Daisy Miller: A Study
reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after
Daisy’s return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter
and the cab driver. But the young man was conscious, at the same moment,
that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the
little American flirt should be “talked about” by low-minded menials.
These people, a day or two later, had serious information to give: the
little American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor
came to him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that
two or three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they were
being entertained in Mrs. Miller’s salon by Randolph.
“It’s going round at night,” said Randolph--“that’s what made her sick.
She’s always going round at night. I shouldn’t think she’d want to,
it’s so plaguy dark. You can’t see anything here at night, except when
there’s a moon. In America there’s always a moon!” Mrs. Miller was
invisible; she was now, at least, giving her daughter the advantage of
her society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill.
Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs.
Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise,
perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious
nurse. She talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her
the compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such
a monstrous goose. “Daisy spoke of you the other day,” she said to him.
“Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying, but that time I think
she did. She gave me a message she told me to tell you. She told me to
tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure
I am very glad; Mr. Giovanelli hasn’t been near us since she was taken
ill. I thought he was so much of a gentleman; but I don’t call that
very polite! A lady told me that he was afraid I was angry with him for
taking Daisy round at night. Well, so I am, but I suppose he knows I’m a
lady. I would scorn to scold him. Anyway, she says she’s not engaged. I
don’t know why she wanted you to know, but she said to me three times,
‘Mind you tell Mr. Winterbourne.’ And then she told me to ask if you
remembered the time you went to that castle in Switzerland. But I said
I wouldn’t give any such messages as that. Only, if she is not engaged,
I’m sure I’m glad to know it.”
But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little. A week after
this, the poor girl died; it had been a terrible case of the fever.
Daisy’s grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of
the wall of imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring
flowers. Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a number of other
mourners, a number larger than the scandal excited by the young lady’s
career would have led you to expect. Near him stood Giovanelli, who came
nearer still before Winterbourne turned away. Giovanelli was very pale:
on this occasion he had no flower in his buttonhole; he seemed to wish
to say something. At last he said, “She was the most beautiful young
lady I ever saw, and the most amiable;” and then he added in a moment,
“and she was the most innocent.”
Winterbourne looked at him and presently repeated his words, “And the
most innocent?”
“The most innocent!”
Winterbourne felt sore and angry. “Why the devil,” he asked, “did you
take her to that fatal place?”
Mr. Giovanelli’s urbanity was apparently imperturbable. He looked on the
ground a moment, and then he said, “For myself I had no fear; and she
wanted to go.”
“That was no reason!” Winterbourne declared.
The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes. “If she had lived, I should
have got nothing. She would never have married me, I am sure.”
“She would never have married you?”
“For a moment I hoped so. But no. I am sure.”
Winterbourne listened to him: he stood staring at the raw protuberance
among the April daisies. When he turned away again, Mr. Giovanelli, with
his light, slow step, had retired.
Winterbourne almost immediately left Rome; but the following summer he
again met his aunt, Mrs. Costello at Vevey. Mrs. Costello was fond of
Vevey. In the interval Winterbourne had often thought of Daisy Miller
and her mystifying manners. One day he spoke of her to his aunt--said it
was on his conscience that he had done her injustice.
“I am sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Costello. “How did your injustice
affect her?”
“She sent me a message before her death which I didn’t understand at the
time; but I have understood it since. She would have appreciated one’s
esteem.”
“Is that a modest way,” asked Mrs. Costello, “of saying that she would
have reciprocated one’s affection?”
Winterbourne offered no answer to this question; but he presently said,
“You were right in that remark that you made last summer. I was booked
to make a mistake. I have lived too long in foreign parts.”
Nevertheless, he went back to live at Geneva, whence there continue to
come the most contradictory accounts of his motives of sojourn: a report
that he is “studying” hard--an intimation that he is much interested in
a very clever foreign lady.