He had been warned by Mr. Vetch as to what brilliant women might do with him—it was only a word on the old fiddler’s lips, but the word had had a point; he had been warned by Paul Muniment, and now he was admonished by a person supremely well placed for knowing: a fact that couldn’t fail to deepen the emotion which, any time these three days, had made him draw his breath more quickly. That emotion, nevertheless, didn’t actually make him fear remote consequences; as he looked over the Princess Casamassima’s drawing-room and inhaled an air that seemed to him inexpressibly delicate and sweet he hoped his adventure would throw him on his mettle only half as much as the old lady had wished to intimate. He considered, one after the other, the different chairs, couches and ottomans the room contained—he wished to treat himself to the most sumptuous—and then for reasons he knew best sank into a seat covered with rose-coloured brocade and of which the legs and frame appeared of pure gold. Here he sat perfectly still, only with his heart beating very sensibly and his eyes coursing again and again from one object to another. The splendours and suggestions of Captain Sholto’s apartment were thrown completely into the shade by the scene before him, and as the Princess didn’t scruple to keep him waiting twenty minutes (during which the butler came in and set out on a small table a glittering tea-service) Hyacinth had time to count over the innumerable bibelots (most of which he had never dreamed of) involved in the character of a woman of high fashion and to feel that their beauty and oddity revealed not only whole provinces of art, but refinements of choice on the part of their owner, complications of mind and—almost—terrible depths of temperament.
When at last the door opened and the servant, reappearing, threw it far back as to make a wide passage for a person of the importance of his mistress, Hyacinth’s suspense became very acute; it was much the same feeling with which, at the theatre, he had sometimes awaited the entrance of a celebrated actress. In this case the actress was to perform for him alone. There was still a moment before she came on, and when she arrived she was so simply dressed—besides his seeing her now on her feet—that she looked quite a different figure. She approached him rapidly and a little stiffly and shyly, but in the prompt manner in which she shook hands was an evident desire to be very direct and perfectly easy. She might have been another person, but that person had a beauty even more radiant; the fairness of her face shone forth at our young man as if to dissipate any doubts assailing and bewildering him as to the reality of the vision bequeathed to him by his former interview. And in this peculiar high grace of her presence he couldn’t have told you if she struck him as more proud or more kind.
“I’ve kept you a long time, but it’s supposed not usually to be a bad place, my salon; there are various things to look at and perhaps you’ve noticed some of them. Over on that side for instance is rather a curious collection of miniatures.” She spoke abruptly, quickly, as if conscious that their communion might be awkward and she were trying to strike instantly (to conjure that element away) the sort of note that would make them both most comfortable. Quickly too she sat down before her tea-tray and poured him out a cup, which she handed him without asking if he would have it. He accepted it with a trembling hand, though he had no desire for it; he was too nervous to swallow the tea, but it wouldn’t have appeared to him possible to decline. When he had murmured that he had indeed looked at all her things, but that it would take hours to do justice to such treasures, she asked if he were fond of works of art; immediately adding, however, that she was afraid he had not many opportunities of seeing them, though of course there were the public collections, open to all. He replied with perfect veracity that some of the happiest moments of his life had been spent at the British Museum and the National Gallery, and this fact appeared to interest her greatly, so that she straightway begged him to tell her what he thought of certain pictures and antiques. In this way it was that in an incredibly short time, as appeared to him, he found himself discussing the Bacchus and Ariadne and the Elgin Marbles with one of the most remarkable women in Europe. It was true that she herself talked most, passing precipitately from one point to another, putting questions and not waiting for answers, describing and qualifying things, expressing feelings, by the aid of phrases that he had never heard before but which seemed to him illuminating and happy—as when for instance she asked what art was, after all, but a synthesis made in the interest of pleasure, or said that she didn’t like England in the least, but absurdly loved it. It didn’t occur to him to think these discriminations pedantic. Suddenly she threw off, “Madame Grandoni told me you saw my husband.”
“Ah, was the gentleman your husband?”
“Unfortunately! What do you think of him?”
“Oh, I can’t think—!” Hyacinth decently pleaded.
“I wish I couldn’t either! I haven’t seen him for nearly three years. He wanted to see me to-day, but I refused.”
“Ah!”—and the young man stared, not knowing how he ought to receive so unexpected a confidence. Then as the suggestions of inexperience are sometimes the happiest of all he spoke simply what was in his mind and said gently: “It has made you—naturally—nervous.” Later on, when he had left the house, he wondered how at that stage he could have ventured on such a familiar remark.
But she had taken it with a quick, surprised laugh. “How do you know that?” Before he had time to tell she added: “Your saying that—that way—shows me how right I was to ask you to come to see me. You know I hesitated. It shows me you’ve perceptions; I guessed as much the other night at the theatre. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have asked you. I may be wrong, but I like people who understand what one says to them, and also what one doesn’t say.”
“Don’t think I understand too much. You might easily exaggerate that,” Hyacinth declared conscientiously.