The Portrait of a Lady — Volume 1

“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.”

She 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 that couldn’t be I didn’t care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself, and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in Italy—I couldn’t even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it then was, to wish it altered. So I’ve passed a great many years here on that quiet plan I spoke of. I’ve not been at all unhappy. I don’t mean to say I’ve cared for nothing; but the things I’ve 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’ve 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; naturally she couldn’t 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—would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to express a measured 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’ve made in my way a good thing of it. Don’t imagine I’m whining about it. It’s one’s own fault if one isn’t happy.”

This was large; she kept down to something smaller. “Have you lived here always?”

“No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in Rome. But I’ve been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change, however; to do something else. I’ve no longer myself to think of. My daughter’s growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what’s best for Pansy.”

“Yes, do that,” said Isabel. “She’s such a dear little girl.”

“Ah,” cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, “she’s a little saint of heaven! She is my great happiness!”

CHAPTER XXV

While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after we cease to follow it) went forward 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 her friend, 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 tête-à-tête, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which point her eyes followed them.

“My dear,” she then observed to her companion, “you’ll 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 at the sequestered 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 smiled.

“No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just now you don’t wish.”

“You say things to me that no one else does,” said Madame Merle gravely, yet 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 poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I’m not so clever as he you mustn’t think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But it will be much better that you should understand me.”

“Why so?” asked Madame Merle. “To what will it conduce?”

“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 I think ill of; it’s your calculating wrong. You’ve done so in this case.”

“You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that.”

“No, I’ve not had time. I’ve 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 mentioned.

“You’ve a strange way of showing it.”

“Surely I’ve given her the advantage of making your acquaintance.”

“That indeed,” piped the Countess, “is perhaps the best thing that could happen to her!”

Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess’s manner was odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. “My dear lady,” she finally resumed, “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’ll do so successfully!”

“Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She’s not exposed to compulsion or deception.”

“I’m not sure of that. You’re capable of anything, you and Osmond. I don’t mean Osmond by himself, and I don’t mean you by yourself. But together you’re dangerous—like some chemical combination.”

“You had better leave us alone then,” smiled Madame Merle.

“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’s 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—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, his arms folded; and she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view, persistently as she gazed at 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 pronounced.

The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy—he might, tarnished as to livery and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time manners, been “put in” by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya—had come out with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had 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. 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 toilette for common occasions.”