Chapter XLIV
 
The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored — bored, in her own phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say. Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter’s. They are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one had heard of. Since her brother’s marriage her impatience had greatly increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome — not to the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there during the first winter of her brother’s marriage, but she had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn’t want her — that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the same, for after all she didn’t care two straws about Osmond. It was her husband who wouldn’t let her, and the money question was always a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel’s personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones — the really clever ones — always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was constantly expecting that Isabel would “look down” on her, and she as constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband’s sister, however; she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably pink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess’s spiritual principle, a little loose nut that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst species — a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she had given it all away — in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to the Countess’s going again to Rome; but at the period with which this history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts — if any of the Countess’s thoughts were serious — of putting her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped.
 
Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the card of a visitor — a card with the simple superscription “Henrietta C. Stackpole.” The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she didn’t remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett’s; the only woman of letters she had ever encountered — that is the only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her mother — whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel’s friend; the Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received an impression of the improvements that were taking place — chiefly in distant countries — in the character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of her “Creole” ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations.
 
“Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked.
 
“Well, I like you better than I do her,” said Miss Stackpole. “I seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don’t know whether it was an accident or whether it’s your usual style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print.”
 
“Dear me!” cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; “I had no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.”
 
“It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.”
 
“The position of woman’s very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And you wrote it down and published it?” the Countess went on. “Ah, do let me see it!”
 
“I’ll write to them to send you the paper if you like,” Henrietta said. “I didn’t mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I quoted your views.”
 
The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped hands. “Do you know I’m rather sorry you didn’t mention my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not at all like my brother — I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he’d never forgive you.”
 
“He needn’t be afraid; I shall never refer to him,” said Miss Stackpole with bland dryness. “That’s another reason,” she added, “why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.”
 
“Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I knew about you.”
 
“I’m quite willing to be known by that,” Henrietta declared. “But that isn’t what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my relations with Isabel.”
 
“Don’t permit it,” said the Countess.
 
“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.”
 
“So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.”
 
“With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you by name as my companion.”
 
The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside her visitor. “Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won’t like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn’t know how to read.”
 
Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I put that into my letter?”
 
“Into your letter?”
 
“In the Interviewer. That’s my paper.”
 
“Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?”
 
Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess. “She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.”
 
The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she pregnantly remarked.
 
“Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has changed a great deal. I told her she would.”
 
“I’m sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn’t my brother like you?” the Countess ingenuously added.
 
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s perfectly welcome not to like me; I don’t want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can’t hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated; that’s the way he knows how his work goes on. And it’s just the same for a lady. But I didn’t expect it of Isabel.”
 
“Do you mean that she hates you?” the Countess enquired.
 
“I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.”
 
“Dear me, what a tiresome errand!” the Countess exclaimed.
 
“She doesn’t write to me in the same way; it’s easy to see there’s a difference. If you know anything,” Miss Stackpole went on, “I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.”
 
The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. “I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn’t like me any better than he appears to like you.”
 
“Yet you’re not a lady correspondent,” said Henrietta pensively.
 
“Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they’ve invited me — I’m to stay in the house!” And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole’s disappointment.
 
This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. “I shouldn’t have gone if she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn’t; and I’m glad I hadn’t to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I shouldn’t have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn’t have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that’s not all.”
 
“Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?”
 
“Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?” Henrietta enquired.
 
“I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s making love to Isabel.”
 
“Making love to her?”
 
“So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But Isabel’s pretty safe.”
 
Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said nothing. “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly.
 
“Not for a week, I’m afraid.”
 
“I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.”
 
“Dear me, I’m sorry; I’m having some dresses made. I’m told Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you at your pension.” Henrietta sat still — she was lost in thought; and suddenly the Countess cried: “Ah, but if you don’t go with me you can’t describe our journey!”
 
Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking of something else and presently expressed it. “I’m not sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton.”
 
“Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.”
 
“Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta enquired with unprecedented distinctness.
 
The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: “It’s certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you’ll see!” she added.
 
“That idea would be enough to prevent me,” said Miss Stackpole. “I should want my own husband; I shouldn’t want any one else’s. Do you mean that Isabel’s guilty — guilty —?” And she paused a little, choosing her expression.
 
“Do I mean she’s guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that Osmond’s very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I’m afraid you’re scandalised.”
 
“No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said.
 
“Ah, you’re not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more confidence. I’ll tell you,” the Countess added quickly: “if it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw him off.”
 
Miss Stackpole............