Daisy Miller: A Study
admitted that holding one’s self to a belief in Daisy’s “innocence” came
to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry.
As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding
himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at
his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were
generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view
of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was
“carried away” by Mr. Giovanelli.
A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her
in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of
the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and
perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender
verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds
of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental
inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as
just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and
color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors,
and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place
reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also
that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation
of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli,
too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy.
“Well,” said Daisy, “I should think you would be lonesome!”
“Lonesome?” asked Winterbourne.
“You are always going round by yourself. Can’t you get anyone to walk
with you?”
“I am not so fortunate,” said Winterbourne, “as your companion.”
Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished
politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he
laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify
to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried
himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal
of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him.
It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a
certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with
him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew
how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn’t flatter himself with
delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On
this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of
almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole.
“I know why you say that,” said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. “Because you
think I go round too much with HIM.” And she nodded at her attendant.
“Every one thinks so--if you care to know,” said Winterbourne.
“Of course I care to know!” Daisy exclaimed seriously. “But I don’t
believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don’t really
care a straw what I do. Besides, I don’t go round so much.”
“I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably.”
Daisy looked at him a moment. “How disagreeably?”
“Haven’t you noticed anything?” Winterbourne asked.
“I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the
first time I saw you.”
“You will find I am not so stiff as several others,” said Winterbourne,
smiling.
“How shall I find it?”
“By going to see the others.”
“What will they do to me?”
“They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?”
Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. “Do you mean as
Mrs. Walker did the other night?”
“Exactly!” said Winterbourne.
She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his
almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, “I shouldn’t think
you would let people be so unkind!” she said.
“How can I help it?” he asked.
“I should think you would say something.”
“I do say something;” and he paused a moment. “I say that your mother
tells me that she believes you are engaged.”
“Well, she does,” said Daisy very simply.
Winterbourne began to laugh. “And does Randolph believe it?” he asked.
“I guess Randolph doesn’t believe anything,” said Daisy. Randolph’s
skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed
that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too,
addressed herself again to her countryman. “Since you have mentioned
it,” she said, “I AM engaged.” * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had
stopped laughing. “You don’t believe!” she added.
He was silent a moment; and then, “Yes, I believe it,” he said.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” she answered. “Well, then--I am not!”
The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the
enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently
took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful
villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired
vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the
satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past
the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in
the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a
thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his
return from the villa (it was eleven o’clock), Winterbourne approached
the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of
the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well
worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches,
near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman
streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous
shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent
arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of
the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the
luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron’s famous
lines, out of “Manfred,” but before he had finished his quotation
he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are
recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The
historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere,
scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma.
Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general
glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in
the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that
he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed
upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman,
seated; her companion was standing in front of her.
Presently the sound of the woman’s voice came to him distinctly in the
warm night air. “Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers
may have looked at the Christian martyrs!” These were the words he
heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller.
“Let us hope he is not very hungry,” responded the ingenious Giovanelli.
“He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!”
Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with
a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed
upon the ambiguity of Daisy’s behavior, and the riddle had become easy
to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be
at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her
companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself
must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he
had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller.
Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the
fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger
of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from
cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place,
but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again.
“Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!”
What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at
injured innocence! But he wouldn’t cut her. Winterbourne came forward
again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli
lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the
craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl
lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE
a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the
perniciosa. “How long have you been here?” he asked almost brutally.
Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment.
Then--“All the evening,” she answered, gently. * * * “I never saw
anything so pretty.”
“I am afraid,” said Winterbourne, “that you will not think Roman fever
very pretty. This is the way people catch it. I wonder,” he added,
turning to Giovanelli, “that you, a native Roman, should countenance
such a terrible indiscretion.”
“Ah,” said the handsome native, “for myself I am not afraid.”
“Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady.”
Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant
teeth. But he took Winterbourne’s rebuke with docility. “I told the
signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever
prudent?”
“I never was sick, and I don’t mean to be!” the signorina declared. “I
don’t look like much, but I’m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum
by moonlight; I shouldn’t have wanted to go home without that; and we
have had the most beautiful time, haven’t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there
has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some
splendid pills.”
“I should advise you,” said Winterbourne, “to drive home as fast as
possible and take one!”
“What you say is very wise,” Giovanelli rejoined. “I will go and make
sure the carriage is at hand.” And he went forward rapidly.
Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed
not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered
about the beauty of the place. “Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by
moonlight!” she exclaimed. “That’s one good thing.” Then, noticing
Winterbourne’s silence, she asked him why he didn’t speak. He made
no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark
archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped
a moment, looking at the young American. “DID you believe I was engaged,
the other day?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter what I believed the other day,” said Winterbourne,
still laughing.
“Well, what do you believe now?”
“I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged
or not!”
He felt the young girl’s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick
gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli
hurried her forward. “Quick! quick!” he said; “if we get in by midnight
we are quite safe.”
Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed
himself beside her. “Don’t forget Eugenio’s pills!” said Winterbourne as
he lifted his hat.
“I don’t care,” said Daisy in a little strange tone, “whether I have
Roman fever or not!” Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they
rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement.
Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that
he had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colosseum with a
gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her
having been there under these circumstances was known to every member
of the little American circle, and commented accordingly. Winterbourne