Daisy Miller: A Study
He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an
ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing
of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately
flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty
girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently
when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a
little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration,
he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these
friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva,
where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished
woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a
little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with
southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant
came in, announcing “Madame Mila!” This announcement was presently
followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the
middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later
his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable
interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced.
“I know you!” said Randolph.
“I’m sure you know a great many things,” exclaimed Winterbourne, taking
him by the hand. “How is your education coming on?”
Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when
she heard Winterbourne’s voice she quickly turned her head. “Well, I
declare!” she said.
“I told you I should come, you know,” Winterbourne rejoined, smiling.
“Well, I didn’t believe it,” said Miss Daisy.
“I am much obliged to you,” laughed the young man.
“You might have come to see me!” said Daisy.
“I arrived only yesterday.”
“I don’t believe that!” the young girl declared.
Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady
evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son.
“We’ve got a bigger place than this,” said Randolph. “It’s all gold on
the walls.”
Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. “I told you if I were to bring
you, you would say something!” she murmured.
“I told YOU!” Randolph exclaimed. “I tell YOU, sir!” he added jocosely,
giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. “It IS bigger, too!”
Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess;
Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. “I
hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey,” he said.
Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. “Not very well,
sir,” she answered.
“She’s got the dyspepsia,” said Randolph. “I’ve got it too. Father’s got
it. I’ve got it most!”
This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to
relieve her. “I suffer from the liver,” she said. “I think it’s this
climate; it’s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter
season. I don’t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was
saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn’t found any one like Dr. Davis,
and I didn’t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they
think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing
he wouldn’t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia,
but he was bound to cure it. I’m sure there was nothing he wouldn’t
try. He was just going to try something new when we came off. Mr. Miller
wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that
it seems as if I couldn’t get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he
stands at the very top; and there’s a great deal of sickness there, too.
It affects my sleep.”
Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis’s
patient, during which Daisy chattered unremittingly to her own
companion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with
Rome. “Well, I must say I am disappointed,” she answered. “We had heard
so much about it; I suppose we had heard too much. But we couldn’t help
that. We had been led to expect something different.”
“Ah, wait a little, and you will become very fond of it,” said
Winterbourne.
“I hate it worse and worse every day!” cried Randolph.
“You are like the infant Hannibal,” said Winterbourne.
“No, I ain’t!” Randolph declared at a venture.
“You are not much like an infant,” said his mother. “But we have seen
places,” she resumed, “that I should put a long way before Rome.” And in
reply to Winterbourne’s interrogation, “There’s Zurich,” she concluded,
“I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn’t heard half so much about it.”
“The best place we’ve seen is the City of Richmond!” said Randolph.
“He means the ship,” his mother explained. “We crossed in that ship.
Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond.”
“It’s the best place I’ve seen,” the child repeated. “Only it was turned
the wrong way.”
“Well, we’ve got to turn the right way some time,” said Mrs. Miller with
a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at
least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy
was quite carried away. “It’s on account of the society--the society’s
splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of
acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they
have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she
knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there’s nothing like Rome.
Of course, it’s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows
plenty of gentlemen.”
By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. “I’ve
been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!” the young girl announced.
“And what is the evidence you have offered?” asked Winterbourne, rather
annoyed at Miss Miller’s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer
who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at
Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He
remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American
women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at
once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense
of indebtedness.
“Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey,” said Daisy. “You wouldn’t do
anything. You wouldn’t stay there when I asked you.”
“My dearest young lady,” cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, “have I
come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?”
“Just hear him say that!” said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a
bow on this lady’s dress. “Did you ever hear anything so quaint?”
“So quaint, my dear?” murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of
Winterbourne.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker’s ribbons. “Mrs.
Walker, I want to tell you something.”
“Mother-r,” interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, “I
tell you you’ve got to go. Eugenio’ll raise--something!”
“I’m not afraid of Eugenio,” said Daisy with a toss of her head. “Look
here, Mrs. Walker,” she went on, “you know I’m coming to your party.”
“I am delighted to hear it.”
“I’ve got a lovely dress!”
“I am very sure of that.”
“But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend.”
“I shall be happy to see any of your friends,” said Mrs. Walker, turning
with a smile to Mrs. Miller.
“Oh, they are not my friends,” answered Daisy’s mamma, smiling shyly in
her own fashion. “I never spoke to them.”
“It’s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli,” said Daisy without
a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little
face.
Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at
Winterbourne. “I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli,” she then said.
“He’s an Italian,” Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. “He’s a
great friend of mine; he’s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr.
Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some
Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He’s tremendously
clever. He’s perfectly lovely!”
It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs.
Walker’s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. “I
guess we’ll go back to the hotel,” she said.
“You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I’m going to take a walk,”
said Daisy.
“She’s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli,” Randolph proclaimed.
“I am going to the Pincio,” said Daisy, smiling.
“Alone, my dear--at this hour?” Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was
drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of
contemplative pedestrians. “I don’t think it’s safe, my dear,” said Mrs.
Walker.
“Neither do I,” subjoined Mrs. Miller. “You’ll get the fever, as sure as
you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!”
“Give her some medicine before she goes,” said Randolph.
The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty
teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. “Mrs. Walker, you are too
perfect,” she said. “I’m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend.”
“Your friend won’t keep you from getting the fever,” Mrs. Miller
observed.
“Is it Mr. Giovanelli?” asked the hostess.
Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention
quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons;
she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she
answered, without a shade of hesitation, “Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful
Giovanelli.”
“My dear young friend,” said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly,
“don’t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian.”
“Well, he speaks English,” said Mrs. Miller.
“Gracious me!” Daisy exclaimed, “I don’t to do anything improper.
There’s an easy way to settle it.” She continued to glance at
Winterbourne. “The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr.
Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with
me!”
Winterbourne’s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl
gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs
before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller’s
carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had
made at Vevey seated within. “Goodbye, Eugenio!” cried Daisy; “I’m going
to take a walk.” The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful
garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly
traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of
vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found
their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to
Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation.
The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon
the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon
his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy’s mind when
she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own
mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands
of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified,
resolved that he would do no such thing.
“Why haven’t you been to see me?” asked Daisy. “You can’t get out of
that.”
“I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just stepped out
of the train.”
“You must have stayed in the train a good while after it stopped!” cried
the young girl with her little laugh. “I suppose you were asleep. You
have had time to go to see Mrs. Walker.”
“I knew Mrs. Walker--” Winterbourne began to explain.
“I know where you knew her. You knew her at Geneva. She told me so.
Well, you knew me at Vevey. That’s just as good. So you ought to have
come.” She asked him no other question than this; she began to prattle