The Ambassadors Henry James (novel24 txt) 📖

“If I must tell you all, it is he himself who has put us in the way. I mean in the way of an opportunity that, so far as I can yet see, is all I could possibly have dreamed of. For all the trouble Monsieur de Vionnet will ever take!” It was the first time she had spoken to him of her husband, and he couldn’t have expressed how much more intimate with her it suddenly made him feel. It wasn’t much, in truth⁠—there were other things in what she was saying that were far more; but it was as if, while they stood there together so easily in these cold chambers of the past, the single touch had shown the reach of her confidence. “But our friend,” she asked, “hasn’t then told you?”

“He has told me nothing.”

“Well, it has come with rather a rush⁠—all in a very few days; and hasn’t moreover yet taken a form that permits an announcement. It’s only for you⁠—absolutely you alone⁠—that I speak; I so want you to know.” The sense he had so often had, since the first hour of his disembarkment, of being further and further “in,” treated him again at this moment to another twinge; but in this wonderful way of her putting him in there continued to be something exquisitely remorseless. “Monsieur de Vionnet will accept what he must accept. He has proposed half a dozen things⁠—each one more impossible than the other; and he wouldn’t have found this if he lives to a hundred. Chad found it,” she continued with her lighted, faintly flushed, her conscious confidential face, “in the quietest way in the world. Or rather it found him⁠—for everything finds him; I mean finds him right. You’ll think we do such things strangely⁠—but at my age,” she smiled, “one has to accept one’s conditions. Our young man’s people had seen her; one of his sisters, a charming woman⁠—we know all about them⁠—had observed her somewhere with me. She had spoken to her brother⁠—turned him on; and we were again observed, poor Jeanne and I, without our in the least knowing it. It was at the beginning of the winter; it went on for some time; it outlasted our absence; it began again on our return; and it luckily seems all right. The young man had met Chad, and he got a friend to approach him⁠—as having a decent interest in us. Mr. Newsome looked well before he leaped; he kept beautifully quiet and satisfied himself fully; then only he spoke. It’s what has for some time past occupied us. It seems as if it were what would do; really, really all one could wish. There are only two or three points to be settled⁠—they depend on her father. But this time I think we’re safe.”

Strether, consciously gaping a little, had fairly hung upon her lips. “I hope so with all my heart.” And then he permitted himself: “Does nothing depend on her?”

“Ah naturally; everything did. But she’s pleased comme tout. She has been perfectly free; and he⁠—our young friend⁠—is really a combination. I quite adore him.”

Strether just made sure. “You mean your future son-in-law?”

“Future if we all bring it off.”

“Ah well,” said Strether decorously, “I heartily hope you may.” There seemed little else for him to say, though her communication had the oddest effect on him. Vaguely and confusedly he was troubled by it; feeling as if he had even himself been concerned in something deep and dim. He had allowed for depths, but these were greater: and it was as if, oppressively⁠—indeed absurdly⁠—he was responsible for what they had now thrown up to the surface. It was⁠—through something ancient and cold in it⁠—what he would have called the real thing. In short his hostess’s news, though he couldn’t have explained why, was a sensible shock, and his oppression a weight he felt he must somehow or other immediately get rid of. There were too many connections missing to make it tolerable he should do anything else. He was prepared to suffer⁠—before his own inner tribunal⁠—for Chad; he was prepared to suffer even for Madame de Vionnet. But he wasn’t prepared to suffer for the little girl. So now having said the proper thing, he wanted to get away. She held him an instant, however, with another appeal.

“Do I seem to you very awful?”

“Awful? Why so?” But he called it to himself, even as he spoke, his biggest insincerity yet.

“Our arrangements are so different from yours.”

“Mine?” Oh he could dismiss that too! “I haven’t any arrangements.”

“Then you must accept mine; all the more that they’re excellent. They’re founded on a vieille sagesse. There will be much more, if all goes well, for you to hear and to know, and everything, believe me, for you to like. Don’t be afraid; you’ll be satisfied.” Thus she could talk to him of what, of her innermost life⁠—for that was what it came to⁠—he must “accept”; thus she could extraordinarily speak as if in such an affair his being satisfied had an importance. It was all a wonder and made the whole case larger. He had struck himself at the hotel, before Sarah and Waymarsh, as being in her boat; but where on earth was he now? This question was in the air till her own lips quenched it with another. “And do you suppose he⁠—who loves her so⁠—would do anything reckless or cruel?”

He wondered what he supposed. “Do you mean your young man⁠—?”

“I mean yours. I mean Mr. Newsome.” It flashed for Strether the next moment a finer light, and the light deepened as she went on. “He takes, thank God, the truest tenderest interest in her.”

It deepened indeed. “Oh I’m sure of that!”

“You were talking,” she said, “about one’s trusting him. You see then how I do.”

He waited a moment⁠—it all came. “I see⁠—I see.” He felt he really did see.

“He wouldn’t hurt her for the world, nor⁠—assuming