The Golden Bowl - Henry James [264]
These were direct enquiries, they quite rang out in the soft wooded air; so that Adam Verver for a minute appeared to meet them with reflexion. She saw reflexion however quickly enough show him what to do with them. ‘Do you know, Mag, what you make me wish when you talk that way?’ And he waited again while she further got from him the sense of something that had been behind, deeply in the shade, coming cautiously to the front and just feeling its way before presenting itself. ‘You regularly make me wish I had shipped back to American City. When you go on as you do –’ But he really had to hold himself to say it.
‘Well, when I go on –?’
‘Why you make me quite want to ship back myself. You make me quite feel as if American City could be the best place for us.’
It made her all too finely vibrate. ‘For “us” –?’
‘For me and Charlotte. Do you know that if we should ship it would serve you quite right?’ With which he smiled – oh he smiled! ‘And if you say much more we will ship.’
Ah then it was that the cup of her conviction, full to the brim, overflowed at a touch! There was his idea, the clearness of which for an instant almost dazzled her. It was a blur of light in the midst of which she saw Charlotte like some object marked by contrast in blackness, saw her waver in the field of vision, saw her removed, transported, doomed. And he had named Charlotte, named her again, and she had made him – which was all she had needed more: it was as if she had held a blank letter to the fire and the writing had come out still larger than she hoped. The recognition of it took her some seconds, but she might when she spoke have been folding up these precious lines and restoring them to her pocket. ‘Well, I shall be as much as ever then the cause of what you do. I haven’t the least doubt of your being up to that if you should think I might get anything out of it; even the little pleasure,’ she laughed, ‘of having said, as you call it, “more”. Let my enjoyment of this therefore, at any price, continue to represent for you what I call sacrificing you.’
She had drawn a long breath; she had made him do it all for her, and had lighted the way to it without his naming her husband. That silence had been as distinct as the sharp, the inevitable sound, and something now in him followed it up, a sudden air as of confessing at last fully to where she was and of begging the particular question. ‘Don’t you think then I can take care of myself?’
‘Ah it’s exactly what I’ve gone upon. If it wasn’t for that –!’
But she broke off and they remained only another moment face to face. ‘I’ll let you know, my dear, the day I feel you’ve begun to sacrifice me.’
‘ “Begun”?’ she extravagantly echoed.
‘Well, it will be for me the day you’ve ceased to believe in me.’
With which, his glasses still fixed on her, his hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back, his legs a little apart, he seemed to plant or to square himself for a kind of assurance it had occurred to him he might as well treat her to, in default of other things, before they changed their subject. It had the effect for her of a reminder – a reminder of all he was, of all he had done, of all, above and beyond his being her perfect little father, she might take him as representing, take him as having quite eminently, in the eyes of two hemispheres, been capable of, and as therefore wishing, not – was it? – illegitimately, to call her attention to. The ‘successful’ beneficent person, the beautiful bountiful original dauntlessly wilful great citizen, the consummate collector and infallible high authority he had been and still was – these things struck her on the spot as making up for him in a wonderful way a character she must take into account in dealing with him either for