The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1

These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice—a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. “You’re going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony. 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 the convent,” said their entertainer. “We’ve much faith in her judgement, and she’ll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays.”

“I hope you’ll decide in our favour, madame,” the sister in spectacles ventured 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, but Miss Osmond’s friends must remember that she’s very naturally meant for the world.”

“That’s what I’ve told monsieur,” sister Catherine answered. “It’s precisely to fit her for the world,” she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle’s elegant apparel.

“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 meant for you, papa?”

Papa gave a quick, light laugh. “That doesn’t prevent it! I’m of the world, Pansy.”

“Kindly permit us to retire,” said sister Catherine. “Be good and wise and happy in any case, my daughter.”

“I shall certainly come back and see you,” Pansy returned, recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.

“Stay with me, dear child,” she said, “while your father takes the good ladies to the door.”

Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the operation of her fate. “May I not see mamman Catherine get into the carriage?” 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 the other 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 of the window; her eyes had filled with tears.

“I’m glad they’ve taught you to obey,” said Madame Merle. “That’s what good little girls should do.”

“Oh yes, I obey very well,” cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh.

Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and looked 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 see that you wear gloves,” she said in a moment. “Little girls usually dislike 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 with interest.

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 soft conciliatory sigh. “I had more than thirty mothers at the convent.”

Her father’s step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then, without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him as he moved about. Then at last she said: “I hoped you’d have come to Rome. I thought it possible you’d have wished yourself to fetch Pansy away.”

“That was a natural supposition; but I’m afraid it’s not the first time I’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 of space in it to move about—in the fashion of a man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him—unless he took up a book—but to stand with his hands behind him looking at Pansy. “Why didn’t you come and see the last of mamman Catherine?” he asked of her abruptly in French.

Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. “I asked her to stay with me,” said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.

“Ah, that was better,” Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows on 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 have everything 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 the room.”

“Let her stay,” said Madame Merle. “We’ll talk of something else.”

“If you like I won’t listen,” Pansy suggested with an appearance of candour which imposed conviction.

“You may listen, charming child, because you won’t understand,” her father 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 to his 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 return from England that you wouldn’t leave Rome again for the present.”

“I’m pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I’ve come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain.”

“That reason’s characteristic. You’re always doing something for your friends.”

Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. “It’s less characteristic than your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don’t, however, make a crime of that,” she added, “because if you don’t believe what you say there’s no reason why you should. I don’t ruin myself for my friends; I don’t deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself.”

“Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves—so much of every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many other lives.”