The Golden Bowl - Henry James [210]
The precedent was therefore established and the group normally constituted. Mrs Assingham meanwhile, at table, on the stairs, in the carriage or the opera-box, might – with her constant overflow of expression, for that matter, and its singularly resident character where men in especial were concerned – look across at Amerigo in whatever sense she liked: it wasn’t of that Maggie proposed to be afraid. She might warn him, she might rebuke him, she might reassure him, she might – if it were impossible not to – absolutely make love to him; even this was open to her, as a matter simply between them, if it would help her to answer for the impeccability she had guaranteed. And Maggie desired in fact only to strike her as acknowledging the efficacy of her aid when she mentioned to her one evening a small project for the morrow, privately entertained – the idea, irresistible, intense, of going to pay at the Museum a visit to Mr Crichton. Mr Crichton, as Mrs Assingham could easily remember, was the most accomplished and obliging of public functionaries, whom every one knew and who knew every one – who had from the first in particular lent himself freely, and for the love of art and history, to becoming one of the steadier lights of Mrs Verver’s adventurous path. The custodian of one of the richest departments of the great national collection of precious things, he could feel for the sincere private collector and urge him on his way even when condemned to be present at his capture of trophies sacrificed by the country to parliamentary thrift. He carried his amiability to the point of saying that since London, under pettifogging views, had to miss from time to time its rarest opportunities, he was almost consoled to see such lost causes invariably wander at last one by one, with the tormenting tinkle of their silver bells, into the wondrous, the already famous fold beyond the Mississippi. There was a charm in his ‘almosts’ that was not to be resisted, especially after Mr Verver and Maggie had grown sure – or almost again – of enjoying the monopoly of them; and on this basis of envy changed to sympathy by the more familiar view of the father and the daughter, Mr Crichton had at both houses, though especially in Eaton Square, learned to fill out the responsive and suggestive character. It was at his invitation, Fanny well recalled, that Maggie, one day, long before, and under her own attendance precisely, had, for the glory of the name she bore, paid a visit to one of the ampler shrines of the supreme exhibitory temple, an alcove of shelves charged with the gold-and-brown, gold-and-ivory, of old Italian bindings and consecrated to the records of the Prince’s race. It had been an impression that penetrated, that remained; yet Maggie had sighed ever so prettily at its having to be so superficial. She was to go back some day, to dive deeper, to linger and taste; in spite of which, however, Mrs Assingham couldn’t recollect perceiving that the visit had been repeated. This second occasion had given way, for a long time, in her happy life, to other occasions – all testifying in their degree to the quality of her husband’s blood, its rich mixture and its many remarkable references; after which, no doubt, the charming piety involved had grown, on still further grounds, bewildered and faint.