Wings of the Dove | Page 8

of intelligence and character that they are meanwhile extraordinarily able to
draw upon for the enrichment of their relation, the extension of their prospect and the
support of their "game." They are far from a common couple, Merton Densher and Kate
Croy, as befits the remarkable fashion in which fortune was to waylay and opportunity
was to distinguish them--the whole strange truth of their response to which opening
involves also, in its order, no vulgar art of exhibition; but what they have most to tell us is
that, all unconsciously and with the best faith in the world, all by mere force of the terms
of their superior passion combined with their superior diplomacy, they are laying a trap
for the great (xx) innocence to come. If I like, as I have confessed, the "portentous" look,
I was perhaps never to set so high a value on it as for all this prompt provision of forces
unwittingly waiting to close round my eager heroine (to the eventual deep chill of her
eagerness) as the result of her mere lifting of a latch. Infinitely interesting to have built up
the relation of the others to the point at which its aching restlessness, its need to affirm
itself otherwise than by an exasperated patience, meets as with instinctive relief and
recognition the possibilities shining out of Milly Theale. Infinitely interesting to have
prepared and organised, correspondingly, that young woman's precipitations and
liabilities, to have constructed, for Drama essentially to take possession, the whole bright
house of her exposure.
These references, however, reflect too little of the detail of the treatment imposed; such a
detail as I for instance get hold of in the fact of Densher's interview with Mrs. Lowder
before he goes to America. It forms, in this preliminary picture, the one patch not strictly
seen over Kate Croy's shoulder; though it's notable that immediately after, at the first
possible moment, we surrender again to our major convenience, as it happens to be at the
time, that of our drawing breath through the young woman's lungs. Once more, in other
words, before we know it, Densher's direct vision of the scene at Lancaster Gate is
replaced by her apprehension, her contributive assimilation, of his experience: it melts
back into that accumulation, which we have been, as it were, saving up. Does my
apparent deviation here count accordingly as a muddle?--one of the muddles ever

blooming so thick in any soil that fails to grow reasons and determinants. No, distinctly
not; for I had definitely opened the door, as attention of perusal of the first two Books
will show, to the subjective community of my young pair. (Attention of perusal, I thus
confess by the way, is what I at every point, as well as here, absolutely invoke and take
for granted; a truth I avail myself of this occasion to note once for all--in the interest of
that variety of ideal reigning, I gather, in the connexion. The enjoyment of a (xxi) work
of art, the acceptance of an irresistible illusion, constituting, to my sense, our highest
experience of "luxury," the luxury is not greatest, by my consequent measure, when the
work asks for as little attention as possible. It is greatest, it is delightfully, divinely great,
when we feel the surface, like the thick ice of the skater's pond, bear without cracking the
strongest pressure we throw on it. The sound of the crack one may recognise, but never
surely to call it a luxury.) That I had scarce availed myself of the privilege of seeing with
Densher's eyes is another matter; the point is that I had intelligently marked my possible,
my occasional need of it. So, at all events, the constructional "block" of the first two
Books compactly forms itself. A new block, all of the squarest and not a little of the
smoothest, begins with the Third--by which I mean of course a new mass of interest
governed from a new centre. Here again I make prudent PROVISION--to be sure to keep
my centre strong. It dwells mainly, we at once see, in the depths of Milly Theale's "case,"
where, close beside it, however, we meet a supplementary reflector, that of the lucid even
though so quivering spirit of her dedicated friend.
The more or less associated consciousness of the two women deals thus, unequally, with
the next presented face of the subject--deals with it to the exclusion of the dealing of
others; and if, for a highly particular moment, I allot to Mrs. Stringham the responsibility
of the direct appeal to us, it is again, charming to relate, on behalf of that play of the
portentous which I cherish so as a "value" and am accordingly for ever setting in motion.
There is an hour of evening,