Roderick Hudson — Chapter IX, Part B
“After that,” she murmured, “I suppose he thinks he is as good as any one!
And here is another.
Oh, what a beautiful person!
” A young lady had approached the sacred effigy, after having wandered away from a group of companions.
She kissed the brazen toe, touched it with her forehead, and turned round, facing our friends.
Rowland then recognized Christina Light.
He was stupefied: had she suddenly embraced the Catholic faith?
It was but a few weeks before that she had treated him to a passionate profession of indifference.
Had she entered the church to put herself en regle with what was expected of a Princess Casamassima?
While Rowland was mentally asking these questions she was approaching him and his friends, on her way to the great altar.
At first she did not perceive them.
Mary Garland had been gazing at her.
“You told me,” she said gently, to Rowland, “that Rome contained some of the most beautiful things in the world.
This surely is one of them!
” At this moment Christina’s eye met Rowland’s and before giving him any sign of recognition she glanced rapidly at his companions.
She saw Roderick, but she gave him no bow; she looked at Mrs. Hudson, she looked at Mary Garland.
At Mary Garland she looked fixedly, piercingly, from head to foot, as the slow pace at which she was advancing made possible.
Then suddenly, as if she had perceived Roderick for the first time, she gave him a charming nod, a radiant smile.
In a moment he was at her side.
She stopped, and he stood talking to her; she continued to look at Miss Garland.
“Why, Roderick knows her!
” cried Mrs. Hudson, in an awe-struck whisper.
“I supposed she was some great princess.
” “She is--almost!
” said Rowland.
“She is the most beautiful girl in Europe, and Roderick has made her bust.
” “Her bust?
Dear, dear!
” murmured Mrs. Hudson, vaguely shocked.
“What a strange bonnet!
” “She has very strange eyes,” said Mary, and turned away.
The two ladies, with Rowland, began to descend toward the door of the church.
On their way they passed Mrs. Light, the Cavaliere, and the poodle, and Rowland informed his companions of the relation in which these personages stood to Roderick’s young lady.
“Think of it, Mary!
” said Mrs. Hudson.
“What splendid people he must know!
No wonder he found Northampton dull!
” “I like the poor little old gentleman,” said Mary.
“Why do you call him poor?
” Rowland asked, struck with the observation.
“He seems so!
” she answered simply.
As they were reaching the door they were overtaken by Roderick, whose interview with Miss Light had perceptibly brightened his eye.
“So you are acquainted with princesses!
” said his mother softly, as they passed into the portico.
“Miss Light is not a princess!
” said Roderick, curtly.
“But Mr. Mallet says so,” urged Mrs. Hudson, rather disappointed.
“I meant that she was going to be!
” said Rowland.
“It ‘s by no means certain that she is even going to be!
” Roderick answered.
“Ah,” said Rowland, “I give it up!
” Roderick almost immediately demanded that his mother should sit to him, at his studio, for her portrait, and Rowland ventured to add another word of urgency.
If Roderick’s idea really held him, it was an immense pity that his inspiration should be wasted; inspiration, in these days, had become too precious a commodity.
It was arranged therefore that, for the present, during the mornings, Mrs. Hudson should place herself at her son’s service.
This involved but little sacrifice, for the good lady’s appetite for antiquities was diminutive and bird-like, the usual round of galleries and churches fatigued her, and she was glad to purchase immunity from sight-seeing by a regular afternoon drive.
It became natural in this way that, Miss Garland having her mornings free, Rowland should propose to be the younger lady’s guide in whatever explorations she might be disposed to make.
She said she knew nothing about it, but she had a great curiosity, and would be glad to see anything that he would show her.
Rowland could not find it in his heart to accuse Roderick of neglect of the young girl; for it was natural that the inspirations of a capricious man of genius, when they came, should be imperious; but of course he wondered how Miss Garland felt, as the young man’s promised wife, on being thus expeditiously handed over to another man to be entertained.
However she felt, he was certain he would know little about it.
There had been, between them, none but indirect allusions to her engagement, and Rowland had no desire to discuss it more largely; for he had no quarrel with matters as they stood.
They wore the same delightful aspect through the lovely month of May, and the ineffable charm of Rome at that period seemed but the radiant sympathy of nature with his happy opportunity.
The weather was divine; each particular morning, as he walked from his lodging to Mrs. Hudson’s modest inn, seemed to have a blessing upon it.
The elder lady had usually gone off to the studio, and he found Miss Garland sitting alone at the open window, turning the leaves of some book of artistic or antiquarian reference that he had given her.
She always had a smile, she was always eager, alert, responsive.
She might be grave by nature, she might be sad by circumstance, she might have secret doubts and pangs, but she was essentially young and strong and fresh and able to enjoy.
Her enjoyment was not especially demonstrative, but it was curiously diligent.
Rowland felt that it was not amusement and sensation that she coveted, but knowledge--facts that she might noiselessly lay away, piece by piece, in the perfumed darkness of her serious mind, so that, under this head at least, she should not be a perfectly portionless bride.
She never merely pretended to understand; she let things go, in her modest fashion, at the moment, but she watched them on their way, over the crest of the hill, and when her fancy seemed not likely to be missed it went hurrying after them and ran breathless at their side, as it were, and begged them for the secret.
Rowland took an immense satisfaction in observing that she never mistook the second-best for the best, and that when she was in the presence of a masterpiece, she recognized the occasion as a mighty one.
She said many things which he thought very profound--that is, if they really had the fine intention he suspected.
This point he usually tried to ascertain; but he was obliged to proceed cautiously, for in her mistrustful shyness it seemed to her that cross-examination must necessarily be ironical.
She wished to know just where she was going--what she would gain or lose.
This was partly on account of a native intellectual purity, a temper of mind that had not lived with its door ajar, as one might say, upon the high-road of thought, for passing ideas to drop in and out at their pleasure; but had made much of a few long visits from guests cherished and honored--guests whose presence was a solemnity.
But it was even more because she was conscious of a sort of growing self-respect, a sense of devoting her life not to her own ends, but to those of another, whose life would be large and brilliant.
She had been brought up to think a great deal of “nature” and nature’s innocent laws; but now Rowland had spoken to her ardently of culture; her strenuous fancy had responded, and she was pursuing culture into retreats where the need for some intellectual effort gave a noble severity to her purpose.
She wished to be very sure, to take only the best, knowing it to be the best.
There was something exquisite in this labor of pious self-adornment, and Rowland helped it, though its fruits were not for him.
In spite of her lurking rigidity and angularity, it was very evident that a nervous, impulsive sense of beauty was constantly at play in her soul, and that her actual experience of beautiful things moved her in some very deep places.
For all that she was not demonstrative, that her manner was simple, and her small-talk of no very ample flow; for all that, as she had said, she was a young woman from the country, and the country was West Nazareth, and West Nazareth was in its way a stubborn little fact, she was feeling the direct influence of the great amenities of the world, and they were shaping her with a divinely intelligent touch.
“Oh exquisite virtue of circumstance!
” cried Rowland to himself, “that takes us by the hand and leads us forth out of corners where, perforce, our attitudes are a trifle contracted, and beguiles us into testing mistrusted faculties!
” When he said to Mary Garland that he wished he might see her ten years hence, he was paying mentally an equal compliment to circumstance and to the girl herself.
Capacity was there, it could be freely trusted;
observation would have but to sow its generous seed.
“A superior woman”--the idea had harsh associations, but he watched it imaging itself in the vagueness of the future with a kind of hopeless confidence.
They went a great deal to Saint Peter’s, for which Rowland had an exceeding affection, a large measure of which he succeeded in infusing into his companion.
She confessed very speedily that to climb the long, low, yellow steps, beneath the huge florid facade, and then to push the ponderous leathern apron of the door, to find one’s self confronted with that builded, luminous sublimity, was a sensation of which the keenness renewed itself with surprising generosity.
In those days the hospitality of the Vatican had not been curtailed, and it was an easy and delightful matter to pass from the gorgeous church to the solemn company of the antique marbles.
Here Rowland had with his companion a great deal of talk, and found himself expounding aesthetics a perte de vue.
He discovered that she made notes of her likes and dislikes in a new-looking little memorandum book, and he wondered to what extent she reported his own discourse.
These were charming hours.
The galleries had been so cold all winter that Rowland had been an exile from them; but now that the sun was already scorching in the great square between the colonnades, where the twin fountains flashed almost fiercely, the marble coolness of the long, image-bordered vistas made them a delightful refuge.
The great herd of tourists had almost departed, and our two friends often found themselves, for half an hour at a time, in sole and tranquil possession of the beautiful Braccio Nuovo.
Here and there was an open window, where they lingered and leaned, looking out into the warm, dead air, over the towers of the city, at the soft-hued, historic hills, at the stately shabby gardens of the palace, or at some sunny, empty, grass-grown court, lost in the heart of the labyrinthine pile.
They went sometimes into the chambers painted by Raphael, and of course paid their respects to the Sistine Chapel; but Mary’s evident preference was to linger among the statues.
Once, when they were standing before that noblest of sculptured portraits, the so-called Demosthenes, in the Braccio Nuovo, she made the only spontaneous allusion to her projected marriage, direct or indirect, that had yet fallen from her lips.
“I am so glad,” she said, “that Roderick is a sculptor and not a painter.
” The allusion resided chiefly in the extreme earnestness with which the words were uttered.
Rowland immediately asked her the reason of her gladness.
“It ‘s not that painting is not fine,” she said, “but that sculpture is finer.
It is more manly.
” Rowland tried at times to make her talk about herself, but in this she had little skill.
She seemed to him so much older, so much more pliant to social uses than when he had seen her at home, that he had a desire to draw from her some categorical account of her occupation and thoughts.
He told her his desire and what suggested it.
“It appears, then,” she said, “that, after all, one can grow at home!
” “Unquestionably, if one has a motive.
Your growth, then, was unconscious?
You did not watch yourself and water your roots?
” She paid no heed to his question.
“I am willing to grant,” she said, “that Europe is more delightful than I supposed; and I don’t think that, mentally, I had been stingy.
But you must admit that America is better than you have supposed.
” “I have not a fault to find with the country which produced you!
” Rowland thought he might risk this, smiling.
“And yet you want me to change--to assimilate Europe, I suppose you would call it.
” “I have felt that desire only on general principles.
Shall I tell you what I feel now?
America has made you thus far; let America finish you!
I should like to ship you back without delay and see what becomes of you.
That sounds unkind, and I admit there is a cold intellectual curiosity in it.
” She shook her head.
“The charm is broken; the thread is snapped!
I
prefer to remain here.
” Invariably, when he was inclined to make of something they were talking of a direct application to herself, she wholly failed to assist him; she made no response.
Whereupon, once, with a spark of ardent irritation, he told her she was very “secretive.
” At this she colored a little, and he said that in default of any larger confidence it would at least be a satisfaction to make her confess to that charge.
But even this satisfaction she denied him, and his only revenge was in making, two or three times afterward, a softly ironical allusion to her slyness.
He told her that she was what is called in French a sournoise.
“Very good,” she answered, almost indifferently, “and now please tell me again--I have forgotten it--what you said an ‘architrave’ was.
” It was on the occasion of her asking him a question of this kind that he charged her, with a humorous emphasis in which, also, if she had been curious in the matter, she might have detected a spark of restless ardor, with having an insatiable avidity for facts.
“You are always snatching at information,” he said; “you will never consent to have any disinterested conversation.
” She frowned a little, as she always did when he arrested their talk upon something personal.
But this time she assented, and said that she knew she was eager for facts.
“One must make hay while the sun shines,” she added.
“I must lay up a store of learning against dark days.
Somehow, my imagination refuses to compass the idea that I may be in Rome indefinitely.
” He knew he had divined her real motives; but he felt that if he might have said to her--what it seemed impossible to say--that fortune possibly had in store for her a bitter disappointment, she would have been capable of answering, immediately after the first sense of pain, “Say then that I am laying up resources for solitude!
” But all the accusations were not his.
He had been watching, once, during some brief argument, to see whether she would take her forefinger out of her Murray, into which she had inserted it to keep a certain page.
It would have been hard to say why this point interested him, for he had not the slightest real apprehension that she was dry or pedantic.
The simple human truth was, the poor fellow was jealous of science.
In preaching science to her, he had over-estimated his powers of self-effacement.
Suddenly, sinking science for the moment, she looked at him very frankly and began to frown.
At the same time she let the Murray slide down to the ground, and he was so charmed with this circumstance that he made no movement to pick it up.
“You are singularly inconsistent, Mr. Mallet,” she said.
“How?
” “That first day that we were in Saint Peter’s you said things that inspired me.
You bade me plunge into all this.
I was all ready; I only wanted a little push; yours was a great one; here I am in mid-ocean!
And now, as a reward for my bravery, you have repeatedly snubbed me.
” “Distinctly, then,” said Rowland, “I strike you as inconsistent?
” “That is the word.
” “Then I have played my part very ill.
” “Your part?
What is your part supposed to have been?
” He hesitated a moment.
“That of usefulness, pure and simple.
” “I don’t understand you!
” she said; and picking up her Murray, she fairly buried herself in it.
That evening he said something to her which necessarily increased her perplexity, though it was not uttered with such an intention.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “my begging you, the other day, to do occasionally as I told you?
It seemed to me you tacitly consented.
” “Very tacitly.
” “I have never yet really presumed on your consent.
But now I would like you to do this: whenever you catch me in the act of what you call inconsistency, ask me the meaning of some architectural term.
I will know what you mean; a word to the wise!
” One morning they spent among the ruins of the Palatine, that sunny desolation of crumbling, over-tangled fragments, half excavated and half identified, known as the Palace of the Caesars.
Nothing in Rome is more interesting, and no locality has such a confusion of picturesque charms.
It is a vast, rambling garden, where you stumble at every step on the disinterred bones of the past; where damp, frescoed corridors, relics, possibly, of Nero’s Golden House, serve as gigantic bowers, and where, in the springtime, you may sit on a Latin inscription, in the shade of a flowering almond-tree, and admire the composition of the Campagna.
The day left a deep impression on Rowland’s mind, partly owing to its intrinsic sweetness, and partly because his companion, on this occasion, let her Murray lie unopened for an hour, and asked several questions irrelevant to the Consuls and the Caesars.
She had begun by saying that it was coming over her, after all, that Rome was a ponderously sad place.
The sirocco was gently blowing, the air was heavy, she was tired, she looked a little pale.
“Everything,” she said, “seems to say that all things are vanity.
If one is doing something, I suppose one feels a certain strength within one to contradict it.
But if one is idle, surely it is depressing to live, year after year, among the ashes of things that once were mighty.
If I were to remain here I should either become permanently ‘low,’ as they say, or I would take refuge in some dogged daily work.
” “What work?
” “I would open a school for those beautiful little beggars; though I am sadly afraid I should never bring myself to scold them.
” “I am idle,” said Rowland, “and yet I have kept up a certain spirit.
” “I don’t call you idle,” she answered with emphasis.
“It is very good of you.
Do you remember our talking about that in Northampton?
” “During that picnic?
Perfectly.
Has your coming abroad succeeded, for yourself, as well as you hoped?
” “I think I may say that it has turned out as well as I expected.
” “Are you happy?
” “Don’t I look so?
” “So it seems to me.
But”--and she hesitated a moment--“I imagine you look happy whether you are so or not.
” “I ‘m like that ancient comic mask that we saw just now in yonder excavated fresco: I am made to grin.
” “Shall you come back here next winter?
” “Very probably.
” “Are you settled here forever?
” “‘Forever’ is a long time.
I live only from year to year.
” “Shall you never marry?
” Rowland gave a laugh.
“‘Forever’--‘never!
’ You handle large ideas.
I
have not taken a vow of celibacy.
” “Would n’t you like to marry?
” “I should like it immensely.
” To this she made no rejoinder: but presently she asked, “Why don’t you write a book?
” Rowland laughed, this time more freely.
“A book!
What book should I write?
” “A history; something about art or antiquities.
” “I have neither the learning nor the talent.
” She made no attempt to contradict him; she simply said she had supposed otherwise.
“You ought, at any rate,” she continued in a moment, “to do something for yourself.
” “For myself?
I should have supposed that if ever a man seemed to live for himself”-- “I don’t know how it seems,” she interrupted, “to careless observers.
But we know--we know that you have lived--a great deal--for us.
” Her voice trembled slightly, and she brought out the last words with a little jerk.
“She has had that speech on her conscience,” thought Rowland; “she has been thinking she owed it to me, and it seemed to her that now was her time to make it and have done with it.
” She went on in a way which confirmed these reflections, speaking with due solemnity.
“You ought to be made to know very well what we all feel.
Mrs. Hudson tells me that she has told you what she feels.
Of course Roderick has expressed himself.
I have been wanting to thank you too; I do, from my heart.
” Rowland made no answer; his face at this moment resembled the tragic mask much more than the comic.
But Miss Garland was not looking at him;
she had taken up her Murray again.
In the afternoon she usually drove with Mrs. Hudson, but Rowland frequently saw her again in the evening.
He was apt to spend half an hour in the little sitting-room at the hotel-pension on the slope of the Pincian, and Roderick, who dined regularly with his mother, was present on these occasions.
Rowland saw him little at other times, and for three weeks no observations passed between them on the subject of Mrs. Hudson’s advent.
To Rowland’s vision, as the weeks elapsed, the benefits to proceed from the presence of the two ladies remained shrouded in mystery.
Roderick was peculiarly inscrutable.
He was preoccupied with his work on his mother’s portrait, which was taking a very happy turn;
and often, when he sat silent, with his hands in his pockets, his legs outstretched, his head thrown back, and his eyes on vacancy, it was to be supposed that his fancy was hovering about the half-shaped image in his studio, exquisite even in its immaturity.
He said little, but his silence did not of necessity imply disaffection, for he evidently found it a deep personal luxury to lounge away the hours in an atmosphere so charged with feminine tenderness.
He was not alert, he suggested nothing in the way of excursions (Rowland was the prime mover in such as were attempted), but he conformed passively at least to the tranquil temper of the two women, and made no harsh comments nor sombre allusions.
Rowland wondered whether he had, after all, done his friend injustice in denying him the sentiment of duty.
He refused invitations, to Rowland’s knowledge, in order to dine at the jejune little table-d’hote; wherever his spirit might be, he was present in the flesh with religious constancy.
Mrs. Hudson’s felicity betrayed itself in a remarkable tendency to finish her sentences and wear her best black silk gown.
Her tremors had trembled away; she was like a child who discovers that the shaggy monster it has so long been afraid to touch is an inanimate terror, compounded of straw and saw-dust, and that it is even a safe audacity to tickle its nose.
As to whether the love-knot of which Mary Garland had the keeping still held firm, who should pronounce?
The young girl, as we know, did not wear it on her sleeve.
She always sat at the table, near the candles, with a piece of needle-work.
This was the attitude in which Rowland had first seen her, and he thought, now that he had seen her in several others, it was not the least becoming.
