Henry James - Henry James - The Complete Novels (The Greatest Novelists of All Time – Book 10)

“They are evidently determined to do that by the way they stare. Do they think I intend to dance a tarantella? Who are they all; do I know them?” And lingering in the middle of the room, with her arm passed into Madame Grandoni’s, she let her eyes wander slowly from group to group. They were of course observing her. Standing in the little circle of lamplight, with the hood of an Eastern burnous, shot with silver threads, falling back from her beautiful head, one hand gathering together its voluminous, shimmering folds, and the other playing with the silken top-knot on the uplifted head of her poodle, she was a figure of radiant picturesqueness. She seemed to be a sort of extemporized tableau vivant. Rowland’s position made it becoming for him to speak to her without delay. As she looked at him he saw that, judging by the light of her beautiful eyes, she was in a humor of which she had not yet treated him to a specimen. In a simpler person he would have called it exquisite kindness; but in this young lady’s deportment the flower was one thing and the perfume another. “Tell me about these people,” she said to him. “I had no idea there were so many people in Rome I had not seen. What are they all talking about? It’s all beyond me, I suppose. There is Miss Blanchard, sitting as usual in profile against a dark object. She is like a head on a postage-stamp. And there is that nice little old lady in black, Mrs. Hudson. What a dear little woman for a mother! Comme elle est proprette! And the other, the fiancee, of course she’s here. Ah, I see!” She paused; she was looking intently at Miss Garland. Rowland measured the intentness of her glance, and suddenly acquired a firm conviction. “I should like so much to know her!” she said, turning to Madame Grandoni. “She has a charming face; I am sure she’s an angel. I wish very much you would introduce me. No, on second thoughts, I had rather you did n’t. I will speak to her bravely myself, as a friend of her cousin.” Madame Grandoni and Rowland exchanged glances of baffled conjecture, and Christina flung off her burnous, crumpled it together, and, with uplifted finger, tossing it into a corner, gave it in charge to her poodle. He stationed himself upon it, on his haunches, with upright vigilance. Christina crossed the room with the step and smile of a ministering angel, and introduced herself to Mary Garland. She had once told Rowland that she would show him, some day, how gracious her manners could be; she was now redeeming her promise. Rowland, watching her, saw Mary Garland rise slowly, in response to her greeting, and look at her with serious deep-gazing eyes. The almost dramatic opposition of these two keenly interesting girls touched Rowland with a nameless apprehension, and after a moment he preferred to turn away. In doing so he noticed Roderick. The young sculptor was standing planted on the train of a lady’s dress, gazing across at Christina’s movements with undisguised earnestness. There were several more pieces of music; Rowland sat in a corner and listened to them. When they were over, several people began to take their leave, Mrs. Hudson among the number. Rowland saw her come up to Madame Grandoni, clinging shyly to Mary Garland’s arm. Miss Garland had a brilliant eye and a deep color in her cheek. The two ladies looked about for Roderick, but Roderick had his back turned. He had approached Christina, who, with an absent air, was sitting alone, where she had taken her place near Miss Garland, looking at the guests pass out of the room. Christina’s eye, like Miss Garland’s, was bright, but her cheek was pale. Hearing Roderick’s voice, she looked up at him sharply; then silently, with a single quick gesture, motioned him away. He obeyed her, and came and joined his mother in bidding good night to Madame Grandoni. Christina, in a moment, met Rowland’s glance, and immediately beckoned him to come to her. He was familiar with her spontaneity of movement, and was scarcely surprised. She made a place for him on the sofa beside her; he wondered what was coming now. He was not sure it was not a mere fancy, but it seemed to him that he had never seen her look just as she was looking then. It was a humble, touching, appealing look, and it threw into wonderful relief the nobleness of her beauty. “How many more metamorphoses,” he asked himself, “am I to be treated to before we have done?”

“I want to tell you,” said Christina. “I have taken an immense fancy to Miss Garland. Are n’t you glad?”

“Delighted!” exclaimed poor Rowland.

“Ah, you don’t believe it,” she said with soft dignity.

“Is it so hard to believe?”

“Not that people in general should admire her, but that I should. But I want to tell you; I want to tell some one, and I can’t tell Miss Garland herself. She thinks me already a horrid false creature, and if I were to express to her frankly what I think of her, I should simply disgust her. She would be quite right; she has repose, and from that point of view I and my doings must seem monstrous. Unfortunately, I have n’t repose. I am trembling now; if I could ask you to feel my arm, you would see! But I want to tell you that I admire Miss Garland more than any of the people who call themselves her friends — except of course you. Oh, I know that! To begin with, she is extremely handsome, and she does n’t know it.”

“She is not generally thought handsome,” said Rowland.

“Evidently! That’s the vulgarity of the human mind. Her head has great character, great natural style. If a woman is not to be a supreme beauty in the regular way, she will choose, if she’s wise, to look like that. She’ll not be thought pretty by people in general, and desecrated, as she passes, by the stare of every vile wretch who chooses to thrust his nose under her bonnet; but a certain number of superior people will find it one of the delightful things of life to look at her. That lot is as good as another! Then she has a beautiful character!”

“You found that out soon!” said Rowland, smiling.

“How long did it take you? I found it out before I ever spoke to her. I met her the other day in Saint Peter’s; I knew it then. I knew it — do you want to know how long I have known it?”

“Really,” said Rowland, “I did n’t mean to cross-examine you.”

“Do you remember mamma’s ball in December? We had some talk and you then mentioned her — not by name. You said but three words, but I saw you admired her, and I knew that if you admired her she must have a beautiful character. That’s what you require!”

“Upon my word,” cried Rowland, “you make three words go very far!”

“Oh, Mr. Hudson has also spoken of her.”

“Ah, that’s better!” said Rowland.

“I don’t know; he does n’t like her.”

“Did he tell you so?” The question left Rowland’s lips before he could stay it, which he would have done on a moment’s reflection.

Christina looked at him intently. “No!” she said at last. “That would have been dishonorable, would n’t it? But I know it from my knowledge of him. He does n’t like perfection; he is not bent upon being safe, in his likings; he’s willing to risk something! Poor fellow, he risks too much!”

Rowland was silent; he did not care for the thrust; but he was profoundly mystified. Christina beckoned to her poodle, and the dog marched stiffly across to her. She gave a loving twist to his rose-colored top-knot, and bade him go and fetch her burnous. He obeyed, gathered it up in his teeth, and returned with great solemnity, dragging it along the floor.

“I do her justice. I do her full justice,” she went on, with soft earnestness. “I like to say that, I like to be able to say it. She’s full of intelligence and courage and devotion. She does n’t do me a grain of justice; but that is no harm. There is something so fine in the aversions of a good woman!”