as engaging, and he made, under Madame de
Vionnet’s protection, as it were, his first personal point. “What has
really happened has been that, all the while, I’ve done what I came out
for.”
Yet it only at first gave Madame de Vionnet a chance immediately to
take him up. “You’ve renewed acquaintance with your friend—you’ve
learnt to know him again.” She spoke with such cheerful helpfulness
that they might, in a common cause, have been calling together and
pledged to mutual aid.
Waymarsh, at this, as if he had been in question, straightway turned
from the window. “Oh yes, Countess—he has renewed acquaintance with
_me_, and he _has_, I guess, learnt something about me, though I don’t
know how much he has liked it. It’s for Strether himself to say whether
he has felt it justifies his course.”
“Oh but _you_,” said the Countess gaily, “are not in the least what he
came out for—is he really, Strether? and I hadn’t you at all in my
mind. I was thinking of Mr. Newsome, of whom we think so much and with
whom, precisely, Mrs. Pocock has given herself the opportunity to take
up threads. What a pleasure for you both!” Madame de Vionnet, with her
eyes on Sarah, bravely continued.
Mrs. Pocock met her handsomely, but Strether quickly saw she meant to
accept no version of her movements or plans from any other lips. She
required no patronage and no support, which were but other names for a
false position; she would show in her own way what she chose to show,
and this she expressed with a dry glitter that recalled to him a fine
Woollett winter morning. “I’ve never wanted for opportunities to see my
brother. We’ve many things to think of at home, and great
responsibilities and occupations, and our home’s not an impossible
place. We’ve plenty of reasons,” Sarah continued a little piercingly,
“for everything we do”—and in short she wouldn’t give herself the least
little scrap away. But she added as one who was always bland and who
could afford a concession: “I’ve come because—well, because we do
come.”
“Ah then fortunately!”—Madame de Vionnet breathed it to the air. Five
minutes later they were on their feet for her to take leave, standing
together in an affability that had succeeded in surviving a further
exchange of remarks; only with the emphasised appearance on Waymarsh’s
part of a tendency to revert, in a ruminating manner and as with an
instinctive or a precautionary lightening of his tread, to an open
window and his point of vantage. The glazed and gilded room, all red
damask, ormolu, mirrors, clocks, looked south, and the shutters were
bowed upon the summer morning; but the Tuileries garden and what was
beyond it, over which the whole place hung, were things visible through
gaps; so that the far-spreading presence of Paris came up in coolness,
dimness and invitation, in the twinkle of gilt-tipped palings, the
crunch of gravel, the click of hoofs, the crack of whips, things that
suggested some parade of the circus. “I think it probable,” said Mrs.
Pocock, “that I shall have the opportunity of going to my brother’s.
I’ve no doubt it’s very pleasant indeed.” She spoke as to Strether, but
her face was turned with an intensity of brightness to Madame de
Vionnet, and there was a moment during which, while she thus fronted
her, our friend expected to hear her add: “I’m much obliged to you, I’m
sure, for inviting me there.” He guessed that for five seconds these
words were on the point of coming; he heard them as clearly as if they
had been spoken; but he presently knew they had just failed—knew it by
a glance, quick and fine, from Madame de Vionnet, which told him that
she too had felt them in the air, but that the point had luckily not
been made in any manner requiring notice. This left her free to reply
only to what had been said.
“That the Boulevard Malesherbes may be common ground for us offers me
the best prospect I see for the pleasure of meeting you again.”
“Oh I shall come to see you, since you’ve been so good”: and Mrs.
Pocock looked her invader well in the eyes. The flush in Sarah’s cheeks
had by this time settled to a small definite crimson spot that was not
without its own bravery; she held her head a good deal up, and it came
to Strether that of the two, at this moment, she was the one who most
carried out the idea of a Countess. He quite took in, however, that she
would really return her visitor’s civility: she wouldn’t report again
at Woollett without at least so much producible history as that in her
pocket.
“I want extremely to be able to show you my little daughter.” Madame de
Vionnet went on; “and I should have brought her with me if I hadn’t
wished first to ask your leave. I was in hopes I should perhaps find
Miss Pocock, of whose being with you I’ve heard from Mr. Newsome and
whose acquaintance I should so much like my child to make. If I have
the pleasure of seeing her and you do permit it I shall venture to ask
her to be kind to Jeanne. Mr. Strether will tell you”—she beautifully
kept it up—“that my poor girl is gentle and good and rather lonely.
They’ve made friends, he and she, ever so happily, and he doesn’t, I
believe, think ill of her. As for Jeanne herself he has had the same
success with her that I know he has had here wherever he has turned.”
She seemed to ask him for permission to say these things, or seemed
rather to take it, softly and happily, with the ease of intimacy, for
granted, and he had quite the consciousness now that not to meet her at
any point more than halfway would be odiously, basely to abandon her.
Yes, he was _with_ her, and, opposed even in this covert, this
semi-safe fashion to those who were not, he felt, strangely and
confusedly, but excitedly, inspiringly, how much and how far. It was as
if he had positively waited in suspense for something from her that
would let him in deeper, so that he might show her how he could take
it. And what did in fact come as she drew out a little her farewell
served sufficiently the purpose. “As his success is a matter that I’m
sure he’ll never mention for himself, I feel, you see, the less
scruple; which it’s very good of me to say, you know, by the way,” she
added as she addressed herself to him; “considering how little direct
advantage I’ve gained from your triumphs with _me_. When does one ever
see you? I wait at home and I languish. You’ll have rendered me the
service, Mrs. Pocock, at least,” she wound up, “of giving me one of my
much-too-rare glimpses of this gentleman.”
“I certainly should be sorry to deprive you of anything that seems so
much, as you describe it, your natural due. Mr. Strether and I are very
old friends,” Sarah allowed, “but the privilege of his society isn’t a
thing I shall quarrel about with any one.”
“And yet, dear Sarah,” he freely broke in, “I feel, when I hear you say
that, that you don’t quite do justice to the important truth of the
extent to which—as you’re also mine—I’m _your_ natural due. I should
like much better,” he laughed, “to see you fight for me.”
She met him, Mrs. Pocock, on this, with an arrest of speech—with a
certain breathlessness, as he immediately fancied, on the score of a
freedom for which she wasn’t quite prepared. It had flared up—for all
the harm he had intended by it—because, confoundedly, he didn’t want
any more to be afraid about her than he wanted to be afraid about
Madame de Vionnet. He had never, naturally, called her anything but
Sarah at home, and though he had perhaps never quite so markedly
invoked her as his “dear,” that was somehow partly because no occasion
had hitherto laid so effective a trap for it. But something admonished
him now that it was too late—unless indeed it were possibly too early;
and that he at any rate shouldn’t have pleased Mrs. Pocock the more by
it. “Well, Mr. Strether—!” she murmured with vagueness, yet with
sharpness, while her crimson spot burned a trifle brighter and he was
aware that this must be for the present the limit of her response.
Madame de Vionnet had already, however, come to his aid, and Waymarsh,
as if for further participation, moved again back to them. It was true
that the aid rendered by Madame de Vionnet was questionable; it was a
sign that, for all one might confess to with her, and for all she might
complain of not enjoying, she could still insidiously show how much of
the material of conversation had accumulated between them.
“The real truth is, you know, that you sacrifice one without mercy to
dear old Maria. She leaves no room in your life for anybody else. Do
you know,” she enquired of Mrs. Pocock, “about dear old Maria? The
worst is that Miss Gostrey is really a wonderful woman.”
“Oh yes indeed,” Strether answered for her, “Mrs. Pocock knows about
Miss Gostrey. Your mother, Sarah, must have told you about her; your
mother knows everything,” he sturdily pursued. “And I cordially admit,”
he added with his conscious gaiety of courage, “that she’s as wonderful
a woman as you like.”
“Ah it isn’t _I_ who ‘like,’ dear Mr. Strether, anything to do with the
matter!” Sarah Pocock promptly protested; “and I’m by no means sure I
have—from my mother or from any one else—a notion of whom you’re
talking about.”
“Well, he won’t let you see her, you know,” Madame de Vionnet
sympathetically threw in. “He never lets _me_—old friends as we are: I
mean as I am with Maria. He reserves her for his best hours; keeps her
consummately to himself; only gives us others the crumbs of the feast.”
“Well, Countess, _I’ve_ had some of the crumbs,” Waymarsh observed with
weight and covering her with his large look; which led her to break in
before he could go on.
“_Comment donc_, he shares her with _you?_” she exclaimed in droll
stupefaction. “Take care you don’t have, before you go much further,
rather more of all _ces dames_ than you may know what to do with!”
But he only continued in his massive way. “I can post you about the
lady, Mrs. Pocock, so far as you may care to hear. I’ve seen her quite
a number of times, and I was practically present when they made
acquaintance. I’ve kept my eye on her right along, but I don’t know as
there’s any real harm in her.”
“‘Harm’?” Madame de Vionnet quickly echoed. “Why she’s the dearest and
cleverest of all the clever and dear.”
“Well, you run her pretty close, Countess,” Waymarsh returned with
spirit; “though there’s no doubt she’s pretty well up in things. She
knows her way round Europe. Above all there’s no doubt she does love
Strether.”
“Ah but we all do that—we all love Strether: it isn’t a merit!” their
fellow visitor laughed, keeping to her idea with a good conscience at
which our friend was aware that he marvelled, though he trusted also
for it, as he met her exquisitely expressive eyes, to some later light.
The prime effect of her tone, however—and it was a truth which his own
eyes gave back to her in sad ironic play—could only be to make him feel
that, to say such things to a man in public, a woman must practically
think of him as ninety years old. He had turned awkwardly, responsively
red, he knew, at her mention of Maria Gostrey; Sarah Pocock’s
presence—the particular quality of it—had made this inevitable; and
then he had grown still redder in proportion as he hated to have shown
anything at all. He felt indeed that he was showing much, as,
uncomfortably and almost in pain, he offered up his redness to
Waymarsh, who, strangely enough, seemed now to be looking at him with a
certain explanatory yearning. Something deep—something built on their
old old relation—passed, in this complexity, between them; he got the
side-wind of a loyalty that stood behind all actual queer questions.
Waymarsh’s dry bare humour—as it gave itself to be taken—gloomed out to
demand justice. “Well, if you talk of Miss Barrace I’ve _my_ chance
too,” it appeared stiffly to nod, and it granted that it was giving him
away, but struggled to add that it did so only to save him. The sombre
glow stared it at him till it fairly sounded out—“to save you, poor old
man, to save you; to save you in spite of yourself.” Yet it was somehow
just this communication that showed him to himself as more than ever
lost. Still another result of it was to put before him as never yet
that between his comrade and the interest represented by Sarah there
was already a basis. Beyond all question now, yes: Waymarsh had been in
occult relation with Mrs. Newsome—out, out it all came in the very
effort of his face. “Yes, you’re feeling my hand”—he as good as
proclaimed it; “but only because this at least I _shall_ have got out
of the damned Old World: that I shall have picked up the pieces into
which it has caused you to crumble.” It was as if in short, after an
instant, Strether had not only had it from him, but had recognised that
so far as this went the instant had cleared the air. Our friend
understood and approved; he had the sense that they wouldn’t otherwise
speak of it. This would be all, and it would mark in himself a kind of
intelligent generosity. It was with grim Sarah then—Sarah grim for all
her grace—that Waymarsh had begun at ten o’clock in the morning to save
him. Well—if he _could_, poor dear man, with his big bleak kindness!
The upshot of which crowded perception was that Strether, on his own
side, still showed no more than he absolutely had to. He showed the
least possible by saying to Mrs. Pocock after an interval much briefer
than our glance at the picture reflected in him: “Oh it’s as true as
they please!—There’s no Miss Gostrey for any one but me—not the least
little peep. I keep her to myself.”
“Well, it’s very good of you to notify me,” Sarah replied without
looking at him and thrown for a moment by this discrimination, as the
direction of her eyes showed, upon a dimly desperate little community
with Madame de Vionnet. “But I hope I shan’t miss her too much.”
Madame de Vionnet instantly rallied. “And you know—though it might
occur to one—it isn’t in the least that he’s ashamed of her. She’s
really—in a way—extremely good-looking.”
“Ah but extremely!” Strether laughed while he wondered at the odd part
he found thus imposed on him.
It continued to be so by every touch from Madame de Vionnet. “Well, as
I say, you know, I wish you would keep _me_ a little more to yourself.
Couldn’t you name some day for me, some hour—and better soon than late?
I’ll be at home whenever it best suits you. There—I can’t say fairer.”
Strether thought a moment while Waymarsh and Mrs. Pocock affected him
as standing attentive. “I did lately call on you. Last week—while Chad
was out of town.”
“Yes—and I was away, as it happened, too. You choose your moments well.
But don’t wait for my next absence, for I shan’t make another,” Madame
de Vionnet declared, “while Mrs. Pocock’s here.”
“That vow needn’t keep you long, fortunately,” Sarah observed with
reasserted suavity. “I shall be at present but a short time in Paris. I
have my plans for other countries. I meet a number of charming
friends”—and her voice seemed to caress that description of these
persons.
“Ah then,” her visitor cheerfully replied, “all the more reason!
To-morrow, for instance, or next day?” she continued to Strether.
“Tuesday would do for me beautifully.”
“Tuesday then with pleasure.”
“And at half-past five?—or at six?”
It was ridiculous, but Mrs. Pocock and Waymarsh struck him as fairly
waiting for his answer. It was indeed as if they were arranged,
gathered for a performance, the performance of “Europe” by his
confederate and himself. Well, the performance could only go on. “Say
five forty-five.”
“Five forty-five—good.” And now at last Madame de Vionnet must leave
them, though it carried, for herself, the performance a little further.
“I _did_ hope so much also to see Miss Pocock. Mayn’t I still?”
Sarah hesitated, but she rose equal. “She’ll return your visit with me.
She’s at present out with Mr. Pocock and my brother.”
“I see—of course Mr. Newsome has everything to show them. He has told
me so much about her. My great desire’s to give my daughter the
opportunity of making her acquaintance. I’m always on the lookout for
such chances for her. If I didn’t bring her to-day it was only to make
sure first that you’d let me.” After which the charming woman risked a
more intense appeal. “It wouldn’t suit _you_ also to mention some near
time, so that we shall be sure not to lose you?” Strether on his side
waited, for Sarah likewise had, after all, to perform; and it occupied
him to have been thus reminded that she had stayed at home—and on her
first morning of Paris—while Chad led the others forth. Oh she was up
to her eyes; if she had stayed at home she had stayed by an
understanding, arrived at the evening before, that Waymarsh would come
and find her alone. This was beginning well—for a first day in Paris;
and the thing might be amusing yet. But Madame de Vionnet’s earnestness
was meanwhile beautiful. “You may think me indiscreet, but I’ve _such_
a desire my Jeanne shall know an American girl of the really delightful
kind. You see I throw myself for it on your charity.”
The manner of this speech gave Strether such a sense of depths below it
and behind it as he hadn’t yet had—ministered in a way that almost
frightened him to his dim divinations of reasons; but if Sarah still,
in spite of it, faltered, this was why he had time for a sign of
sympathy with her petitioner. “Let me say then, dear lady, to back your
plea, that Miss Mamie is of the most delightful kind of all—is charming
among the charming.”
Even Waymarsh, though with more to produce on the subject, could get
into motion in time. “Yes, Countess, the American girl’s a thing that
your country must at least allow ours the privilege to say we _can_
show you. But her full beauty is only for those who know how to make
use of her.”
“Ah then,” smiled Madame de Vionnet, “that’s exactly what I want to do.
I’m sure she has much to teach us.”
It was wonderful, but what was scarce less so was that Strether found
himself, by the quick effect of it, moved another way. “Oh that may be!
But don’t speak of your own exquisite daughter, you know, as if she
weren’t pure perfection. _I_ at least won’t take that from you.
Mademoiselle de Vionnet,” he explained, in considerable form, to Mrs.
Pocock, “_is_ pure perfection. Mademoiselle de Vionnet _is_ exquisite.”
It had been perhaps a little portentous, but “Ah?” Sarah simply
glittered.
Waymarsh himself, for that matter, apparently recognised, in respect to
the facts, the need of a larger justice, and he had with it an
inclination to Sarah. “Miss Jane’s strikingly handsome—in the regular
French style.”
It somehow made both Strether and Madame de Vionnet laugh out, though
at the very moment he caught in Sarah’s eyes, as glancing at the
speaker, a vague but unmistakeable “You too?” It made Waymarsh in fact
look consciously over her head. Madame de Vionnet meanwhile, however,
made her point in her own way. “I wish indeed I could offer you my poor
child as a dazzling attraction: it would make one’s position simple
enough! She’s as good as she can be, but of course she’s different, and
the question is now—in the light of the way things seem to go—if she
isn’t after all _too_ different: too different I mean from the splendid
type every one is so agreed that your wonderful country produces. On
the other hand of course Mr. Newsome, who knows it so well, has, as a
good friend, dear kind man that he is, done everything he can—to keep
us from fatal benightedness—for my small shy creature. Well,” she wound
up after Mrs. Pocock had signified, in a murmur still a little stiff,
that she would speak to her own young charge on the question—“well, we
shall sit, my child and I, and wait and wait and wait for you.” But her
last fine turn was for Strether. “Do speak of us in such a way—!”
“As that something can’t but come of it? Oh something _shall_ come of
it! I take a great interest!” he further declared; and in proof of it,
the next moment, he had gone with her down to her carriage.