CHAPTER XXII
On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr.Touchett's death, a small group that might have been described by apainter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of anancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gateof Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, withthe far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills thatencircle Florence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmoniousa rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses that usuallyrise in groups of three or four beside it. The house had a front upona little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupied a part of thehill-top; and this front, pierced with a few windows in irregularrelations and furnished with a stone bench lengthily adjusted to thebase of the structure and useful as a lounging-place to one or twopersons wearing more or less of that air of undervalued merit which inItaly, for some reason or other, always gracefully invests any one whoconfidently assumes a perfectly passive attitude--this antique,solid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommunicativecharacter. It was the mask, not the face of the house. It had heavylids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another way--looked offbehind, into splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light.In that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the longvalley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, inthe manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild rosesand other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of theterrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the grounddeclined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not,however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on thisbright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer theshady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you sawthem from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremelyarchitectural; but their function seemed less to offer communicationwith the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massivelycross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even ontiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by arow of three of these jealous apertures--one of the several distinctapartments into which the villa was divided and which were mainlyoccupied by foreigners of random race long resident in Florence--agentleman was seated in company with a young girl and two good sistersfrom a religious house. The room was, however, less sombre than ourindications may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, whichnow stood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall ironlattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italiansunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury, tellingof arrangements subtly studied and refinements frankly proclaimed, andcontaining a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry,those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angularspecimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, thoseperverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italyhas long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things keptterms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance hadbeen made for a lounging generation it was to be noticed that all thechairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by awriting-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of Londonand the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazinesand newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly inwater-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easelbefore which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the younggirl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picturein silence.
Silence--absolute silence--had not fallen upon her companions; but theirtalk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sistershad not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitudeexpressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze ofprudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind ofbusiness-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffenedlinen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave anadvantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with afresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating mannerthan her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, whichapparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore herhat--an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with herplain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must alreadyhave been ”let out.” The gentleman who might have been supposed to beentertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties ofhis function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the verymeek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly muchoccupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back tohim his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man offorty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense,but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow,extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was justthis effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance towhich the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cutin the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmountedby a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish,gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was agentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyesat once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive ofthe observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you thathe studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as hesought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determinehis original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signsthat usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one.If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received someFrench or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as hewas, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for generalcirculation he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for aspecial occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure,and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a mandresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgarthings.
”Well, my dear, what do you think of it?” he asked of the young girl. Heused the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this wouldnot have convinced you he was Italian.
The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. ”It'svery pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?”
”Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?”
”Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures.” Andshe turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed andintensely sweet smile.
”You should have brought me a specimen of your powers.”
”I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk.”
”She draws very--very carefully,” the elder of the nuns remarked,speaking in French.
”I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?”
”Happily no,” said the good sister, blushing a little. ”Ce n'est pas mapartie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've anexcellent drawing-master, Mr.--Mr.--what is his name?” she asked of hercompanion.
Her companion looked about at the carpet. ”It's a German name,” she saidin Italian, as if it needed to be translated.
”Yes,” the other went on, ”he's a German, and we've had him many years.”
The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered awayto the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden.”And you, my sister, are French,” said the gentleman.
”Yes, sir,” the visitor gently replied. ”I speak to the pupils in myown tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of othercountries--English, German, Irish. They all speak their properlanguage.”
The gentleman gave a smile. ”Has my daughter been under the care of oneof the Irish ladies?” And then, as he saw that his visitors suspecteda joke, though failing to understand it, ”You're very complete,” heinstantly added.
”Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of thebest.”
”We have gymnastics,” the Italian sister ventured to remark. ”But notdangerous.”
”I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?” A question which provoked much candidhilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which theirentertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown.
”Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain--not big,” said theFrench sister.
”I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books--very good and not too long.But I know,” the gentleman said, ”no particular reason why my childshould be short.”
The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things mightbe beyond our knowledge. ”She's in very good health; that's the bestthing.”
”Yes, she looks sound.” And the young girl's father watched her amoment. ”What do you see in the garden?” he asked in French.
”I see many flowers,” she replied in a sweet, small voice and with anaccent as good as his own.
”Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out andgather some for ces dames.”
The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. ”May I,truly?”
”Ah, when I tell you,” said her father.
The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. ”May I, truly, ma mere?”
”Obey monsieur your father, my child,” said the sister, blushing again.
The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from thethreshold and was presently lost to sight. ”You don't spoil them,” saidher father gaily.
”For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is freelygranted, but they must ask it.”
”Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent. Isent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith.”
”One must have faith,” the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through herspectacles.
”Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?”
The sister dropped her eyes a moment. ”A good Christian, monsieur.”
Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movementhad in each case a different spring. ”Yes, and what else?”
He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would saythat a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity shewas not so crude as that. ”A charming young lady--a real little woman--adaughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment.”
”She seems to me very gentille,” said the father. ”She's really pretty.”
”She's perfect. She has no faults.”
”She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her none.”
”We love her too much,” said the spectacled sister with dignity.
”And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'estpas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say. We'vehad her since she was so small.”
”Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss most,”the younger woman murmured deferentially.
”Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her,” said the other. ”We shall hold herup to the new ones.” And at this the good sister appeared to find herspectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presentlydrew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.
”It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet,” their hostrejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the toneof a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. ”We should be veryhappy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us.”
”Oh,” exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used,”it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep heralways!”
”Ah, monsieur,” said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, ”good asshe is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera.”
”If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the worldget on?” her companion softly enquired, rising also.
This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparentlysupposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by sayingcomfortably: ”Fortunately there are good people everywhere.”
”If you're going there will be two less here,” her host remarkedgallantly.
For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and theysimply looked at each other in decent deprecation but their confusionwas speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two largebunches of roses--one of them all white, the other red.
”I give you your choice, mamman Catherine,” said the child. ”It's onlythe colour that's different, mamman Justine; there are just as manyroses in one bunch as in the other.”
The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with”Which will you take?” and ”No, it's for you to choose.”
”I'll take the red, thank you,” said Catherine in the spectacles. ”I'mso red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to Rome.”
”Ah, they won't last,” cried the young girl. ”I wish I could give yousomething that would last!”
”You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That willlast!”
”I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,”the child went on.
”And do you go back to Rome to-night?” her father enquired.
”Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas.”
”Are you not tired?”
”We are never tired.”
”Ah, my sister, sometimes,” murmured the junior votaress.
”Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vousgarde, ma fine.”
Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forwardto open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so hegave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door openedinto a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with redtiles; and into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by aservant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward theapartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door,after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the ladyadvanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her nohand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the thresholdshe hesitated. ”Is there any one?” she asked.
”Some one you may see.”
She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and theirpupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm ofeach. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, whohad also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a littlesoft cry: ”Ah, Madame Merle!”
The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instantwas none the less gracious. ”Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome youhome.” And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came upto her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted thisportion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the twonuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permittedthemselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, whoseemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outerworld. ”These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they returnto the convent,” the gentleman explained.
”Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very lovelynow,” said Madame Merle.
The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves,accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house askedhis new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. ”She came tosee me at the convent,” said the young girl before the lady addressedhad time to reply.
”I've been more than once, Pansy,” Madame Merle declared. ”Am I not yourgreat friend in Rome?”
”I remember the last time best,” said Pansy, ”because you told me Ishould come away.”
”Did you tell her that?” the child's father asked.
”I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I'vebeen in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me.”
”I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't knowsuch things by inspiration--though I suppose one ought. You had bettersit down.”
These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice--a tonehalf-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from anydefinite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. ”You'regoing to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt theceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames,” she added, in French, to the nuns,as if to dismiss them.
”This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at theconvent,” said their entertainer. ”We've much faith in her judgement,and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you atthe end of the holidays.”
”I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame,” the sister in spectaclesventured to remark.
”That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing,” said Madame Merle,but also as in pleasantry. ”I believe you've a very good school, butMiss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant forthe world.”
”That's what I've told monsieur,” sister Catherine answered. ”It'sprecisely to fit her for the world,” she murmured, glancing at Pansy,who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegantapparel.
”Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world,”said Pansy's father.
The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. ”Am I not meantfor you, papa?”
Papa gave a quick, light laugh. ”That doesn't prevent it! I'm of theworld, Pansy.”
”Kindly permit us to retire,” said sister Catherine. ”Be good and wiseand happy in any case, my daughter.”
”I shall certainly come back and see you,” Pansy returned, recommencingher embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.
”Stay with me, dear child,” she said, ”while your father takes the goodladies to the door.”
Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidentlyimpregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one whotook the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of theoperation of her fate. ”May I not see mamman Catherine get into thecarriage?” she nevertheless asked very gently.
”It would please me better if you'd remain with me,” said Madame Merle,while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to theother visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.
”Oh yes, I'll stay,” Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle,surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out ofthe window; her eyes had filled with tears.
”I'm glad they've taught you to obey,” said Madame Merle. ”That's whatgood little girls should do.”
”Oh yes, I obey very well,” cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost withboastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And thenshe gave a faint, just audible sigh.
Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm andlooked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate;the child's small hand was delicate and fair. ”I hope they always seethat you wear gloves,” she said in a moment. ”Little girls usuallydislike them.”
”I used to dislike them, but I like them now,” the child made answer.
”Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen.”
”I thank you very much. What colours will they be?” Pansy demanded withinterest.
Madame Merle meditated. ”Useful colours.”
”But very pretty?”
”Are you very fond of pretty things?”
”Yes; but--but not too fond,” said Pansy with a trace of asceticism.
”Well, they won't be too pretty,” Madame Merle returned with a laugh.She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which,looking at her a moment, ”Shall you miss mother Catherine?” she went on.
”Yes--when I think of her.”
”Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day,” added Madame Merle,”you'll have another mother.”
”I don't think that's necessary,” Pansy said, repeating her little softconciliatory sigh. ”I had more than thirty mothers at the convent.”
Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle gotup, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then,without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back intotheir places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching himas he moved about. Then at last she said: ”I hoped you'd have come toRome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansyaway.”
”That was a natural supposition but I'm afraid it's not the first timeI've acted in defiance of your calculations.”
”Yes,” said Madame Merle, ”I think you very perverse.”
Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room--there was plenty ofspace in it to move about--in the fashion of a man mechanicallyseeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing.Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothingleft for him--unless he took up a book--but to stand with his handsbehind him looking at Pansy. ”Why didn't you come and see the last ofmamman Catherine?” he asked of her abruptly in French.
Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. ”I asked her to staywith me,” said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.
”Ah, that was better,” Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into achair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbowson the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.
”She's going to give me some gloves,” said Pansy.
”You needn't tell that to every one, my dear,” Madame Merle observed.
”You're very kind to her,” said Osmond. ”She's supposed to haveeverything she needs.”
”I should think she had had enough of the nuns.”
”If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of theroom.”
”Let her stay,” said Madame Merle. ”We'll talk of something else.”
”If you like I won't listen,” Pansy suggested with an appearance ofcandour which imposed conviction.
”You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand,” herfather replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door,within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent,wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself tohis other companion. ”You're looking particularly well.”
”I think I always look the same,” said Madame Merle.
”You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman.”
”Yes, I think I am.”
”You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your returnfrom England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present.”
”I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was myintention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who havelately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain.”
”That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for yourfriends.”
Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. ”It's less characteristic thanyour comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however,make a crime of that,” she added, ”because if you don't believe whatyou say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for myfriends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.”
”Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of everyone else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched somany other lives.”
”What do you call one's life?” asked Madame Merle. ”One's appearance,one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?”
”I call YOUR life your ambitions,” said Osmond.
Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. ”I wonder if she understandsthat,” she murmured.
”You see she can't stay with us!” And Pansy's father gave rather ajoyless smile. ”Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or twofor Madame Merle,” he went on in French.
”That's just what I wanted to do,” Pansy exclaimed, rising withpromptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to theopen door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remainedstanding, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense offreedom which in another attitude might be wanting.
”My ambitions are principally for you,” said Madame Merle, looking up athim with a certain courage.
”That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousandothers. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish,what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?”
”You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault.”
”I'm afraid it's really my best.”
”You don't care,” said Madame Merle gravely.
”No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that?My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome.But it was only one of them.”
”It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though Ishould have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--whichyou might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago.There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence.”
”Please remember my indolence,” said Osmond.
”I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll haveboth the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and itmay prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a newacquaintance?”
”I don't think I've made any since I made yours.”
”It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine I wantyou to know.”
Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and waslooking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine.”What good will it do me?” he asked with a sort of genial crudity.
Madame Merle waited. ”It will amuse you.” There was nothing crude inthis rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered.
”If you say that, you know, I believe it,” said Osmond, coming towardher. ”There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete.I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad.”
”Society is all bad.”
”Pardon me. That isn't--the knowledge I impute to you--a common sortof wisdom. You've gained it in the right way--experimentally; you'vecompared an immense number of more or less impossible people with eachother.”
”Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge.”
”To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?”
”It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induceyou to make an effort!”
”Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in theworld--that's likely to turn up here--is worth an effort?”
Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. ”Don't be foolish,Osmond. No one knows better than you what IS worth an effort. Haven't Iseen you in old days?”
”I recognise some things. But they're none of them probable in this poorlife.”
”It's the effort that makes them probable,” said Madame Merle.
”There's something in that. Who then is your friend?”
”The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs. Touchett,whom you'll not have forgotten.”
”A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you'recoming to.”
”Yes, she's young--twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of mine.I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and westruck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don'tdo every day--I admire her. You'll do the same.”
”Not if I can help it.”
”Precisely. But you won't be able to help it.”
”Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent andunprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I care tomake her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speakto me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that description. I knowplenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any more.”
”Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. Shecorresponds to your description it's for that I wish you to know her.She fills all your requirements.”
”More or less, of course.”
”No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and, foran American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable, and shehas a handsome fortune.”
Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in hismind with his eyes on his informant. ”What do you want to do with her?”he asked at last.
”What you see. Put her in your way.”
”Isn't she meant for something better than that?”
”I don't pretend to know what people are meant for,” said Madame Merle.”I only know what I can do with them.”
”I'm sorry for Miss Archer!” Osmond declared.
Madame Merle got up. ”If that's a beginning of interest in her I takenote of it.”
The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking downat it as she did so. ”You're looking very well,” Osmond repeated stillless relevantly than before. ”You have some idea. You're never so wellas when you've got an idea; they're always becoming to you.”
In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at anyjuncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, wassomething indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each otherobliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect ofeach appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree theself-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off anyembarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had noton this occasion the form she would have liked to have--the perfectself-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point tobe made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them,whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closelyface to face than either ever was with any one else. This was what hadhappened now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on thewhole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensationfor the inconvenience--whatever it might be--of being known. ”I wishvery much you were not so heartless,” Madame Merle quietly said. ”It hasalways been against you, and it will be against you now.”
”I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touchesme--as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are forme. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they should be. But ittouches me, all the same.”
”You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are somethings you'll never understand. There's no particular need you should.”
”You, after all, are the most remarkable of women,” said Osmond. ”Youhave more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think Mrs.Touchett's niece should matter very much to me, when--when--” But hepaused a moment.
”When I myself have mattered so little?”
”That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known andappreciated such a woman as you.”
”Isabel Archer's better than I,” said Madame Merle.
Her companion gave a laugh. ”How little you must think of her to saythat!”
”Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that.”
”With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't.”
”Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs.Touchett's--Palazzo Crescentini--and the girl will be there.”
”Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of thegirl?” said Osmond. ”You could have had her there at any rate.”
Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question hecould ever put would find unprepared. ”Do you wish to know why? BecauseI've spoken of you to her.”
Osmond frowned and turned away. ”I'd rather not know that.” Then ina moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colourdrawing. ”Have you seen what's there--my last?”
Madame Merle drew near and considered. ”Is it the Venetian Alps--one ofyour last year's sketches?”
”Yes--but how you guess everything!”
She looked a moment longer, then turned away. ”You know I don't care foryour drawings.”
”I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so muchbetter than most people's.”
”That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's solittle. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those weremy ambitions.”
”Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible.”
”Things that were impossible,” said Madame Merle. And then in quite adifferent tone: ”In itself your little picture's very good.” She lookedabout the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfacesof faded silk. ”Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with thatafresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understandthis sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste.”
”I'm sick of my adorable taste,” said Gilbert Osmond.
”You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told herabout it.”
”I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots.”
”You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear toparticular advantage.”
Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colderand more attentive. ”Did you say she was rich?”
”She has seventy thousand pounds.”
”En ecus bien comptes?”
”There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I maysay.”
”Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see themother?”
”The mother? She has none--nor father either.”
”The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep herout of the way.”
”I don't object to her,” said Osmond; ”I rather like Mrs. Touchett.She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivididentity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?”
”He's there, but he won't trouble you.”
”He's a good deal of a donkey.”
”I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not fond ofbeing about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me.”
”What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?”Osmond went on.
”Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them.Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you.”
”A beginning of what?”
Madame Merle was silent a little. ”I want you of course to marry her.”
”The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you told herthat?”
”For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of machinery--noram I.”
”Really,” said Osmond after some meditation, ”I don't understand yourambitions.”
”I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer.Suspend your judgement.” Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near theopen door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. ”Pansyhas really grown pretty,” she presently added.
”So it seemed to me.”
”But she has had enough of the convent.”
”I don't know,” said Osmond. ”I like what they've made of her. It's verycharming.”
”That's not the convent. It's the child's nature.”
”It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl.”
”Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?” Madame Merle asked.”She's not in a hurry.”
”We'll go and get them.”
”She doesn't like me,” the visitor murmured as she raised her parasoland they passed into the garden.