The Golden Bowl — Complete. Генри Джеймс

that,” Mrs. Assingham hastened to add, “and I didn’t in the least see my duty in making the worst. In the same situation, to-day; I wouldn’t act differently. I entered into the case as it then appeared to me—and as, for the matter of that, it still does. I LIKED it, I thought all sorts of good of it, and nothing can even now,” she said with some intensity, “make me think anything else.”

      “Nothing can ever make you think anything you don’t want to,” the Colonel, still in his chair, remarked over his pipe. “You’ve got a precious power of thinking whatever you do want. You want also, from moment to moment, to think such desperately different things. What happened,” he went on, “was that you fell violently in love with the Prince yourself, and that as you couldn’t get me out of the way you had to take some roundabout course. You couldn’t marry him, any more than Charlotte could—that is not to yourself. But you could to somebody else—it was always the Prince, it was always marriage. You could to your little friend, to whom there were no objections.”

      “Not only there were no objections, but there were reasons, positive ones—and all excellent, all charming.” She spoke with an absence of all repudiation of his exposure of the spring of her conduct; and this abstention, clearly and effectively conscious, evidently cost her nothing. “It IS always the Prince; and it IS always, thank heaven, marriage. And these are the things, God grant, that it will always be. That I could help, a year ago, most assuredly made me happy, and it continues to make me happy.”

      “Then why aren’t you quiet?”

      “I AM quiet,” said Fanny Assingham.

      He looked at her, with his colourless candour, still in his place; she moved about again, a little, emphasising by her unrest her declaration of her tranquillity. He was as silent, at first, as if he had taken her answer, but he was not to keep it long. “What do you make of it that, by your own show, Charlotte couldn’t tell her all? What do you make of it that the Prince didn’t tell her anything? Say one understands that there are things she can’t be told—since, as you put it, she is so easily scared and shocked.” He produced these objections slowly, giving her time, by his pauses, to stop roaming and come back to him. But she was roaming still when he concluded his inquiry. “If there hadn’t been anything there shouldn’t have been between the pair before Charlotte bolted—in order, precisely, as you say, that there SHOULDN’T be: why in the world was what there HAD been too bad to be spoken of?”

      Mrs. Assingham, after this question, continued still to circulate—not directly meeting it even when at last she stopped.

      “I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”

      “So I do—and I’m trying to make you so much so that you won’t worry more. Can’t you be quiet on THAT?”

      She thought a moment—then seemed to try. “To relate that she had to ‘bolt’ for the reasons we speak of, even though the bolting had done for her what she wished—THAT I can perfectly feel Charlotte’s not wanting to do.”

      “Ah then, if it HAS done for her what she wished-!” But the Colonel’s conclusion hung by the “if” which his wife didn’t take up. So it hung but the longer when he presently spoke again. “All one wonders, in that case, is why then she has come back to him.”

      “Say she hasn’t come back to him. Not really to HIM.”

      “I’ll say anything you like. But that won’t do me the same good as your saying it.”

      “Nothing, my dear, will do you good,” Mrs. Assingham returned. “You don’t care for anything in itself; you care for nothing but to be grossly amused because I don’t keep washing my hands—!”

      “I thought your whole argument was that everything is so right that this is precisely what you do.”

      But his wife, as it was a point she had often made, could go on as she had gone on before. “You’re perfectly indifferent, really; you’re perfectly immoral. You’ve taken part in the sack of cities, and I’m sure you’ve done dreadful things yourself. But I DON’T trouble my head, if you like. ‘So now there!’” she laughed.

      He accepted her laugh, but he kept his way. “Well, I back poor Charlotte.”

      “‘Back’ her?”

      “To know what she wants.”

      “Ah then, so do I. She does know what she wants.” And Mrs. Assingham produced this quantity, at last, on the girl’s behalf, as the ripe result of her late wanderings and musings. She had groped through their talk, for the thread, and now she had got it. “She wants to be magnificent.”

      “She is,” said the Colonel almost cynically.

      “She wants”—his wife now had it fast “to be thoroughly superior, and she’s capable of that.”

      “Of wanting to?”

      “Of carrying out her idea.”

      “And what IS her idea?”

      “To see Maggie through.”

      Bob Assingham wondered. “Through what?”

      “Through everything. She KNOWS the Prince.”

      “And Maggie doesn’t. No, dear thing”—Mrs. Assingham had to recognise it—“she doesn’t.”

      “So that Charlotte has come out to give her lessons?”

      She continued, Fanny Assingham, to work out her thought. “She has done this great thing for him. That is, a year ago, she practically did it. She practically, at any rate, helped him to do it himself—and helped me to help him. She kept off, she stayed away, she left him free; and what, moreover, were her silences to Maggie but a direct aid to him? If she had spoken in Florence; if she had told her own poor story; if she had, come back at any time—till within a few weeks ago; if she hadn’t gone to New York and hadn’t held out there: if she hadn’t done these things all that has happened since would certainly have been different. Therefore she’s in a position to be consistent now. She knows the Prince,” Mrs. Assingham repeated. It involved even again her former recognition. “And Maggie, dear thing, doesn’t.”

      She was high, she was lucid, she was almost inspired; and it was but the deeper drop therefore to her husband’s flat common sense. “In other words Maggie is, by her ignorance, in danger? Then if she’s in danger, there IS danger.”

      “There WON’T be—with Charlotte’s understanding of it. That’s where she has had her conception of being able to be heroic, of being able in fact to be sublime. She is, she will be”—the good lady by this time glowed. “So she sees it—to become, for her best friend, an element of POSITIVE safety.”

      Bob Assingham looked at it hard. “Which of them do you call her best friend?”

      She gave a toss of impatience. “I’ll leave you to discover!” But the grand truth thus made out she had now completely adopted. “It’s for US, therefore, to be hers.”

      “‘Hers’?”

      “You and I. It’s for us to be Charlotte’s. It’s for us, on our side, to see HER through.”

      “Through her sublimity?”

      “Through her noble, lonely life. Only—that’s essential—it mustn’t be lonely. It will be all right if she marries.”

      “So we’re to marry her?”

      “We’re to marry her. It will be,” Mrs. Assingham continued, “the great thing I can do.” She made it out more and more. “It will make up.”

      “Make up for what?” As she said nothing, however, his desire for lucidity renewed itself. “If everything’s so all right what is there to make up