There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been received, equally full of picturesque objects, and in these apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was very curious and valuable, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of ciceroni, as he led her from one fine piece to another, still holding his little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young lady, who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which she found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had ceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive eyes, but she was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought she was cleverer than she was; Madame Merle would have told him so; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real cleverness would not reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel’s fatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with her) of exposing—not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively little—but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed her to express a liking for something which her host, in his superior enlightenment, would think she ought not to like; or to pass by something at which the truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She was very careful, therefore, as to what she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice—more careful than she had ever been before.
They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, which constituted the paramount distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, and as the afternoon was lovely, the Countess proposed they should take their tea in the open air. Pansy, therefore, was sent to bid the servant bring out the tray. The sun had got low, the golden light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that stretched beneath them, the masses of purple shadow seemed to glow as richly as the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the landscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline, its teeming valley and delicately fretted hills, its peculiarly human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and classic grace.
‘‘You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted to come back,’’ Mr. Osmond said, as he led his companion to one of the angles of the terrace.
‘‘I shall certainly come back,’’ Isabel answered, ‘‘in spite of what you say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one’s natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I were to settle in Florence.’’
‘‘A woman’s natural mission is to be where she is most appreciated.’’
‘‘The point is to find out where that is.’’
‘‘Very true—a woman often wastes a great deal of time in the inquiry. People ought to make it very plain to her.’’
‘‘Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me,’’ said Isabel, smiling.
‘‘I am glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world.’’
‘‘I am rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day.’’
‘‘I don’t see why you should be ashamed; it’s the greatest of pleasures.’’
‘‘It seems frivolous, I think,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘One ought to choose something very deliberately, and be faithful to that.’’
‘‘By that rule, then, I have not been frivolous.’’
‘‘Have you never made plans?’’
‘‘Yes, I made one years ago, and I am acting on it to-day.’’
‘‘It must have been a very pleasant one,’’ said Isabel.
‘‘It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible.’’
‘‘As quiet?’’ the girl repeated.
‘‘Not to worry—not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be content with a little.’’ He uttered these sentences slowly, with little pauses between, and his intelligent eyes were fixed upon Isabel’s with the conscious look of a man who has brought himself to confess something.
‘‘Do you call that simple?’’ Isabel asked, with a gentle laugh.
‘‘Yes, because it’s negative.’’
‘‘Has your life been negative?’’
‘‘Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference. Mind you, not my natural indifference—I had none. But my studied, my wilful renunciation.’’
Isabel scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. ‘‘I don’t see why you should have renounced,’’ she said in a moment.
‘‘Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There were two or three people in the world I envied—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I envied the Pope of Rome— for the consideration he enjoys. I should have been delighted to be considered to that extent; but since I couldn’t be, I didn’t care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for honours. A gentleman can always consider himself, and fortunately, I was a gentleman. I could do nothing in Italy—I couldn’t even be an Italian patriot. To do that, I should have had to go out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it. So I have passed a great many years here, on that quiet plan I spoke of. I have not been at all unhappy. I don’t mean to say I have cared for nothing; but the things I have cared for have been definite—limited. The events of my life have been absolutely unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a bargain (I have never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering, as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some inspired idiot!’’
This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond’s career if Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been mingled with other lives more than he admitted; of course she could not expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now desired to be. He had certainly told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to express considerable sympathy for the success with which he had preserved his independence. ‘‘That’s a very pleasant life,’’ she said, ‘‘to renounce everything but Correggio!’’
‘‘Oh, I have been very happy; don’t imagine me to suggest for a moment that I have not. It’s one’s own fault if one is not happy.’’
‘‘Have you lived here always?’’
‘‘No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in Rome. But I have been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change, however; to do something else. I have no longer myself to think of. My daughter is growing up, and it is very possible she may not care so much for the Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what is best for her.’’
‘‘Yes, do that,’’ said Isabel. ‘‘She is such a dear little girl.’’
‘‘Ah,’’ cried Gilbert Osmond, with feeling, ‘‘she is a little saint of heaven! She is my great happiness!’’
25
WHILE this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after we cease to follow it) was going on, Madame Merle and her companion, breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks.
They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a more nervous temperament than Madame Merle, practised with less success the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for would not have been apparent, and was perhaps not very definite to their own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend from her tȇte-à-tȇte, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for saying something discordant; a necessity of which she had been conscious for the last twenty minutes. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, and she followed the pair for a while with her eyes.
‘‘My dear,’’ she then observed to Madame Merle, ‘‘you will excuse me if I don’t congratulate you!’’
‘‘Very willingly; for I don’t in the least know why you should.’’
‘‘Haven’t you a little plan that you think rather well of?’’ And the Countess nodded towards the retreating couple.
Madame Merle’s eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at her neighbour. ‘‘You know I never understand you very well,’’ she answered, smiling.
‘‘No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that, just now, you don’t wish to.’’
‘‘You say things to me that no one else does,’’ said Madame Merle, gravely, but without bitterness.
‘‘You mean things you don’t like? Doesn’t Osmond sometimes say such things?’’
‘‘What your brother says has a point.’’
‘‘Yes, a very sharp one sometimes. If you mean that I am not so clever as he, you must not think I shall suffer from your saying it. But it will be much better that you should understand me.’’
‘‘Why so?’’ asked Madame Merle; ‘‘what difference will it make?’’
‘‘If I don’t approve of your plan, you ought to know it in order to appreciate the danger of my interfering with it.’’
Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be something in this; but in a moment she said quietly—‘‘You think me more calculating than I am.’’
‘‘It’s not your calculating that I think ill of; it’s your calculating wrong. You have done so in this case.’’
‘‘You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover it.’’
‘‘No, I have not had time for that. I have seen the girl but this once,’’ said the Countess, ‘‘and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very much.’’
‘‘So do I,’’ Madame Merle declared.
‘‘You have a strange way of showing it.’’
‘‘Surely—I have given her the advantage of making your acquaintance.’’
‘‘That, indeed,’’ cried the Countess, with a laugh, ‘‘is perhaps the best thing that could happen to her!’’
Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess’s manner was impertinent, but she did not suffer this to discompose her; and with her eyes upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection.
‘‘My dear lady,’’ she said at last, ‘‘I advise you not to agitate yourself. The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose than yourself.’’
‘‘Three persons? You and Osmond, of course. But is Miss Archer also very strong of purpose?’’
‘‘Quite as much so as we.’’
‘‘Ah then,’’ said the Countess radiantly, ‘‘if I convince her it’s her interest to resist you, she will do so successfully!’’
‘‘Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She is not to be subjected to force.’’
‘‘I am not sure of that. You are capable of anything, you and Osmond. I don’t mean Osmond by himself, and I don’t mean you by yourself. But together you are dangerous—like some chemical combination.’’
‘‘You had better leave us alone, then,’’ said Madame Merle, smiling.
‘‘I don’t mean to touch you—but I shall talk to that girl.’’
‘‘My poor Amy,’’ Madame Merle murmured, ‘‘I don’t see what has got into your head.’’
‘‘I take an interest in her—that is what has got into my head. I like her.’’
Madame Merle hesitated a moment. ‘‘I don’t think she likes you.’’
The Countess’s bright little eyes expanded, and her face was set in a grimace. ‘‘Ah, you are dangerous,’’ she cried, ‘‘even by yourself!’’
‘‘If you want her to like you, don’t abuse your brother to her,’’ said Madame Merle.
‘‘I don’t suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him—in two interviews.’’
Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, with his arms folded; and she, at present, though she had her face turned to the opposite prospect, was evidently not scrutinizing it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment, while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle rose from her chair. ‘‘Yes, I think so!’’ she said.
The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy, had come out with a small table, which he placed upon the grass, and then had gone back and fetched the tea-tray; after which he again disappeared, to return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer assistance to the servant. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently approached her aunt.
‘‘Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?’’
The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze, and without answering her question. ‘‘My poor niece,’’ she said, ‘‘is that your best frock?’’
‘‘Ah no,’’ Pansy answered, ‘‘it’s just a little toilet for common occasions.’’
‘‘Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?—to say nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder.’’
Pansy reflected a moment, looking gravely from one of the persons mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile. ‘‘I have a pretty dress, but even that one is very simple. Why should I expose it beside your beautiful things?’’
‘‘Because it’s the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don’t dress you so well as they might.’’