The Golden Bowl — Complete. Генри Джеймс

a ricordo of nothing. It has no reference.”

      “Ah, my dear!” he vaguely protested. Their entertainer, meanwhile, stood there with his eyes on them, and the girl, though at this minute more interested in her passage with her friend than in anything else, again met his gaze. It was a comfort to her that their foreign tongue covered what they said—and they might have appeared of course, as the Prince now had one of the snuffboxes in his hand, to be discussing a purchase.

      “You don’t refer,” she went on to her companion. “I refer.”

      He had lifted the lid of his little box and he looked into it hard. “Do you mean by that then that you would be free—?”

      “‘Free’—?”

      “To offer me something?”

      This gave her a longer pause, and when she spoke again she might have seemed, oddly, to be addressing the dealer. “Would you allow me—?”

      “No,” said the Prince into his little box.

      “You wouldn’t accept it from me?”

      “No,” he repeated in the same way.

      She exhaled a long breath that was like a guarded sigh. “But you’ve touched an idea that HAS been mine. It’s what I’ve wanted.” Then she added: “It was what I hoped.”

      He put down his box—this had drawn his eyes. He made nothing, clearly, of the little man’s attention. “It’s what you brought me out for?”

      “Well, that’s, at any rate,” she returned, “my own affair. But it won’t do?”

      “It won’t do, cara mia.”

      “It’s impossible?”

      “It’s impossible.” And he took up one of the brooches.

      She had another pause, while the shopman only waited. “If I were to accept from you one of these charming little ornaments as you suggest, what should I do with it?”

      He was perhaps at last a little irritated; he even—as if HE might understand—looked vaguely across at their host. “Wear it, per Bacco!”

      “Where then, please? Under my clothes?”

      “Wherever you like. But it isn’t then, if you will,” he added, “worth talking about.”

      “It’s only worth talking about, mio caro,” she smiled, “from your having begun it. My question is only reasonable—so that your idea may stand or fall by your answer to it. If I should pin one of these things on for you would it be, to your mind, that I might go home and show it to Maggie as your present?”

      They had had between them often in talk the refrain, jocosely, descriptively applied, of “old Roman.” It had been, as a pleasantry, in the other time, his explanation to her of everything; but nothing, truly, had even seemed so old-Roman as the shrug in which he now indulged. “Why in the world not?”

      “Because—on our basis—it would be impossible to give her an account of the pretext.”

      “The pretext—?” He wondered.

      “The occasion. This ramble that we shall have had together and that we’re not to speak of.”

      “Oh yes,” he said after a moment “I remember we’re not to speak of it.”

      “That of course you’re pledged to. And the one thing, you see, goes with the other. So you don’t insist.”

      He had again, at random, laid back his trinket; with which he quite turned to her, a little wearily at last—even a little impatiently. “I don’t insist.”

      It disposed for the time of the question, but what was next apparent was that it had seen them no further. The shopman, who had not stirred, stood there in his patience—which, his mute intensity helping, had almost the effect of an ironic comment. The Prince moved to the glass door and, his back to the others, as with nothing more to contribute, looked—though not less patiently—into the street. Then the shopman, for Charlotte, momentously broke silence. “You’ve seen, disgraziatamente, signora principessa,” he sadly said, “too much”—and it made the Prince face about. For the effect of the momentous came, if not from the sense, from the sound of his words; which was that of the suddenest, sharpest Italian. Charlotte exchanged with her friend a glance that matched it, and just for the minute they were held in check. But their glance had, after all, by that time, said more than one thing; had both exclaimed on the apprehension, by the wretch, of their intimate conversation, let alone of her possible, her impossible, title, and remarked, for mutual reassurance, that it didn’t, all the same, matter. The Prince remained by the door, but immediately addressing the speaker from where he stood.

      “You’re Italian then, are you?”

      But the reply came in English. “Oh dear no.”

      “You’re English?”

      To which the answer was this time, with a smile, in briefest Italian. “Che!” The dealer waived the question—he practically disposed of it by turning straightway toward a receptacle to which he had not yet resorted and from which, after unlocking it, he extracted a square box, of some twenty inches in height, covered with worn-looking leather. He placed the box on the counter, pushed back a pair of small hooks, lifted the lid and removed from its nest a drinking-vessel larger than a common cup, yet not of exorbitant size, and formed, to appearance, either of old fine gold or of some material once richly gilt. He handled it with tenderness, with ceremony, making a place for it on a small satin mat. “My Golden Bowl,” he observed—and it sounded, on his lips, as if it said everything. He left the important object—for as “important” it did somehow present itself—to produce its certain effect. Simple, but singularly elegant, it stood on a circular foot, a short pedestal with a slightly spreading base, and, though not of signal depth, justified its title by the charm of its shape as well as by the tone of its surface. It might have been a large goblet diminished, to the enhancement of its happy curve, by half its original height. As formed of solid gold it was impressive; it seemed indeed to warn off the prudent admirer. Charlotte, with care, immediately took it up, while the Prince, who had after a minute shifted his position again, regarded it from a distance.

      It was heavier than Charlotte had thought. “Gold, really gold?” she asked of their companion.

      He hesitated. “Look a little, and perhaps you’ll make out.”

      She looked, holding it up in both her fine hands, turning it to the light. “It may be cheap for what it is, but it will be dear, I’m afraid, for me.”

      “Well,” said the man, “I can part with it for less than its value. I got it, you see, for less.”

      “For how much then?”

      Again he waited, always with his serene stare. “Do you like it then?”

      Charlotte turned to her friend. “Do YOU like it?” He came no nearer; he looked at their companion. “Cos’e?”

      “Well, signori miei, if you must know, it’s just a perfect crystal.”

      “Of course we must know, per Dio!” said the Prince. But he turned away again—he went back to his glass door.

      Charlotte set down the bowl; she was evidently taken. “Do you mean it’s cut out of a single crystal?”

      “If it isn’t I think I can promise you that you’ll never find any joint or any piecing.”

      She wondered. “Even if I were to scrape off the gold?”

      He showed, though with due respect, that she amused him. “You couldn’t scrape it off—it has been too well