Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and wit.She couldn't see why Mrs.Touchett should make a scapegoat of a woman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong way.One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one should draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would exclude the Countess Gemini.In that case Mrs.Touchett had better shut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long as she remained in Florence.One must be fair and not make arbitrary differences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not been so clever as other women.She was a good creature, not clever at all; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the best society? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and there could be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways than her desire to become a member of Mrs.Touchett's circle.Isabel could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patient attention; she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome to the unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit of being Mr.
Osmond's sister.As she liked the brother Isabel thought it proper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of things she was still capable of these primitive sequences.She had not received the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident.Had not Mr.Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish.She told Isabel more about the poor Countess than Mr.Osmond had done, and related the history of her marriage and its consequences.The Count was a member of an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yet not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able to offer- a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her brother's share of their patrimony.Count Gemini since then, however, had inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians went, though Amy was horribly extravagant.The Count was a low-lived brute; he had given his wife every pretext.She had no children; she had lost three within a year of their birth.Her mother, who had bristled with pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and corresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her mother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father, lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally rich and wild, having died much earlier.One could see this in Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle held-see that he had been brought up by a woman; though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs.Osmond had liked to be called.She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death, and Mrs.
Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her arrival.She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity of judgement on Mrs.Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs.Osmond, approved of political marriages.The Countess was very good company and not really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was to observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said.
Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake;he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be confessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name.
Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism, her violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his nerves, she was not his sort of woman.What was his sort of woman? Oh, the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be habitually sacred.Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times her visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had given her an impression of rather silly sincerity.She had talked almost exclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer; how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people in Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she should like to live somewhere else- in Paris, in London, in Washington; how impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little old lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life of suffering and privation she had led.Madame Merle listened with interest to Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feel exempt from anxiety.On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess, and she could afford to do what was altogether best- not to appear so.
Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her back, so easy a matter to patronize.Henrietta Stackpole, who had left Paris after Mrs.Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked her way down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the banks of the Arno about the middle of May.Madame Merle surveyed her with a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang of despair determined to endure her.She determined indeed to delight in her.She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as a nettle.Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and Isabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to her friend's intelligence.
