V
He had, however, within two days, another separation to face.
He had sent Maria Gostrey a word early, by hand, to ask if he might
come to breakfast; in consequence of which, at noon, she awaited
him in the cool shade of her little Dutch-looking dining-room.
This retreat was at the back of the house, with a view of a scrap
of old garden that had been saved from modern ravage; and though he
had on more than one other occasion had his legs under its small
and peculiarly polished table of hospitality, the place had never
before struck him as so sacred to pleasant knowledge, to intimate
charm, to antique order, to a neatness that was almost august.
To sit there was, as he had told his hostess before, to see life
reflected for the time in ideally kept pewter; which was somehow
becoming, improving to life, so that one's eyes were held and
comforted. Strether's were comforted at all events now--and the
more that it was the last time--with the charming effect, on the
board bare of a cloth and proud of its perfect surface, of the
small old crockery and old silver, matched by the more substantial
pieces happily disposed about the room. The specimens of vivid
Delf, in particular had the dignity of family portraits; and it was
in the midst of them that our friend resignedly expressed himself.
He spoke even with a certain philosophic humour. "There's nothing
more to wait for; I seem to have done a good day's work. I've let
them have it all round. I've seen Chad, who has been to London and
come back. He tells me I'm 'exciting,' and I seem indeed pretty
well to have upset every one. I've at any rate excited HIM. He's
distinctly restless."
"You've excited ME," Miss Gostrey smiled. "I'M distinctly restless."
"Oh you were that when I found you. It seems to me I've rather got
you out of it. What's this," he asked as he looked about him, "but
a haunt of ancient peace?"
"I wish with all my heart," she presently replied, "I could make
you treat it as a haven of rest." On which they fronted each other,
across the table, as if things unuttered were in the air.
Strether seemed, in his way, when he next spoke, to take some of
them up. "It wouldn't give me--that would be the trouble--what it
will, no doubt, still give you. I'm not," he explained, leaning
back in his chair, but with his eyes on a small ripe round melon--
"in real harmony with what surrounds me. You ARE. I take it too hard.
You DON'T. It makes--that's what it comes to in the end--a fool of me."
Then at a tangent, "What has he been doing in London?" he demanded.
"Ah one may go to London," Maria laughed. "You know I did."
Yes--he took the reminder. "And you brought ME back." He brooded
there opposite to her, but without gloom. "Whom has Chad brought?
He's full of ideas. And I wrote to Sarah," he added, "the first
thing this morning. So I'm square. I'm ready for them."
She neglected certain parts of this speech in the interest of
others. "Marie said to me the other day that she felt him to have
the makings of an immense man of business."
"There it is. He's the son of his father!"
"But SUCH a father!"
"Ah just the right one from that point of view! But it isn't his
father in him," Strether added, "that troubles me."
"What is it then?" He came back to his breakfast; he partook
presently of the charming melon, which she liberally cut for him;
and it was only after this that he met her question. Then moreover
it was but to remark that he'd answer her presently. She waited,
she watched, she served him and amused him, and it was perhaps with
this last idea that she soon reminded him of his having never even
yet named to her the article produced at Woollett. "Do you
remember our talking of it in London--that night at the play?"
Before he could say yes, however, she had put it to him for other
matters. Did he remember, did he remember--this and that of their
first days? He remembered everything, bringing up with humour
even things of which she professed no recollection, things she
vehemently denied; and falling back above all on the great
interest of their early time, the curiosity felt by both of them
as to where he would "come out." They had so assumed it was to be
in some wonderful place--they had thought of it as so very MUCH
out. Well, that was doubtless what it had been--since he had come
out just there. He was out, in truth, as far as it was possible
to be, and must now rather bethink himself of getting in again.
He found on the spot the image of his recent history; he was like
one of the figures of the old clock at Berne. THEY came out, on
one side, at their hour, jigged along their little course in the
public eye, and went in on the other side. He too had jigged his
little course--him too a modest retreat awaited. He offered now,
should she really like to know, to name the great product of
Woollett. It would be a great commentary on everything. At this
she stopped him off; she not only had no wish to know, but she
wouldn't know for the world. She had done with the products of
Woollett--for all the good she had got from them. She desired no
further news of them, and she mentioned that Madame de Vionnet
herself had, to her knowledge, lived exempt from the information
he was ready to supply. She had never consented to receive it,
though she would have taken it, under stress, from Mrs. Pocock.
But it was a matter about which Mrs. Pocock appeared to have had
little to say--never sounding the word--and it didn't signify
now. There was nothing clearly for Maria Gostrey that signified
now--save one sharp point, that is, to which she came in time.
"I don't know whether it's before you as a possibility that,
left to himself, Mr. Chad may after all go back. I judge that it
IS more or less so before you, from what you just now said of him."
Her guest had his eyes on her, kindly but attentively, as if
foreseeing what was to follow this. "I don't think it will be for
the money." And then as she seemed uncertain: "I mean I don't
believe it will be for that he'll give her up."
"Then he WILL give her up?"
Strether waited a moment, rather slow and deliberate now, drawing
out a little this last soft stage, pleading with her in various
suggestive and unspoken ways for patience and understanding.
"What were you just about to ask me?"
"Is there anything he can do that would make you patch it up?"
"With Mrs. Newsome?"
Her assent, as if she had had a delicacy about sounding the name,
was only in her face; but she added with it: "Or is there
anything he can do that would make HER try it?"
"To patch it up with me?" His answer came at last in a conclusive
headshake. "There's nothing any one can do. It's over. Over for
both of us."
Maria wondered, seemed a little to doubt. "Are you so sure for her?"
"Oh yes--sure now. Too much has happened. I'm different for her."
She took it in then, drawing a deeper breath. "I see. So that as
she's different for YOU--"
"Ah but," he interrupted, "she's not." And as Miss Gostrey wondered
again: "She's the same. She's more than ever the same.
But I do what I didn't before--I SEE her."
He spoke gravely and as if responsibly--since he had to pronounce;
and the effect of it was slightly solemn, so that she simply exclaimed
"Oh!" Satisfied and grateful, however, she showed in her own next
words an acceptance of his statement. "What then do you go home to?"
He had pushed his plate a little away, occupied with another side
of the matter; taking refuge verily in that side and feeling so
moved that he soon found himself on his feet. He was affected in
advance by what he believed might come from her, and he would have
liked to forestall it and deal with it tenderly; yet in the
presence of it he wished still more to be--though as smoothly as
possible--deterrent and conclusive. He put her question by for
the moment; he told her more about Chad. "It would have been
impossible to meet me more than he did last night on the question
of the infamy of not sticking to her."
"Is that what you called it for him--'infamy'?"
"Oh rather! I described to him in detail the base creature he'd
be, and he quite agrees with me about it."
"So that it's really as if you had nailed him?"
"Quite really as if--! I told him I should curse him."
"Oh," she smiled, "you HAVE done it." And then having thought again:
"You CAN'T after that propose--!" Yet she scanned his face.
"Propose again to Mrs. Newsome?"
She hesitated afresh, but she brought it out. "I've never believed,
you know, that you did propose. I always believed it was really she--
and, so far as that goes, I can understand it. What I mean is,"
she explained, "that with such a spirit--the spirit of curses!--
your breach is past mending. She has only to know what you've done
to him never again to raise a finger."
"I've done," said Strether, "what I could--one can't do more.
He protests his devotion and his horror. But I'm not sure I've
saved him. He protests too much. He asks how one can dream of
his being tired. But he has all life before him."
Maria saw what he meant. "He's formed to please."
"And it's our friend who has formed him." Strether felt in it the
strange irony.
"So it's scarcely his fault!"
"It's at any rate his danger. I mean," said Strether, "it's hers.
But she knows it."
"Yes, she knows it. And is your idea," Miss Gostrey asked, "that
there was some other woman in London?"
"Yes. No. That is I HAVE no ideas. I'm afraid of them.
I've done with them." And he put out his hand to her. "Good-bye."
It brought her back to her unanswered question. "To what do you go
home?"
"I don't know. There will always be something."
"To a great difference," she said as she kept his hand.
"A great difference--no doubt. Yet I shall see what I can make of it."
"Shall you make anything so good--?" But, as if remembering what
Mrs. Newsome had done, it was as far as she went.
He had sufficiently understood. "So good as this place at this
moment? So good as what YOU make of everything you touch?"
He took a moment to say, for, really and truly, what stood about him
there in her offer--which was as the offer of exquisite service, of
lightened care, for the rest of his days--might well have tempted.
It built him softly round, it roofed him warmly over, it rested,
all so firm, on selection. And what ruled selection was beauty and
knowledge. It was awkward, it was almost stupid, not to seem to
prize such things; yet, none the less, so far as they made his
opportunity they made it only for a moment. She'd moreover
understand--she always understood.
That indeed might be, but meanwhile she was going on.
"There's nothing, you know, I wouldn't do for you."
"Oh yes--I know."
"There's nothing," she repeated, "in all the world."
"I know. I know. But all the same I must go." He had got it at last.
"To be right."
"To be right?"
She had echoed it in vague deprecation, but he felt it already
clear for her. "That, you see, is my only logic.
Not, out of the whole affair, to have got anything for myself."
She thought. "But with your wonderful impressions you'll have
got a great deal."
"A great deal"--he agreed. "But nothing like YOU. It's you who
would make me wrong!"
Honest and fine, she couldn't greatly pretend she didn't see it.
Still she could pretend just a little. "But why should you be so
dreadfully right?"
"That's the way that--if I must go--you yourself would be the first
to want me. And I can't do anything else."
So then she had to take it, though still with her defeated protest.
"It isn't so much your BEING 'right'--it's your horrible sharp eye
for what makes you so."
"Oh but you're just as bad yourself. You can't resist me when I
point that out."
She sighed it at last all comically, all tragically, away.
"I can't indeed resist you."
"Then there we are!" said Strether.
