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 XXIV
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,
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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
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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."
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"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 passed 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
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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."
While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat confidential fashion she
looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on
this occasion, there was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame
Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into the garden, and the
Countess, rising and shaking out her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!"
she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "She has been brought quite
into the family."
"Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to which you belong," Mr.
Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, had also a
finer patience.
"I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in me but what you tell her. I'm
better than he says, Miss Archer," the Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is
that all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite
subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats a fond. In that case you had
better take off your bonnet."
"I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," said Isabel, who had risen to her
feet.
The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation, pressing one of her hands,
with the finger-tips gathered together, to her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's
Machiavelli; the other's Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio."
"Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess Gemini's as if to guide her
course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never so historical."
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"Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are Machiavelli--you
yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"
"We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed.
Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the garden; but her host stood
there with no apparent inclination to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his
daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while
her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered
contentedness, to have her movements directed; she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she
had what always gave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through the
open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass
of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The
understanding had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets
all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the pictures to see it better; but
just as she had done so he said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?"
She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your sister too little."
"Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that there is not a great deal of her to
see. What do you think of our family tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know
how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to say--you've had almost no
observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a
chance. I sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among things and people
not our own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us
up; marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let me
add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister. She's a very honest lady-more
so than she seems. She's rather unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to
show it tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid husband, though I'm not
sure she makes the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband's an awkward thing.
Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary to
learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't put them together. My sister needs a
grammar, but unfortunately she's not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my
sister was very right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take down that picture;
you want more light."
He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some curious facts about it. She
looked at the other works of art, and he gave her such further information as might appear most
acceptable to a young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his medallions and
tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel felt the owner much more so, and independently
of them, thickly as they seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most of
the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen specimens. There were one or
two exceptions to this; she could think for instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia.
There were other people who were, relatively speaking, original-- original, as one might say, by
courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord Warburton,
as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these individuals belonged to
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types already present to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr.
Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that she recognised all these truths at the hour, but
they were falling into order before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this "new
relation" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle had had that note of
rarity, but what quite other power it immediately gained when sounded by a man! It was not so
much what he said and did, but rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those
signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of old plates and in the corner
of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, he was
an original without being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain. The
peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended to impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair,
his overdrawn, retouched features, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very
evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness of structure which made the
movement of a single one of his fingers produce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal
points struck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity, somehow as promises of
interest. He was certainly fastidious and critical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had
governed him--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of vulgar troubles and
had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted, arranged world, thinking about art and beauty
and history. He had consulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sick man
consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was what made him so different from
every one else. Ralph had something of this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was
a matter of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous excrescence,
whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it. She was
certainly far from understanding him completely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was
hard to see what he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--which was exactly the
side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a harmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or
was it the last refinement of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very
interesting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what then was the finish of the
capital? And she could put this question in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such
shyness as his--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectly consistent with
the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of standards and touchstones other than the vulgar:
he must be so sure the vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance,
who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; he was critical of himself as well
as of others, and, exacting a good deal of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather
ironical view of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not grossly
conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected that gradual, subtle, successful
conversion of it to which she owed both what pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had
suddenly asked her what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that he
was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge of his own sister. That he should
be so interested showed an enquiring mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his
fraternal feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.
There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been received, equally full of
romantic objects, and in these apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the
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last degree curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of ciceroni as he led
her from one fine piece to another and still held his little girl by the hand. His kindness almost
surprised our young friend, 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 was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought
her quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame Merle would have
pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure to find out, and then
perhaps even her real intelligence wouldn't 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 he, in his superior enlightenment, would think she oughtn't to like;
or to pass by something at which the truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to
fall into that grotesqueness-- in which she had seen women (and it was a warning) serenely, yet
ignobly, flounder. 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, 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 preparations. 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
glowed 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," Osmond said as he led his companion to one
of the angles of the terrace.
"I shall certainly come back," she returned, "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's most appreciated."
"The point's to find out where that is."
"Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People ought to make it very plain
