Chapter XXIThe Countess Gemini was a rather forlorn woman after her brother, Gilbert Osmond, banished her from his kingdom. She laughed haughtily, took her leave but she was more aggravated than she let on at the time. How would she spend time in Rome without the hospitality of her brother and his wife? How would she see her niece? She had expected she might have a hand in unearthing a husband for Pansy who was of the age to be married. With Madame Merle then in America, her stepmother in England and her father lost in his own pursuits, selfish when it came to his daughter, how would a husband be found?
She wanted to write Osmond about this, was on the verge of doing so when, without any expectation found herself at a dinner party with Mrs. Touchett, a woman she knew more or less as Isabel Osmond’s aunt, never having been invited to the lady’s home. No, visits to the Palazzo Crescentini had never been forthcoming for the Countess Gemini, she had a reputation and Mrs. Touchett’s taste did not run to tawdry implications or loose morals. She tolerated the brother of the countess and look where it had gotten her? The man courted her niece Isabel right under her roof and this she had not quite found reason to condone. It was a perversity, she felt. Gilbert Osmond for all of his pretensions, was not about anything in her opinion. It was his sister’s opinion, precisely. That he, it was rumored, was making her niece unhappy, well that was to be expected, but did nothing to earn the lady’s esteem. His sister, never having had any esteem, was ignored by Mrs. Touchett until introduced. Nothing to be done about it.
“Mrs. Touchett, I’d like to introduce a dear friend of mine, the Countess Gemini,” said Mrs. Bellingham, wife of the American ambassador to Italy. Mrs. Touchett stood, blandly untouched by the arrival of a woman who fluttered like a preening bird before an audience.
The countess pulled in her wings, a bemused smile on her face. “Ah, but we’ve met before,” said the countess. “We do not know each other well but I think we should get to know one another, after all, we are related by marriage.”
Mrs. Touchett looked evenly, placidly at the countess and did not offer her hand. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of this suggestion nor what to say to this woman wearing such a garish costume with too much of a nervous energy for Mrs. Touchett's taste. Mrs. Touchett thought she had never before encountered such a combined fluttering of superficiality and artistry that only made one look harder to see what might control this mass of uncertainty. She only replied, “The countess and I have met, I believe.”
The countess, having decided she needed to converse with Mrs. Touchett, would do her best to get information about the Palazzo Roccanera in Rome. This she must accomplish without tipping her own hand. She did not want Mrs. Touchett to know she had been removed from her brother’s home and she was very keen to learn what had happened there since the return of Mrs. Osmond from England. She had been kept in Florence for too long, she thought, and was dying to get to Rome. If only Isabel would write, make some effort, she could be reestablished at the Palazzo Roccanera. What she dearly wanted to know was if Isabel held her a grudge: if she blamed her for anything.
She had only done what any woman should do for another. Any other woman would be grateful, once the news was digested, but Isabel was not any woman and had an odd way of looking at the world, at least the countess thought so. So moral, so disdainful of little improprieties that one usually overlooks in society. She held herself above things that are of no importance at all while lowering herself in ways the countess would never. Instead of using her position for advantage, she locks herself away in a dreary house, content with her stepdaughter who while enchanting, not compelling company for a grown woman. She could have anything in the world and yet she puts up with Osmond’s dreary assertions and entertains tedious people when she could be the crème of society. The countess had discovered no way to connect to her sister-in-law but did sorely want to be invited by her to Rome. She could stand up to Osmond if she wanted to. The countess never understood her reluctance to go against her husband who did not deserve such acclaim. Who was he anyway? No one as far as the countess could tell. What right did he have to keep her from her niece? From society? She must find a way to regain her lost stature and she would have to start with Mrs. Touchett even though she knew the lady did not care to associate with her.
“How is dear Isabel these days? It’s been an age since I’ve seen her. She’s been in England I hear. Has she returned to Rome?” chirped the countess.
“My niece is in Rome. I’m surprised you have to ask, don’t you speak to your brother?” Mrs. Touchett was not one for mincing words and the countess was taken aback at such forthrightness. She was not used to this sort of blunt reaction. Europeans generally spoke in gradation, at least in society. She sometimes forgot that Americans had a way of address that struck the ears of a European reminiscent of an accusation. Her brother often commented on this and thought Isabel had herself this mode; it set one’s teeth on edge, he would say.
The countess recovered herself to say “My brother is once again in a pique and I have not been to Rome since early spring just before your neice left for England the first time. With Isabel in England so much, the society in the Palazzo Roccanera is not quite what it could be.” She had almost made the blunder of saying when her cousin summoned her to Gardencourt. She was sure the old lady would not appreciate having her son’s death a topic of social conversation. In society, the countess had quick instincts.
“I’m sure I don’t know about the society of Rome, I rarely go there myself. My niece visited me this summer on business and I know she has been back to England since then. She has inherited my son’s home. I suspect she will spend a great deal of time there. She has always loved it; I quite expected her to leave Rome and settle there permanently though she has never said anything like that to me. She is sticking to her Roman adventure for the time being.”
“My dear lady, she is married and settled in Rome. I would call that many things but have never thought of it as an adventure that one is able to shed like a watering hole one has grown weary of.”
Mrs. Touchett continued starring at the countess, not sure how far she wanted to take this conversation but wishing for a little news herself. Her niece was rarely as confidential as her aunt felt she might be. “There’s no telling what Isabel will do. She goes her own way. I disapproved of the marriage, you probably know, but I leave her to it. She does not entrust her secrets to me. She was on very good terms with my son, Ralph, but he is gone. I fear Isabel is much alone in Rome. I think Gardencourt a more suitable place for her especially now that her friend Henrietta Stackpole, now Mrs. Bantling, lives in London. But you are right. She married and one doesn’t throw that off so easily.”
“Ah, if only it were that easy. Husbands can be so tiresome. I feel I can tell you, Mrs. Touchett, I was against the marriage myself. I know my brother. And I know his friend Madame Merle well. Together they are dangerous - I am not betraying them, I speak as frankly to them. I don't hold my tongue. I know the lady was once your good friend. Are you still? Of course you don’t have to answer that, I’m being impertinent but that is my way, I often speak without thinking. Do not begrudge me. I am ridiculous. But I did feel sorry for your niece. I wanted myself to advise her against the marriage but am a little afraid of my brother, not to mention his friend. And I like Isabel. I thought it wonderful to have her in my family, such as it is, I was selfish. But then Pansy took such a liking to her and Isabel is wonderful to her, I didn’t intervene but when I saw how unhappy Osmond made Isabel, I did. I don’t suppose you know it, but I let a few secrets out of the bag. Oh, I know, I probably shouldn’t have but I was tired of seeing Isabel efface herself to my odious brother who could so easily manipulate her…why is a woman born clever, beautiful and rich only to be walked upon by a man who is not worth her little finger? And what is my thanks? I am spurned. I can’t even get word of my poor niece who is old enough to be in society and needs to find a husband. If it were left to my brother, she will remain an old maid, tending to his garden, his needs - another woman forsaken for a man not worth so much. Oh, here I am talking on and maybe you don’t want to hear any of this. Well, forgive me, Mrs. Touchett, I do go on, but I’m harmless, really. I would so like to hear something of Isabel. I had no idea she inherited your son‘s home. That explains why she is so often in England.”
Mrs. Touchett could only listen, pleased to note she did not have to contribute to this conversation she had no way of confirming. The countess was quite a chatterbox, she thought. But if what she said was true, Isabel was under more strain than she previously thought. She wondered what the little secrets might be though she was not inclined toward gossip in general. She would have to write Isabel and see if she would visit her in Florence. Mrs. Touchett did not care to make the journey to Rome or to live under the roof of Mr. Osmond whom she did not trust entirely but perhaps they could meet in England. She lost track of the countess’s ramblings when she changed the subject to a certain nobleman who was in the news for his bankruptcy that was threatening to bring down the Florentine business world. It was all the talk in Italy.
The Countess Gemini took leave of Mrs. Toucett and flailed and flickered around several rooms enjoying the company of more men than was deemed presentable but that was old news in Italian society. The one other thing she learned from her talk with Mrs. Touchett was that the lady journalist had settled in London. That was news. The countess had once helped Henrietta Stackpole with a story on Italian society, something she enjoyed very much. She had other inside news that the journalist might be interested in. She wondered how she could get in touch with her. She decided she would write Isabel that evening. It was time to make amends and reunite with her family. It was only right. She did nothing wrong, and Isabel should thank her or at least acknowledge having done her a service. What woman in this day and age wanted to be in the dark? Isabel was indeed dense if that was her attitude. Well, she would write, she could tell her of meeting her aunt, she could tell her how he missed Pansy and to please forgive her transgressions. Then she would contact Mrs. Bantling and spill more beans. She collected beans at a rapid rate these days. The one thing about being talkative, people thought you weren’t listening and said the most delicious things. She would love the ear of a journalist, especially one who had no European loyalties.
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