by Henry James
“Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more information one has about one’s dangers the better.”
“I don’t agree to that—it may make them dangers. We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don’t mind anything any one tells you about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself.”
“That’s what I try to do,” said Isabel “but when you do that people call you conceited.”
“You’re not to mind them—that’s precisely my argument; not to mind what they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or your enemy.”
Isabel considered. “I think you’re right; but there are some things I can’t help minding: for instance when my friend’s attacked or when I myself am praised.”
“Of course you’re always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as critics, however,” Ralph added, “and you’ll condemn them all!”
“I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself,” said Isabel. “I’ve promised to pay him a visit.”
“To pay him a visit?”
“To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter—I don’t know exactly what. Madame Merle’s to take me; she tells me a great many ladies call on him.”
“Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance,” said Ralph. “She knows none but the best people.”
Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. “It seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don’t know what you mean, but if you’ve any grounds for disliking her I think you should either mention them frankly or else say nothing at all.”
Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than he commonly used. “I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her: with an even exaggerated respect.”
“Exaggerated, precisely. That’s what I complain of.”
“I do so because Madame Merle’s merits are exaggerated.”
“By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service.”
“No, no; by herself.”
“Ah, I protest!” Isabel earnestly cried. “If ever there was a woman who made small claims—!”
“You put your finger on it,” Ralph interrupted. “Her modesty’s exaggerated. She has no business with small claims—she has a perfect right to make large ones.”
“Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself.”
“Her merits are immense,” said Ralph. “She’s indescribably blameless; a pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a chance.”
“A chance for what?”
“Well, say to call her a fool! She’s the only woman I know who has but that one little fault.”
Isabel turned away with impatience. “I don’t understand you; you’re too paradoxical for my plain mind.”
“Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don’t mean it in the vulgar sense—that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too far—that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She’s too good, too kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She’s too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt about Aristides the Just.”
Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. “Do you wish Madame Merle to be banished?”
“By no means. She’s much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,” said Ralph Touchett simply.
“You’re very odious, sir!” Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend.
“Nothing whatever. Don’t you see that’s just what I mean? On the character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I’ve no doubt I should be able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I’m spotted like a leopard. But on Madame Merle’s nothing, nothing, nothing!”
“That’s just what I think!” said Isabel with a toss of her head. “That is why I like her so much.”
“She’s a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world you couldn’t have a better guide.”
“I suppose you mean by that that she’s worldly?”
“Worldly? No,” said Ralph, “she’s the great round world itself!”
It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his mother’s house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could have been nothing so “sustained” to attend to as the general performance of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training, but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle, the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as universally “liked” as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial guest; to Mrs. Touchett’s sense two persons who dealt so largely in too-ingenious theories of conduct—that is of their own—would have much in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel’s intimacy with her eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not, without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of itself; it wouldn’t last forever. Neither of these two superior persons knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable that Isabel would be injured.
CHAPTER 24
It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond’s hill-top. Nothing could have been more charming than this occasion—a soft afternoon in the full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and wound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming orchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of the villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least a very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out, but only
of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber—it was cold even in the month of May—and ushered her, with her conductress, into the apartment to which we have already been introduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a little, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two persons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. “And that’s my little girl,” he said, “who has just come out of her convent.”
Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles. She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed. The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird—a long beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin that receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman, and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself and made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate, bristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched upon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most affected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the violent waving of some flag of general truce—white silk with fluttering streamers.
“You’ll believe I’m glad to see you when I tell you it’s only because I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don’t come and see my brother—I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible—I don’t see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you’ll be the ruin of my horses some day, and if it hurts them you’ll have to give me another pair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It’s very disagreeable to hear one’s horses wheezing when one’s sitting in the carriage; it sounds too as if they weren’t what they should be. But I’ve always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I’ve always managed that. My husband doesn’t know much, but I think he knows a horse. In general Italians don’t, but my husband goes in, according to his poor light, for everything English. My horses are English—so it’s all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you,” she went on, directly addressing Isabel, “that Osmond doesn’t often invite me; I don’t think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people, and I’m sure you’re very new. But don’t sit there; that chair’s not what it looks. There are some very good seats here, but there are also some horrors.”
These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of good English, or rather of good American, in adversity.
“I don’t like to have you, my dear?” said her brother. “I’m sure you’re invaluable.”
“I don’t see any horrors anywhere,” Isabel returned, looking about her. “Everything seems to me beautiful and precious.”
“I’ve a few good things,” Mr. Osmond allowed; “indeed I’ve nothing very bad. But I’ve not what I should have liked.”
He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to hint that nothing but the right “values” was of any consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his family. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her, stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond’s diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not entirely artless.
“You’d have liked a few things from the Uffzi and the Pitti— that’s what you’d have liked,” said Madame Merle.
“Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!” the Countess Gemini exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made it and looked at her from head to foot.
Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could say to Isabel. “Won’t you have some tea?—you must be very tired,” he at last bethought himself of remarking.
“No indeed, I’m not tired; what have I done to tire me?” Isabel felt a certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was something in the air, in her general impression of things—she could hardly have said what it was—that deprived her of all disposition to put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people, signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand—she would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless not aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to cover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms that excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours, to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the entertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered less observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less complacently than might have been expected. “What a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in—!” she could fancy his exclaiming to himself.
“You’ll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and gives you a lecture on each,” said the Countess Gemini.
“I’m not afraid of that; but if I’m tired I shall at least have learned something.”
“Very little, I suspect. But my sister’s dreadfully afraid of learning anything,” said Mr. Osmond.
“Oh, I confess to that; I don’t want to know anything more—I know too much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are.”
“You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished her education,” Madame Merle interposed with a smile. “Pansy will never know any harm,” said the child’s father. “Pansy’s a little convent-flower.”
“Oh, the convents, the convents!” cried the Countess with a flutter of her ruffles. “Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there; I’m a convent-flower myself. I don’t pretend to be good, but the nuns do. Don’t you see what I mean?” she went on, appealing to Isabel.
Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself detested arguments, but that this was her brother’s taste —he would always discuss. “For me,” she said, “one should like a thing or one shouldn’t; one can’t like everything, of course. But one shouldn’t attempt to reason it out—you never know where it may lead you. There are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don’t you know? And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons. Don’t you see what I mean? I don’t care anything about reasons, but I know what I like.”
“Ah, that’s the great thing,” said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather hopeless view of his sister’s tone; he turned the conversation to another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had shyly brushed Isabel’s fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against him while he p
assed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the latter’s lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the social failure—by which he meant the people who couldn’t “realise,” as they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything. Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character, didn’t cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social and other “cheek” that flourished in Paris and London. “We’re sweetly provincial,” said Mr. Osmond, “and I’m perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you—not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you’ll be going away before I’ve seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you after that. That’s what it is to live in a country that people come to. When they’re disagreeable here it’s bad enough; when they’re agreeable it’s still worse. As soon as you like them they’re off again! I’ve been deceived too often; I’ve ceased to form attachments, to permit myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay—to settle? That would be really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt’s a sort of guarantee; I believe she may be depended on. Oh, she’s an old Florentine; I mean literally an old one; not a modern outsider. She’s a contemporary of the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I’m not sure she didn’t throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio’s. I hope you don’t object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I’ve an idea you don’t. Perhaps you think that’s even worse. I assure you there’s no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I’m a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett.”