The Golden Bowl - Henry James [60]
The man, not ungraciously, resigned himself. ‘Well, I’ll keep it for you.’
The small quarter of an hour had had its marked oddity – this she felt even by the time the open air and the Bloomsbury aspects had again, in their protest against the truth of her gathered impression, made her more or less their own. Yet the oddity might have been registered as small as compared to the other effect that, before they had gone much further, she had to take account of with her companion. This latter was simply the effect of their having, by some tacit logic, some queer inevitability, quite dropped the idea of a continued pursuit. They didn’t say so, but it was on the line of giving up Maggie’s present that they practically proceeded – the line of giving it up without more reference to it. The Prince’s first reference was in fact quite independently made. ‘I hope you satisfied yourself, before you had done, of what was the matter with that bowl.’
‘No indeed, I satisfied myself of nothing. Of nothing at least but that the more I looked at it the more I liked it, and that if you weren’t so unaccommodating this would be just the occasion for your giving me the pleasure of accepting it.’
He looked graver for her at this than he had looked all the morning. ‘Do you propose it seriously – without wishing to play me a trick?’
She wondered. ‘What trick would it be?’
He looked at her harder. ‘You mean you really don’t know?’
‘But know what?’
‘Why what’s the matter with it. You didn’t see, all the while?’
She only continued however to stare. ‘How could you see – out in the street?’
‘I saw before I went out. It was because I saw that I did go out. I didn’t want to have another scene with you before that rascal, and I judged you’d presently guess for yourself.’
‘Is he a rascal?’ Charlotte asked. ‘His price is so moderate.’ She waited but a moment. ‘Five pounds. Really so little.’
He continued to look at her. ‘Five pounds?’
‘Five pounds.’
He might have been doubting her word, but he was only, it appeared, gathering emphasis. ‘It would be dear – to make a gift of – at five shillings. If it had cost you even but fivepence I wouldn’t take it from you.’
‘Then,’ she asked, ‘what is the matter?’
‘Why it has a crack.’
It sounded, on his lips, so sharp, it had such an authority, that she almost started, while her colour rose at the word. It was as if he had been right, though his assurance was wonderful. ‘You answer for it without having looked?’
‘I did look. I saw the object itself. It told its story. No wonder it’s cheap.’
‘But it’s exquisite,’ Charlotte, as if with an interest in it now made even tenderer and stranger, found herself moved to insist.
‘Of course it’s exquisite. That’s the danger.’
Then a light visibly came to her – a light in which her friend suddenly and intensely showed. The reflexion of it, as she smiled at him, was in her own face. ‘The danger – I see – is because you’re superstitious.’
‘Per Dio I’m superstitious! A crack’s a crack – and an omen’s an omen.’
‘You’d be afraid –?’
‘Per bacco!’
‘For your happiness?’
‘For my happiness.’
‘For your safety?’
‘For my safety.’
She just paused. ‘For your marriage?’
‘For my marriage. For everything.’
She thought again. ‘Thank goodness then that if there be a crack we know it! But if we may perish by cracks in things that we don’t know –!’ And she smiled with the sadness of it. ‘We can never then give each other anything.’
He considered, but he met it. ‘Ah but one does know. I do at least – and by instinct. I don’t fail. That will always protect me.’
It was droll, the way he said such things; yet she liked him really the more for it. They fell in for her with a general, or rather with a special, vision. But she spoke with a mild despair. ‘What then