‘‘You must not think it strange, her staying in the house at such a time as this, when Mr. Touchett is passing away,’’ Mrs. Touchett remarked to Isabel. ‘‘She is incapable of doing anything indiscreet; she is the best-bred woman I know. It’s a favour to me that she stays; she is putting off a lot of visits at great houses,’’ said Mrs. Touchett, who never forgot that when she herself was in England her social value sank two or three degrees in the scale. ‘‘She has her pick of places; she is not in want of a shelter. But I have asked her to stay because I wish you to know her. I think it will be a good thing for you. Serena Merle has no faults.’’
‘‘If I didn’t already like her very much that description might alarm me,’’ Isabel said.
‘‘She never does anything wrong. I have brought you out here, and I wish to do the best for you. Your sister Lily told me that she hoped I would give you plenty of opportunities. I give you one in securing Madame Merle. She is one of the most brilliant women in Europe.’’
‘‘I like her better than I like your description of her,’’ Isabel persisted in saying.
‘‘Do you flatter yourself that you will find a fault in her? I hope you will let me know when you do.’’
‘‘That will be cruel—to you,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘You needn’t mind me. You never will find one.’’
‘‘Perhaps not; but I think I shall not miss it.’’
‘‘She is always up to the mark!’’ said Mrs. Touchett.
Isabel after this said to Madame Merle that she hoped she knew Mrs. Touchett believed she had not a fault.
‘‘I am obliged to you, but I am afraid your aunt has no perception of spiritual things,’’ Madame Merle answered.
‘‘Do you mean by that that you have spiritual faults?’’
‘‘Ah no; I mean nothing so flat! I mean that having no faults, for your aunt, means that one is never late for dinner—that is, for her dinner. I was not late, by the way, the other day, when you came back from London; the clock was just at eight when I came into the drawing-room; it was the rest of you that were before the time. It means that one answers a letter the day one gets it, and that when one comes to stay with her one doesn’t bring too much luggage, and is careful not to be taken ill. For Mrs. Touchett those things constitute virtue; it’s a blessing to be able to reduce it to its elements.’’
Madame Merle’s conversation, it will be perceived, was enriched with bold, free touches of criticism, which, even when they had a restrictive effect, never struck Isabel as ill-natured. It never occurred to the girl, for instance, that Mrs. Touchett’s accomplished guest was abusing her; and this for very good reasons. In the first place Isabel agreed with her; in the second Madame Merle implied that there was a great deal more to say; and in the third, to speak to one without ceremony of one’s near relations was an agreeable sign of intimacy. These signs of intimacy multiplied as the days elapsed, and there was none of which Isabel was more sensible than of her companion’s preference for making Miss Archer herself a topic. Though she alluded frequently to the incidents of her own life, she never lingered upon them; she was as little of an egotist as she was of a gossip.
‘‘I am old, and stale, and faded,’’ she said more than once; ‘‘I am of no more interest than last week’s newspaper. You are young and fresh, and of to-day; you have the great thing—you have actuality. I once had it—we all have it for an hour. You, however, will have it for longer. Let us talk about you, then; you can say nothing that I shall not care to hear. It is a sign that I am growing old—that I like to talk with younger people. I think it’s a very pretty compensation. If we can’t have youth within us we can have it outside of us, and I really think we see it and feel it better that way. Of course we must be in sympathy with it—that I shall always be. I don’t know that I shall ever be ill-natured with old people—I hope not; there are certainly some old people that I adore. But I shall never be ill-natured with the young; they touch me too much. I give you carte blanche, then; you can even be impertinent if you like; I shall let it pass. I talk as if I were a hundred years old, you say? Well, I am, if you please; I was born before the French Revolution. Ah, my dear je viens de loin; I belong to the old world. But it is not of that I wish to talk; I wish to talk about the new. You must tell me more about America; you never tell me enough. Here I have been since I was brought here as a helpless child, and it is ridiculous, or rather it’s scandalous, how little I know about the land of my birth. There are a great many of us like that, over here; and I must say I think we are a wretched set of people. You should live in your own country; whatever it may be you have your natural place there. If we are not good Americans we are certainly poor Europeans; we have no natural place here. We are mere parasites, crawling over the surface; we haven’t our feet in the soil. At least one can know it, and not have illusions. A woman, perhaps, can get on; a woman, it seems to me, has no natural place anywhere; wherever she finds herself she has to remain on the surface and, more or less, to crawl. You protest, my dear? You are horrified? You declare you will never crawl? It is very true that I don’t see you crawling; you stand more upright than a good many poor creatures. Very good; on the whole, I don’t think you will crawl. But the men, the Americans; je vous demande un peu, what do they make of it over here? I don’t envy them, trying to arrange themselves. Look at poor Ralph Touchett; what sort of a figure do you call that? Fortunately he has got a consumption; I say fortunately, because it gives him something to do. His consumption is his career; it’s a kind of position. You can say, ‘Oh, Mr. Touchett, he takes care of his lungs, he knows a great deal about climates.’ But without that, who would he be, what would he represent? ‘Mr. Ralph Touchett, an American who lives in Europe.’ That signifies absolutely nothing—it’s impossible that anything should signify less. ‘He is very cultivated, ’ they say; ‘he has got a very pretty collection of old snuff-boxes.’ The collection is all that is wanted to make it pitiful. I am tired of the sound of the word; I think it’s grotesque. With the poor old father it’s different; he has his identity, and it is rather a massive one. He represents a great financial house, and that, in our day, is as good as anything else. For an American, at any rate, that will do very well. But I persist in thinking your cousin is very lucky to have a chronic malady; so long as he doesn’t die of it. It’s much better than the snuff-boxes. If he were not ill, you say, he would do something?—he would take his father’s place in the house. My poor child, I doubt it; I don’t think he is at all fond of the house. However, you know him better than I, though I used to know him rather well, and he may have the benefit of the doubt. The worst case, I think, is a friend of mine, a countryman of ours, who lives in Italy (where he also was brought before he knew better), and who is one of the most delightful men I know. Some day you must know him. I will bring you together, and then you will see what I mean. He is Gilbert Osmond—he lives in Italy; that is all one can say about him. He is exceedingly clever, a man made to be distinguished; but, as I say, you exhaust the description when you say that he is Mr. Osmond, who lives in Italy. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no past, no future, no anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please— paints in water-colours, like me, only better than I. His painting is pretty bad; on the whole I am rather glad of that. Fortunately he is very indolent, so indolent that it amounts to a sort of position. He can say, ‘Oh, I do nothing; I am too deadly lazy. You can do nothing today unless you get up at five o’clock in the morning.’ In that way he becomes a sort of exception; you feel that he might do something if he would only rise early. He never speaks of his painting—to people at large; he is too clever for that. But he has a little girl—a dear little girl; he does speak of her. He is devoted to her, and if it were a career to be an excellent father he would be very distinguished. But I am afraid that is no better than the snuff-boxes; perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do in America,’’ pursued Madame Merle, who, it must be observed, parenthetically, did not deliver herse
lf all at once of these reflections, which are presented in a cluster for the convenience of the reader. She talked of Florence where Mr. Osmond lived, and where Mrs. Touchett occupied a mediaeval palace; she talked of Rome, where she herself had a little pied-à-terre, with some rather good old damask. She talked of places, of people, and even, as the phrase is, of ‘‘subjects’’; and from time to time she talked of their kind old host and of the prospect of his recovery. From the first she had thought this prospect small, and Isabel had been struck with the positive, discriminating, competent way which she took of the measure of his remainder of life. One evening she announced definitely that he would not live.
‘‘Sir Matthew Hope told me so, as plainly as was proper,’’ she said; ‘‘standing there, near the fire, before dinner. He makes himself very agreeable, the great doctor. I don’t mean that his saying that has anything to do with it. But he says such things with great tact. I had said to him that I felt ill at my ease, staying here at such a time; it seemed to me so indiscreet—it was not as if I could nurse. ‘You must remain, you must remain,’ he answered; ‘your office will come later.’ Was not that a very delicate way both of saying that poor Mr. Touchett would go, and that I might be of some use as a consoler? In fact, however, I shall not be of the slightest use. Your aunt will console herself; she, and she alone, knows just how much consolation she will require. It would be a very delicate matter for another person to undertake to administer the dose. With your cousin it will be different; he will miss his father sadly. But I should never presume to condole with Mr. Ralph; we are not on those terms.’’
Madame Merle had alluded more than once to some undefined incongruity in her relations with Ralph Touchett; so Isabel took this occasion of asking her if they were not good friends.
‘‘Perfectly; but he doesn’t like me.’’
‘‘What have you done to him?’’
‘‘Nothing whatever. But one has no need of a reason for that.’’
‘‘For not liking you? I think one has need of a very good reason.’’
‘‘You are very kind. Be sure you have one ready for the day when you begin.’’
‘‘Begin to dislike you? I shall never begin.’’
‘‘I hope not; because if you do, you will never end. That is the way with your cousin; he doesn’t get over it. It’s an antipathy of nature—if I can call it that when it is all on his side. I have nothing whatever against him, and don’t bear him the least little grudge for not doing me justice. Justice is all I ask. However, one feels that he is a gentleman, and would never say anything underhand about one. Cartes sur table,’’ Madame Merle subjoined in a moment, ‘‘I am not afraid of him.’’
‘‘I hope not, indeed,’’ said Isabel, who added something about his being the kindest fellow living. She remembered, however, that on her first asking him about Madame Merle he had answered her in a manner which this lady might have thought injurious without being explicit. There was something between them, Isabel said to herself, but she said nothing more than this. If it were something of importance, it should inspire respect; if it were not, it was not worth her curiosity. With all her love of knowledge, Isabel had a natural shrinking from raising curtains and looking into unlighted corners. The love of knowledge coexisted in her mind with a still tenderer love of ignorance.
But Madame Merle sometimes said things that startled her, made her raise her clear eyebrows at the time, and think of the words afterwards.
‘‘I would give a great deal to be your age again,’’ she broke out once, with a bitterness which, though diluted in her customary smile, was by no means disguised by it. ‘‘If I could only begin again—if I could have my life before me!’’
‘‘Your life is before you yet,’’ Isabel answered gently, for she was vaguely awe-struck.
‘‘No; the best part is gone, and gone for nothing.’’
‘‘Surely, not for nothing,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘Why not—what have I got? Neither husband, nor child, nor fortune, nor position, nor the traces of a beauty which I never had.’’
‘‘You have friends, dear lady.’’
‘‘I am not so sure!’’ cried Madame Merle.
‘‘Ah, you are wrong. You have memories, talents—’’
Madame Merle interrupted her. ‘‘What have my talents brought me? Nothing but the need of using them still, to get through the hours, the years, to cheat myself with some pretence of action. As for my memories, the less said about them the better. You will be my friend till you find a better use for your friendship.’’
‘‘It will be for you to see that I don’t then,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘Yes; I would make an effort to keep you,’’ Madame Merle rejoined, looking at her gravely. ‘‘When I say I should like to be your age,’’ she went on, ‘‘I mean with your qualities—frank, generous, sincere, like you. In that case I should have made something better of my life.’’
‘‘What should you have liked to do that you have not done?’’
Madame Merle took a sheet of music—she was seated at the piano, and had abruptly wheeled about on the stool when she first spoke—and mechanically turned the leaves. At last she said: ‘‘I am very ambitious!’’
‘‘And your ambitions have not been satisfied? They must have been great.’’
‘‘They were great. I should make myself ridiculous by talking of them.’’
Isabel wondered what they could have been—whether Madame Merle had aspired to wear a crown. ‘‘I don’t know what your idea of success may be, but you seem to me to have been successful. To me, indeed, you are an image of success.’’
Madame Merle tossed away the music with a smile.
‘‘What is your idea of success?’’
‘‘You evidently think it must be very tame,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘It is to see some dream of one’s youth come true.’’
‘‘Ah,’’ Madame Merle exclaimed, ‘‘that I have never seen! But my dreams were so great—so preposterous. Heaven forgive me, I am dreaming now.’’ And she turned back to the piano and began to play with energy.
On the morrow she said to Isabel that her definition of success had been very pretty, but frightfully sad. Measured in that way, who had succeeded? The dreams of one’s youth, why they were enchanting, they were divine! Who had ever seen such things come to pass?
‘‘I myself—a few of them,’’ Isabel ventured to answer.
‘‘Already? They must have been dreams of yesterday.’’
‘‘I began to dream very young,’’ said Isabel, smiling.
‘‘Ah, if you mean the aspirations of your childhood— that of having a pink sash and a doll that could close her eyes.’’
‘‘No, I don’t mean that.’’
‘‘Or a young man with a moustache going down on his knees to you.’’
‘‘No, nor that either,’’ Isabel declared, blushing.
Madame Merle gave a glance at her blush, which caused it to deepen.
‘‘I suspect that is what you do mean. We have all had the young man with the moustache. He is the inevitable young man; he doesn’t count.’’
Isabel was silent for a moment, and then, with extreme and characteristic inconsequence: ‘‘Why shouldn’t he count? There are young men and young men.’’
‘‘And yours was a paragon—is that what you mean?’’ cried her friend with a laugh. ‘‘If you have had the identical young man you dreamed of, then that was success, and I congratulate you. Only, in that case, why didn’t you fly with him to his castle in the Apennines?’’
‘‘He has no castle in the Apennines.’’
‘‘What has he? An ugly brick house in Fortieth Street? Don’t tell me that; I refuse to recognize that as an ideal.’’
‘‘I don’t care anything about his house,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘That is very crude of you. When you have lived as long as I, you will see that every human being has his shell, and that you must take the shell into
account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circumstances. There is no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we are each of us made up of a cluster of appurtenances. What do you call one’s self? Where does it begin? Where does it end? It overflows into everything that belongs to us—and then it flows back again. I know that a large part of myself is in the dresses I choose to wear. I have a great respect for things! One’s self—for other people—is one’s expression of one’s self; and one’s house, one’s clothes, the books one reads, the company one keeps—these things are all expressive.’’
This was very metaphysical; not more so, however, than several observations Madame Merle had already made. Isabel was fond of metaphysics, but she was unable to accompany her friend into this bold analysis of the human personality.