The resemblance had not been present to her on first coming out into the hot, still brightness of the Sunday afternoon — only the second Sunday, of all the summer, when the party of six, the party of seven including the Principino, had practically been without accessions or invasions; but within sight of Charlotte, seated far away, very much where she had expected to find her, the Princess fell to wondering if her friend wouldn’t be affected2 quite as she herself had been, that night on the terrace, under Mrs. Verver’s perceptive3 pursuit. The relation, today, had turned itself round; Charlotte was seeing her come, through patches of lingering noon, quite as she had watched Charlotte menace her through the starless dark; and there was a moment, that of her waiting a little as they thus met across the distance, when the interval4 was bridged by a recognition not less soundless, and to all appearance not less charged with strange meanings, than that of the other occasion. The point, however, was that they had changed places; Maggie had from her window, seen her stepmother leave the house — at so unlikely an hour, three o’clock of a canicular August, for a ramble5 in garden or grove6 — and had thereupon felt her impulse determined7 with the same sharpness that had made the spring of her companion’s three weeks before. It was the hottest day of the season, and the shaded siesta8, for people all at their ease, would certainly rather have been prescribed; but our young woman had perhaps not yet felt it so fully9 brought home that such refinements10 of repose11, among them, constituted the empty chair at the feast. This was the more distinct as the feast, literally12, in the great bedimmed dining-room, the cool, ceremonious semblance1 of luncheon13, had just been taking place without Mrs. Verver. She had been represented but by the plea of a bad headache, not reported to the rest of the company by her husband, but offered directly to Mr. Verver himself, on their having assembled, by her maid, deputed for the effect and solemnly producing it.
Maggie had sat down, with the others, to viands15 artfully iced, to the slow circulation of precious tinkling16 jugs17, to marked reserves of reference in many directions — poor Fanny Assingham herself scarce thrusting her nose out of the padded hollow into which she had withdrawn18. A consensus20 of languor21, which might almost have been taken for a community of dread22, ruled the scene — relieved only by the fitful experiments of Father Mitchell, good holy, hungry man, a trusted and overworked London friend and adviser23, who had taken, for a week or two, the light neighbouring service, local rites24 flourishing under Maggie’s munificence25, and was enjoying, as a convenience, all the bounties26 of the house. HE conversed27 undiscouraged, Father Mitchell — conversed mainly with the indefinite, wandering smile of the entertainers, and the Princess’s power to feel him on the whole a blessing28 for these occasions was not impaired29 by what was awkward in her consciousness of having, from the first of her trouble, really found her way without his guidance. She asked herself at times if he suspected how more than subtly, how perversely30, she had dispensed31 with him, and she balanced between visions of all he must privately32 have guessed and certitudes that he had guessed nothing whatever. He might nevertheless have been so urbanely33 filling up gaps, at present, for the very reason that his instinct, sharper than the expression of his face, had sufficiently34 served him — made him aware of the thin ice, figuratively speaking, and of prolongations of tension, round about him, mostly foreign to the circles in which luxury was akin14 to virtue35. Some day in some happier season, she would confess to him that she hadn’t confessed, though taking so much on her conscience; but just now she was carrying in her weak, stiffened36 hand a glass filled to the brim, as to which she had recorded a vow37 that no drop should overflow38. She feared the very breath of a better wisdom, the jostle of the higher light, of heavenly help itself; and, in addition, however that might be, she drew breath this afternoon, as never yet, in an element heavy to oppression. Something grave had happened, somehow and somewhere, and she had, God knew, her choice of suppositions: her heart stood still when she wondered above all if the cord mightn’t at last have snapped between her husband and her father. She shut her eyes for dismay at the possibility of such a passage — there moved before them the procession of ugly forms it might have taken. “Find out for yourself!” she had thrown to Amerigo, for her last word, on the question of who else “knew,” that night of the breaking of the Bowl; and she flattered herself that she hadn’t since then helped him, in her clear consistency39, by an inch. It was what she had given him, all these weeks, to be busy with, and she had again and again lain awake for the obsession40 of this sense of his uncertainty41 ruthlessly and endlessly playing with his dignity. She had handed him over to an ignorance that couldn’t even try to become indifferent and that yet wouldn’t project itself, either, into the cleared air of conviction. In proportion as he was generous it had bitten into his spirit, and more than once she had said to herself that to break the spell she had cast upon him and that the polished old ivory of her father’s inattackable surface made so absolute, he would suddenly commit some mistake or some violence, smash some windowpane for air, fail even of one of his blest inveteracies of taste. In that way, fatally, he would have put himself in the wrong — blighting42 by a single false step the perfection of his outward show.
These shadows rose and fell for her while Father Mitchell prattled43; with other shadows as well, those that hung over Charlotte herself, those that marked her as a prey44 to equal suspicions — to the idea, in particular, of a change, such a change as she didn’t dare to face, in the relations of the two men. Or there were yet other possibilities, as it seemed to Maggie; there were always too many, and all of them things of evil when one’s nerves had at last done for one all that nerves could do; had left one in a darkness of prowling dangers that was like the predicament of the night-watcher in a beast-haunted land who has no more means for a fire. She might, with such nerves, have supposed almost anything of any one; anything, almost, of poor Bob Assingham, condemned45 to eternal observances and solemnly appreciating her father’s wine; anything, verily, yes, of the good priest, as he finally sat back with fat folded hands and twiddled his thumbs on his stomach. The good priest looked hard at the decanters, at the different dishes of dessert — he eyed them, half-obliquely, as if THEY might have met him today, for conversation, better than any one present. But the Princess had her fancy at last about that too; she was in the midst of a passage, before she knew it, between Father Mitchell and Charlotte — some approach he would have attempted with her, that very morning perhaps, to the circumstance of an apparent detachment, recently noted46 in her, from any practice of devotion. He would have drawn19 from this, say, his artless inference — taken it for a sign of some smothered47 inward trouble and pointed48, naturally, the moral that the way out of such straits was not through neglect of the grand remedy. He had possibly prescribed contrition49 — he had at any rate quickened in her the beat of that false repose to which our young woman’s own act had devoted50 her at her all so deluded51 instance. The falsity of it had laid traps compared to which the imputation52 of treachery even accepted might have seemed a path of roses. The acceptance, strangely, would have left her nothing to do — she could have remained, had she liked, all insolently53 passive; whereas the failure to proceed against her, as it might have been called, left her everything, and all the more that it was wrapped so in confidence. She had to confirm, day after day, the rightness of her cause and the justice and felicity of her exemption54 — so that wouldn’t there have been, fairly, in any explicit55 concern of Father Mitchell’s, depths of practical derision of her success?
The question was provisionally answered, at all events, by the time the party at luncheon had begun to disperse56 — with Maggie’s version of Mrs. Verver sharp to the point of representing her pretext57 for absence as a positive flight from derision. She met the good priest’s eyes before they separated, and priests were really, at the worst, so to speak, such wonderful people that she believed him for an instant on the verge58 of saying to her, in abysmal59 softness: “Go to Mrs. Verver, my child — YOU go: you’ll find that you can help her.” This didn’t come, however; nothing came but the renewed twiddle of thumbs over the satisfied stomach and the full flush, the comical candour, of reference to the hand employed at Fawns60 for mayonnaise of salmon61. Nothing came but the receding62 backs of each of the others — her father’s slightly bent63 shoulders, in especial, which seemed to weave his spell, by the force of habit, not less patiently than if his wife had been present. Her husband indeed was present to feel anything there might be to feel — which was perhaps exactly why this personage was moved promptly64 to emulate65 so definite an example of “sloping.” He had his occupations — books to arrange perhaps even at Fawns; the idea of the siesta, moreover, in all the conditions, had no need to be loudly invoked66. Maggie, was, in the event, left alone for a minute with Mrs. Assingham, who, after waiting for safety, appeared to have at heart to make a demonstration68. The stage of “talking over” had long passed for them; when they communicated now it was on quite ultimate facts; but Fanny desired to testify to the existence, on her part, of an attention that nothing escaped. She was like the kind lady who, happening to linger at the circus while the rest of the spectators pour grossly through the exits, falls in with the overworked little trapezist girl — the acrobatic support presumably of embarrassed and exacting69 parents — and gives her, as an obscure and meritorious70 artist, assurance of benevolent71 interest. What was clearest, always, in our young woman’s imaginings, was the sense of being herself left, for any occasion, in the breach72. She was essentially73 there to bear the burden, in the last resort, of surrounding omissions74 and evasions75, and it was eminently76 to that office she had been today abandoned — with this one alleviation77, as appeared, of Mrs. Assingham’s keeping up with her. Mrs. Assingham suggested that she too was still on the ramparts — though her gallantry proved indeed after a moment to consist not a little of her curiosity. She had looked about and seen their companions beyond earshot.
“Don’t you really want us to go —?”
Maggie found a faint smile. “Do you really want to —?”
It made her friend colour. “Well then — no. But we WOULD, you know, at a look from you. We’d pack up and be off — as a sacrifice.”
“Ah, make no sacrifice,” said Maggie. “See me through.”
“That’s it — that’s all I want. I should be too base —! Besides,” Fanny went on, “you’re too splendid.”
“Splendid?”
“Splendid. Also, you know, you ARE all but ‘through.’ You’ve done it,” said Mrs. Assingham. But Maggie only half took it from her.
“What does it strike you that I’ve done?”
“What you wanted. They’re going.”
Maggie continued to look at her. “Is that what I wanted?”
“Oh, it wasn’t for you to say. That was his business.”
“My father’s?” Maggie asked after an hesitation78.
“Your father’s. He has chosen — and now she knows. She sees it all before her — and she can’t speak, or resist, or move a little finger. That’s what’s the matter with HER,” said Fanny Assingham.
It made a picture, somehow, for the Princess, as they stood there — the picture that the words of others, whatever they might be, always made for her, even when her vision was already charged, better than any words of her own. She saw, round about her, through the chinks of the shutters79, the hard glare of nature — saw Charlotte, somewhere in it, virtually at bay, and yet denied the last grace of any protecting truth. She saw her off somewhere all unaided, pale in her silence and taking in her fate. “Has she told you?” she then asked.
Her companion smiled superior. “I don’t need to be told — either! I see something, thank God, every day.” And then as Maggie might appear to be wondering what, for instance: “I see the long miles of ocean and the dreadful great country, State after State — which have never seemed to me so big or so terrible. I see THEM at last, day by day and step by step, at the far end — and I see them never come back. But NEVER— simply. I see the extraordinary ‘interesting’ place — which I’ve never been to, you know, and you have — and the exact degree in which she will be expected to be interested.”
“She WILL be,” Maggie presently replied. “Expected?”
“Interested.”
For a little, after this, their eyes met on it; at the end of which Fanny said: “She’ll be-yes — what she’ll HAVE to be. And it will be-won’t it? for ever and ever.” She spoke80 as abounding81 in her friend’s sense, but it made Maggie still only look at her.
These were large words and large visions — all the more that now, really, they spread and spread. In the midst of them, however, Mrs. Assingham had soon enough continued. “When I talk of ‘knowing,’ indeed, I don’t mean it as you would have a right to do. You know because you see — and I don’t see HIM. I don’t make him out,” she almost crudely confessed.
Maggie again hesitated. “You mean you don’t make out Amerigo?”
But Fanny shook her head, and it was quite as if, as an appeal to one’s intelligence, the making out of Amerigo had, in spite of everything, long been superseded82. Then Maggie measured the reach of her allusion83, and how what she next said gave her meaning a richness. No other name was to be spoken, and Mrs. Assingham had taken that, without delay, from her eyes — with a discretion84, still, that fell short but by an inch. “You know how he feels.”
Maggie at this then slowly matched her headshake. “I know nothing.”
“You know how YOU feel.”
But again she denied it. “I know nothing. If I did —!”
“Well, if you did?” Fanny asked as she faltered85.
She had had enough, however. “I should die,” she said as she turned away.
She went to her room, through the quiet house; she roamed there a moment, picking up, pointlessly, a different fan, and then took her way to the shaded apartments in which, at this hour, the Principino would be enjoying his nap. She passed through the first empty room, the day nursery, and paused at an open door. The inner room, large, dim and cool, was equally calm; her boy’s ample, antique, historical, royal crib, consecrated86, reputedly, by the guarded rest of heirs-apparent, and a gift, early in his career, from his grandfather, ruled the scene from the centre, in the stillness of which she could almost hear the child’s soft breathing. The prime protector of his dreams was installed beside him; her father sat there with as little motion — with head thrown back and supported, with eyes apparently87 closed, with the fine foot that was so apt to betray nervousness at peace upon the other knee, with the unfathomable heart folded in the constant flawless freshness of the white waistcoat that could always receive in its armholes the firm prehensile88 thumbs. Mrs. Noble had majestically89 melted, and the whole place signed her temporary abdication90; yet the actual situation was regular, and Maggie lingered but to look. She looked over her fan, the top of which was pressed against her face, long enough to wonder if her father really slept or if, aware of her, he only kept consciously quiet. Did his eyes truly fix her between lids partly open, and was she to take this — his forebearance from any question — only as a sign again that everything was left to her? She at all events, for a minute, watched his immobility — then, as if once more renewing her total submission91, returned, without a sound, to her own quarters.
A strange impulse was sharp in her, but it was not, for her part, the desire to shift the weight. She could as little have slept as she could have slept that morning, days before, when she had watched the first dawn from her window. Turned to the east, this side of her room was now in shade, with the two wings of the casement92 folded back and the charm she always found in her seemingly perched position — as if her outlook, from above the high terraces, was that of some castle-tower mounted on a rock. When she stood there she hung over, over the gardens and the woods — all of which drowsed below her, at this hour, in the immensity of light. The miles of shade looked hot, the banks of flowers looked dim; the peacocks on the balustrades let their tails hang limp and the smaller birds lurked93 among the leaves. Nothing therefore would have appeared to stir in the brilliant void if Maggie, at the moment she was about to turn away, had not caught sight of a moving spot, a clear green sunshade in the act of descending94 a flight of steps. It passed down from the terrace, receding, at a distance, from sight, and carried, naturally, so as to conceal95 the head and back of its bearer; but Maggie had quickly recognised the white dress and the particular motion of this adventurer — had taken in that Charlotte, of all people, had chosen the glare of noon for an exploration of the gardens, and that she could be betaking herself only to some unvisited quarter deep in them, or beyond them, that she had already marked as a superior refuge. The Princess kept her for a few minutes in sight, watched her long enough to feel her, by the mere96 betrayal of her pace and direction, driven in a kind of flight, and then understood, for herself, why the act of sitting still had become impossible to either of them. There came to her, confusedly, some echo of an ancient fable97 — some vision of Io goaded98 by the gadfly or of Ariadne roaming the lone67 sea-strand. It brought with it all the sense of her own intention and desire; she too might have been, for the hour, some far-off harassed99 heroine — only with a part to play for which she knew, exactly, no inspiring precedent100. She knew but that, all the while — all the while of her sitting there among the others without her — she had wanted to go straight to this detached member of the party and make somehow, for her support, the last demonstration. A pretext was all that was needful, and Maggie after another instant had found one. She had caught a glimpse, before Mrs. Verver disappeared, of her carrying a book — made out, half lost in the folds of her white dress, the dark cover of a volume that was to explain her purpose in case of her being met with surprise, and the mate of which, precisely101, now lay on Maggie’s table. The book was an old novel that the Princess had a couple of days before mentioned having brought down from Portland Place in the charming original form of its three volumes. Charlotte had hailed, with a specious102 glitter of interest, the opportunity to read it, and our young woman had, thereupon, on the morrow, directed her maid to carry it to Mrs. Verver’s apartments. She was afterwards to observe that this messenger, unintelligent or inadvertent, had removed but one of the volumes, which happened not to be the first. Still possessed103, accordingly, of the first while Charlotte, going out, fantastically, at such an hour, to cultivate romance in an arbour, was helplessly armed with the second, Maggie prepared on the spot to sally forth104 with succour. The right volume, with a parasol, was all she required — in addition, that is, to the bravery of her general idea. She passed again through the house, unchallenged, and emerged upon the terrace, which she followed, hugging the shade, with that consciousness of turning the tables on her friend which we have already noted. But so far as she went, after descending into the open and beginning to explore the grounds, Mrs. Verver had gone still further — with the increase of the oddity, moreover, of her having exchanged the protection of her room for these exposed and shining spaces. It was not, fortunately, however, at last, that by persisting in pursuit one didn’t arrive at regions of admirable shade: this was the asylum105, presumably, that the poor wandering woman had had in view — several wide alleys106, in particular, of great length, densely107 overarched with the climbing rose and the honeysuckle and converging108, in separate green vistas110, at a sort of umbrageous111 temple, an ancient rotunda112, pillared and statued, niched and roofed, yet with its uncorrected antiquity113, like that of everything else at Fawns, conscious hitherto of no violence from the present and no menace from the future. Charlotte had paused there, in her frenzy114, or what ever it was to be called; the place was a conceivable retreat, and she was staring before her, from the seat to which she appeared to have sunk, all unwittingly, as Maggie stopped at the beginning of one of the perspectives.
It was a repetition more than ever then of the evening on the terrace; the distance was too great to assure her she had been immediately seen, but the Princess waited, with her intention, as Charlotte on the other occasion had waited — allowing, oh allowing, for the difference of the intention! Maggie was full of the sense of THAT— so full that it made her impatient; whereupon she moved forward a little, placing herself in range of the eyes that had been looking off elsewhere, but that she had suddenly called to recognition. Charlotte had evidently not dreamed of being followed, and instinctively115, with her pale stare, she stiffened herself for protest. Maggie could make that out — as well as, further, however, that her second impression of her friend’s approach had an instant effect on her attitude. The Princess came nearer, gravely and in silence, but fairly paused again, to give her time for whatever she would. Whatever she would, whatever she could, was what Maggie wanted — wanting above all to make it as easy for her as the case permitted. That was not what Charlotte had wanted the other night, but this never mattered — the great thing was to allow her, was fairly to produce in her, the sense of highly choosing. At first, clearly, she had been frightened; she had not been pursued, it had quickly struck her, without some design on the part of her pursuer, and what might she not be thinking of in addition but the way she had, when herself the pursuer, made her stepdaughter take in her spirit and her purpose? It had sunk into Maggie at the time, that hard insistence116, and Mrs. Verver had felt it and seen it and heard it sink; which wonderful remembrance of pressure successfully applied117 had naturally, till now, remained with her. But her stare was like a projected fear that the buried treasure, so dishonestly come by, for which her companion’s still countenance118, at the hour and afterwards, had consented to serve as the deep soil, might have worked up again to the surface, to be thrown back upon her hands. Yes, it was positive that during one of these minutes the Princess had the vision of her particular alarm. “It’s her lie, it’s her lie that has mortally disagreed with her; she can keep down no longer her rebellion at it, and she has come to retract119 it, to disown it and denounce it — to give me full in my face the truth instead.” This, for a concentrated instant, Maggie felt her helplessly gasp120 — but only to let it bring home the indignity121, the pity of her state. She herself could but tentatively hover122, place in view the book she carried, look as little dangerous, look as abjectly123 mild, as possible; remind herself really of people she had read about in stories of the wild west, people who threw up their hands, on certain occasions, as a sign they weren’t carrying revolvers. She could almost have smiled at last, troubled as she yet knew herself, to show how richly she was harmless; she held up her volume, which was so weak a weapon, and while she continued, for consideration, to keep her distance, she explained with as quenched124 a quaver as possible. “I saw you come out — saw you from my window, and couldn’t bear to think you should find yourself here without the beginning of your book. THIS is the beginning; you’ve got the wrong volume, and I’ve brought you out the right.”
She remained after she had spoken; it was like holding a parley125 with a possible adversary126, and her intense, her exalted127 little smile asked for formal leave. “May I come nearer now?” she seemed to say — as to which, however, the next minute, she saw Charlotte’s reply lose itself in a strange process, a thing of several sharp stages, which she could stand there and trace. The dread, after a minute, had dropped from her face; though, discernibly enough, she still couldn’t believe in her having, in so strange a fashion, been deliberately128 made up to. If she had been made up to, at least, it was with an idea — the idea that had struck her at first as necessarily dangerous. That it wasn’t, insistently129 wasn’t, this shone from Maggie with a force finally not to be resisted; and on that perception, on the immense relief so constituted, everything had by the end of three minutes extraordinarily130 changed. Maggie had come out to her, really, because she knew her doomed132, doomed to a separation that was like a knife in her heart; and in the very sight of her uncontrollable, her blinded physical quest of a peace not to be grasped, something of Mrs. Assingham’s picture of her as thrown, for a grim future, beyond the great sea and the great continent had at first found fulfilment. She had got away, in this fashion — burning behind her, almost, the ships of disguise — to let her horror of what was before her play up without witnesses; and even after Maggie’s approach had presented an innocent front it was still not to be mistaken that she bristled133 with the signs of her extremity134. It was not to be said for them, either, that they were draped at this hour in any of her usual graces; unveiled and all but unashamed, they were tragic135 to the Princess in spite of the dissimulation136 that, with the return of comparative confidence, was so promptly to operate. How tragic, in essence, the very change made vivid, the instant stiffening137 of the spring of pride — this for possible defence if not for possible aggression138. Pride indeed, the next moment, had become the mantle139 caught up for protection and perversity140; she flung it round her as a denial of any loss of her freedom. To be doomed was, in her situation, to have extravagantly141 incurred142 a doom131, so that to confess to wretchedness was, by the same stroke, to confess to falsity. She wouldn’t confess, she didn’t — a thousand times no; she only cast about her, and quite frankly143 and fiercely, for something else that would give colour to her having burst her bonds. Her eyes expanded, her bosom144 heaved as she invoked it, and the effect upon Maggie was verily to wish she could only help her to it. She presently got up — which seemed to mean “Oh, stay if you like!” and when she had moved about awhile at random145, looking away, looking at anything, at everything but her visitor; when she had spoken of the temperature and declared that she revelled146 in it; when she had uttered her thanks for the book, which, a little incoherently, with her second volume, she perhaps found less clever than she expected; when she had let Maggie approach sufficiently closer to lay, untouched, the tribute in question on a bench and take up obligingly its superfluous147 mate: when she had done these things she sat down in another place, more or less visibly in possession of her part. Our young woman was to have passed, in all her adventure, no stranger moments; for she not only now saw her companion fairly agree to take her then for the poor little person she was finding it so easy to appear, but fell, in a secret, responsive ecstasy148, to wondering if there were not some supreme149 abjection150 with which she might be inspired. Vague, but increasingly brighter, this possibility glimmered151 on her. It at last hung there adequately plain to Charlotte that she had presented herself once more to (as they said) grovel153; and that, truly, made the stage large. It had absolutely, within the time, taken on the dazzling merit of being large for each of them alike.
“I’m glad to see you alone — there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you. I’m tired,” said Mrs. Verver, “I’m tired —!”
“Tired —?” It had dropped the next thing; it couldn’t all come at once; but Maggie had already guessed what it was, and the flush of recognition was in her face.
“Tired of this life — the one we’ve been leading. You like it, I know, but I’ve dreamed another dream.” She held up her head now; her lighted eyes more triumphantly154 rested; she was finding, she was following her way. Maggie, by the same influence, sat in sight of it; there was something she was SAVING, some quantity of which she herself was judge; and it was for a long moment, even with the sacrifice the Princess had come to make, a good deal like watching her, from the solid shore, plunge155 into uncertain, into possibly treacherous156 depths. “I see something else,” she went on; “I’ve an idea that greatly appeals to me — I’ve had it for a long time. It has come over me that we’re wrong. Our real life isn’t here.”
Maggie held her breath. “‘Ours’—?”
“My husband’s and mine. I’m not speaking for you.”
“Oh!” said Maggie, only praying not to be, not even to appear, stupid.
“I’m speaking for ourselves. I’m speaking,” Charlotte brought out, “for HIM.”
“I see. For my father.”
“For your father. For whom else?” They looked at each other hard now, but Maggie’s face took refuge in the intensity157 of her interest. She was not at all even so stupid as to treat her companion’s question as requiring an answer; a discretion that her controlled stillness had after an instant justified158. “I must risk your thinking me selfish — for of course you know what it involves. Let me admit it — I AM selfish. I place my husband first.”
“Well,” said Maggie smiling and smiling, “since that’s where I place mine —!”
“You mean you’ll have no quarrel with me? So much the better then; for,” Charlotte went on with a higher and higher flight, “my plan is completely formed.”
Maggie waited — her glimmer152 had deepened; her chance somehow was at hand. The only danger was her spoiling it; she felt herself skirting an abyss. “What then, may I ask IS your plan?”
It hung fire but ten seconds; it came out sharp. “To take him home — to his real position. And not to wait.”
“Do you mean — a — this season?”
“I mean immediately. And — I may as well tell you now — I mean for my own time. I want,” Charlotte said, “to have him at last a little to myself; I want, strange as it may seem to you”— and she gave it all its weight “to KEEP the man I’ve married. And to do so, I see, I must act.”
Maggie, with the effort still to follow the right line, felt herself colour to the eyes. “Immediately?” she thoughtfully echoed.
“As soon as we can get off. The removal of everything is, after all, but a detail. That can always be done; with money, as he spends it, everything can. What I ask for,” Charlotte declared, “is the definite break. And I wish it now.” With which her head, like her voice rose higher. “Oh,” she added, “I know my difficulty!”
Far down below the level of attention, in she could scarce have said what sacred depths, Maggie’s inspiration had come, and it had trembled the next moment into sound. “Do you mean I’M your difficulty?”
“You and he together — since it’s always with you that I’ve had to see him. But it’s a difficulty that I’m facing, if you wish to know; that I’ve already faced; that I propose to myself to surmount159. The struggle with it — none too pleasant — hasn’t been for me, as you may imagine, in itself charming; I’ve felt in it at times, if I must tell you all, too great and too strange, an ugliness. Yet I believe it may succeed.”
She had risen, with this, Mrs. Verver, and had moved, for the emphasis of it, a few steps away; while Maggie, motionless at first, but sat and looked at her. “You want to take my father FROM me?”
The sharp, successful, almost primitive160 wail161 in it made Charlotte turn, and this movement attested162 for the Princess the felicity of her deceit. Something in her throbbed163 as it had throbbed the night she stood in the drawing-room and denied that she had suffered. She was ready to lie again if her companion would but give her the opening. Then she should know she had done all. Charlotte looked at her hard, as if to compare her face with her note of resentment164; and Maggie, feeling this, met it with the signs of an impression that might pass for the impression of defeat. “I want really to possess him,” said Mrs. Verver. “I happen also to feel that he’s worth it.”
Maggie rose as if to receive her. “Oh — worth it!” she wonderfully threw off.
The tone, she instantly saw, again had its effect: Charlotte flamed aloft — might truly have been believing in her passionate165 parade. “You’ve thought YOU’VE known what he’s worth?”
“Indeed then, my dear, I believe I have — as I believe I still do.”
She had given it, Maggie, straight back, and again it had not missed. Charlotte, for another moment, only looked at her; then broke into the words — Maggie had known they would come — of which she had pressed the spring. “How I see that you loathed166 our marriage!”
“Do you ASK me?” Maggie after an instant demanded.
Charlotte had looked about her, picked up the parasol she had laid on a bench, possessed herself mechanically of one of the volumes of the relegated167 novel and then, more consciously, flung it down again: she was in presence, visibly, of her last word. She opened her sunshade with a click; she twirled it on her shoulder in her pride. “‘Ask’ you? Do I need? How I see,” she broke out, “that you’ve worked against me!”
“Oh, oh, oh!” the Princess exclaimed.
Her companion, leaving her, had reached one of the archways, but on this turned round with a flare168. “You haven’t worked against me?”
Maggie took it and for a moment kept it; held it, with closed eyes, as if it had been some captured fluttering bird pressed by both hands to her breast. Then she opened her eyes to speak. “What does it matter — if I’ve failed?”
“You recognise then that you’ve failed?” asked Charlotte from the threshold.
Maggie waited; she looked, as her companion had done a moment before, at the two books on the seat; she put them together and laid them down; then she made up her mind. “I’ve failed!” she sounded out before Charlotte, having given her time, walked away. She watched her, splendid and erect169, float down the long vista109; then she sank upon a seat. Yes, she had done all.
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1
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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consensus
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| n.(意见等的)一致，一致同意，共识 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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28
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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29
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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32
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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urbanely
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| adv.都市化地，彬彬有礼地，温文尔雅地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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41
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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42
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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43
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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45
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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47
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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50
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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51
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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53
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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54
exemption
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| n.豁免，免税额，免除 | |
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55
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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56
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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59
abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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60
fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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61
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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62
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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64
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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65
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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68
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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72
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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74
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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75
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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76
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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77
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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78
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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79
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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80
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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81
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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82
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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83
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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84
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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85
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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86
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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87
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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88
prehensile
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| adj.（足等）适于抓握的 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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91
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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93
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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96
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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98
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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99
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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101
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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102
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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103
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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104
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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105
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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106
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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107
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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108
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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109
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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110
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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111
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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112
rotunda
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| n.圆形建筑物；圆厅 | |
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113
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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114
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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115
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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116
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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117
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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118
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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119
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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120
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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121
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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122
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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123
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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124
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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125
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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126
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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127
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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128
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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129
insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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130
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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131
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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132
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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133
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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134
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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135
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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136
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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137
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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138
aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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139
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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140
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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141
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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142
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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143
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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144
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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147
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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148
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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149
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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150
abjection
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| n. 卑鄙, 落魄 | |
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151
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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153
grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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154
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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156
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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157
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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158
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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159
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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160
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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163
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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166
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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167
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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168
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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