Their appointment was for a Sunday afternoon, and Madame Merle assured Libby that it would be a very select gathering, just four of them: Gilbert Osmond; his lovely young daughter, Viola; Libby; and Madame Merle herself. But when they arrived, there was a fifth member added to the party, a sharp-faced, birdlike woman who sat at the very center of the room, her plumage glittering and scintillating from head to foot. She wore the kind of tight-fitting, form-revealing clothing that would not be popular for another decade, and heels so high and thin it seemed impossible at first that she could balance on them. Her voice was high and shrill. Her gestures were vulgar. Everything about her, Libby decided on the spot, was artificial and forced.
“This is my sister, the Countess Gemini,” said Osmond, with a look of apology.
“But you must call me Amy!” the woman warbled so piercingly that Libby found herself doubting even the name.
“And this,” said Osmond, with a good deal more pride, “is my daughter, Viola. She’s been wanting to show you her drawings. She understands you are a lover of art.” His voice, perhaps especially in contrast to his sister’s, was soothing, like the sound of a cello, with hints of richer tones beneath and just the faintest trace of an Italian accent.
“I do love art, but I am not a judge,” said Libby quietly, shaking the little girl’s shy hand. She thought she saw relief in the girl’s face.
“I adore art, and I am a judge!” screamed the Countess Gemini. “Let’s see if the child has any aptitude!”
“Perhaps later,” said Madame Merle, stepping between the Countess and Libby. As Viola led her guest dutifully toward some drawings and watercolor sketches laid out at the far end of the room, taking Libby trustingly by the hand, Madame Merle said through clenched teeth, “What on earth is she doing here?”
“I could hardly throw her out,” said Osmond, just as quietly.
“What are you two whispering about?” demanded the Countess. “You’re always plotting and scheming behind my back.”
Libby and Viola, meanwhile, stood at the far end of the room looking together at the girl’s work. “You have a very sure hand,” said Libby.
“I always try my best,” said the girl.
“And this kitten”—Libby pointed—“looks very sweet.”
“Oh yes, she is adorable!” exclaimed Viola. “She has the most beautiful big gray eyes, you can’t imagine. She used to sometimes come and curl at the foot of my bed at the convent. I miss her dreadfully! Her name is Mimi, which is the perfect name for her.”
Though Libby could not have known it, this amounted to a very long speech from Viola. Apparently Libby had hit upon a favorite topic when she praised the kitten. She gave a sympathetic smile.
“I too had a cat that I loved,” said Libby.
“If she’s dead, please don’t tell me,” said Viola. “I can’t bear sad stories—especially about animals.”
“Do you care for art very much?” asked Libby, smoothly changing the subject.
Viola’s shyness returned. “I like to draw,” said the girl. “But I will never be as clever at it as Papa.” She gazed into her visitor’s face, as if taking her measure, and then whispered with desperate courage, “I care very much for music! Very much indeed!”
“Do you?” asked Libby, smiling again.
“Yes, but don’t tell the others. It’s not approved of . . . entirely.”
“Why not?”
“We sing religious songs at the convent. And practice scales. That is all.” Viola shook her head sadly.
“I see.”
“But I think that music is the voice of God,” Viola said. “It expresses—everything. Even cats!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Libby. The two exchanged a look of sympathy just as Gilbert Osmond strolled up. He was pleasantly struck by something about the two figures standing gracefully together, like an ancient Roman frieze. He took his daughter’s hand and held it tightly in his own.
“I’m so glad for you to meet Viola,” he said. “I’m afraid it gets lonely here for her.”
“Never with you!” objected Viola.
“I’ll be glad to visit as often as you’ll have me,” said Libby.
“Will you really? That would be . . . a gift,” said Osmond. “Do you hear that, Viola?”
“I do,” said the girl, with a radiant smile. “I hope you’ll come and see us often.”
“I always keep my word,” said Libby with a certain pride.
“We are delighted to hear it,” said Osmond.
“Come back this way, over to me!” shouted the Countess Gemini, who had been moving cakes around on her plate without eating any of them. “I’m only here for the chance to see someone new. My brother hardly ever invites me, so I just invite myself. Sit down, park yourself,” she beckoned, as Libby drew near, “but not on that rickety old chair. Gilbert has some good things, but also some horrors, I assure you!”
“I don’t see anything that isn’t perfectly lovely,” said Libby honestly.
“That’s because you aren’t looking closely enough,” said the Countess. “You may take my word for it! This chair looks safe enough. Pull it up, I won’t bite.”
“I have a few good things,” said Gilbert, as if his sister hadn’t spoken. “But not what I would have liked.”
“You’d have liked a few choice things stolen from the Vatican—that’s what you would have liked. Well, show her your old curtains and crosses if you have to, Gilbert, but get it over with!”
“I think I will save a tour for another day,” said Gilbert softly.
“I would like that very much,” said Libby.
The Countess glanced from one speaker to the other. “Tell me, my dear girl, aren’t you ashamed of your country just now? Every decent man or woman is being tossed out into the street—writers, artists, actors. Next thing they’ll be burning them at the stake!”
“Every country must protect itself from invidious forces,” said Osmond. “Every person has that right as well,” he added, with a look at his sister.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about invidious forces!” cried the Countess. She snapped open a mirrored compact, ran her tongue over her teeth, and applied some bright-red lipstick. “Would you like to try it?” she asked Libby. “Something bold would look good on you.”
“No—thank you,” said Libby.
“I agree, Gilbert,” the Countess went on in a dramatic voice, tossing back her head and revealing a very white, thin throat. “There are invidious forces at work in America right now, working against the best interest of the country. They are creeping worms who set up their own committees and make their own rules. Senator McCarthy couldn’t do it alone any more than Hitler could have wiped out the gypsies single-handedly. One must have help, of course. And there never seems to be any shortage of that kind of help in the world!” The Countess’s voice broke. If Libby hadn’t known better, she might have thought real tears glittered on the woman’s false black eyelashes.
“My sister takes a drastic view of things, always,” said Osmond.
“I take the only view—the only possible view.”
Madame Merle rose gracefully to her feet. “Political conversations somehow always give me a headache,” she said. “I must be going soon. Amy, can I drop you off at home? It’s on my way.”
The Countess drooped visibly. “I talk too much,” she said to Libby. “I babble. Whatever is in my head, I say—but you mustn’t judge me harshly because of that. I have a heart of gold, really I do. Viola, come give your aunt a kiss. I have some of that chewing gum that people your age all adore—no, take it. Take it, I say! And you,” she turned back to Libby. “Here is my card. You must come by to see me soon. I run a salon, it’s very amusing. I think a mind reader is coming next week—either that or a medium, I forget which. Whoever it is, he will wear a turban, I’m sure of it, and he’ll tell your fortune if you like. I hear the queen of Persia consults with him. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“It sounds . .
. interesting,” said Libby.
“Then you absolutely must come. Promise me you’ll come!” shrieked the Countess. She smiled artificially at Libby, revealing very sharp white teeth and studying her face. Suddenly she added, “And don’t believe the beastly things that people say about me behind my back!”
“We really must be going,” murmured Madame Merle. “Libby, will you come with us?”
“If you stay a little longer, I’ll walk you around the beautiful garden, and then Papa will put you into a taxi,” said Viola.
“That I would be glad to do,” said the papa, smiling at Libby.
“In that case I will stay—just a little,” said Libby. The garden did look enchanting through the half-open doors. The air inside the villa felt almost too soft, as if composed of dozens of cobwebs.
“I always miss all the real fun!” cried the Countess regretfully. Goodbyes were said and embraces exchanged. The Countess enfolded Viola in her arms till the girl gasped, her golden hair nearly eclipsed in a headlock.
Madame Merle had finally gotten the Countess settled into her car, when some instinct made her return. In the foyer, a glimpse of her host through the French doors made her catch her breath. Gilbert Osmond stood out in the sunlit garden with his arm around his daughter. Viola rested her fair head on his shoulder. He had never looked more appealing.
Had Clara Merle not known Osmond so well, she might have thought he’d created the charming tableau on purpose. But he hated to be on display. Any moment they might move and break the spell. Clara hurriedly set down her cat-eye sunglasses and found Libby browsing through a book of paintings.
“I’ve lost my sunglasses,” said Madame Merle. “Will you help me look? Perhaps I left them in the foyer.”
She watched Libby go, then turned to see that Gilbert and Viola still stood together in the mellow light of a Roman afternoon.
Libby too had seen father and daughter standing there. The girl’s yellow head rested on her father’s shoulder. She pressed tightly against him. They looked abandoned, Libby thought, lonely and woven together at the same time. Their life seemed, for an instant, so desolate. The scene caught at her heart. She could almost smell the sharp odor of juniper berries rising in the air. A spider’s web swayed in the wind.
Out front, the Countess beeped the car horn impatiently, three times. Libby startled. She discovered Madame Merle’s sunglasses lying on the hall table, retrieved them, and brought them back to her friend, who was apparently busy in her own search for her glasses.
Still the two figures out in the garden stood unmoving, entwined.
“They are unlike any other father and daughter I know,” said Madame Merle.
“I agree,” said Libby. “Let’s leave them be.”
Libby and Madame Merle stepped out to the car together, for the Countess had rolled down the car window now and was calling loudly in her sharp, coarse voice for all the neighborhood to hear.
Only when he heard his front door close again did Gilbert Osmond finally release his tight grip and murmur to his daughter, “You may go now.” Viola had been holding absolutely still—her father so seldom embraced or even touched her. She had willed the moment to last as long as possible while he held her tightly around the waist, pinned to his side. Now she left him without a word.
Inside the Palatine villa, a breathing silence filled the rooms. Osmond found his guest again perusing the art books.
“My ears are still ringing,” said Osmond.
Libby smiled but said nothing.
“I just remembered!” said Viola, entering the room. “I have another drawing of that kitten. Would you like to see it?”
“Of course,” said Libby.
“I’ll run up and get it,” said Viola, tripping lightly away. When her golden head had disappeared from view, Osmond said, “You are very kind to my little girl.”
“It’s not just kindness,” said Libby. “She’s such an interesting little person.”
“Is she?” asked Osmond. “And what did you think of my sister?”
Libby had the good grace to blush. She looked everywhere but at her host’s face. And everywhere she looked, her eyes were met by some uniquely exquisite and perfect object. She had the sensation that once she left this house, she might never see its equal again, and for some reason that she herself didn’t entirely understand, the idea of never returning to these rooms made her feel bereft. She began to understand what Madame Merle had meant when she described this man as living like a prince in exile. It was more remote than the most hidden cottage in a deep wood. “I didn’t have time to form an opinion,” she said.
“She’s very unhappy,” said Osmond. “She married badly. The man’s a brute.”
“I’m sorry,” said Libby.
“I hope it doesn’t seem as if I’m just making excuses,” he said. “But one seldom meets a sympathetic character. I mean, I seldom do. I’d hate to think this might be your only impression of us . . . your only visit.”
“I was thinking the same thing!” exclaimed Libby impulsively. “But of course I’ll be back if you like. And you’ve no need to apologize.”
“There are always reasons to apologize. I fear if I start I will never stop. So I simply don’t start. But it would be a loss if you didn’t return—especially for Viola. She has spent so much of her life alone, or nearly alone. She lost her mother at a very early age. We live so simply here. I can see that she’s taken a liking to you. That’s rare.”
“I like her as well,” said Libby. “I enjoy the company of young people.”
“Yes, when they haven’t been spoiled by the world,” said Osmond. “It sounds trite to say so, but I do take it seriously—my daughter’s preservation.” He smiled sadly and fell silent. “I think I have lost the power of using words altogether.”
“Not at all,” said Libby. “Besides, I’ve been living a noisy life. I find the quiet restful.”
Osmond came and stood a little closer. Yet there was something hesitant in his movement as well. As close as he stood, he kept a distance. “We live very quietly here,” he said.
Viola, descending the staircase, saw the two figures standing side by side. She was carrying a drawing pad in one hand. She stopped on the stairs and took them in. Her face was glowing. “Papa has been so lonely,” she declared. “I hope you two will become great friends!”
Chapter Thirteen
“I am here to see Mrs. Osmond,” said the man, dressed in black from head to foot, handing out his card. Standing in the foyer of Osmond’s villa, he looked like a funeral director, but the card he presented to the surly servingman declared him to be a critico, a critic writing for Il Mondo dell’Arte, the most prestigious and conservative art magazine of its day.
The pale woman who stepped forward to meet him was as different from the creature in Parisian pink as that young woman had been from the girl in Bermuda shorts in Rochester. One transformation had supplanted the next. In Paris, Libby Archer had carried a look of intense, impatient interest. Now, it was as if someone had come along and shut off the lights. Mrs. Elizabeth Osmond—for Gilbert did not approve of nicknames—seemed a new creature. She dressed exquisitely, yet the effect was a kind of erasure, like the frame of a painting without its substance.
“Welcome to our home,” she said automatically.
“Dear lady, it is I who should welcome and congratulate you!” The critic looked past her shoulder to another guest. “Arturo, I didn’t see you standing there. Have you read the latest parody on Signora Sorridente?”
The critico hurried to join a small circle of men dressed in black, one of them eccentrically and elaborately mustachioed. Gilbert Osmond stood among them, greeting his newest guest with a languid handshake. Beyond them, close to the fire—for it was late winter now in Rome—stood two perfumed women speaking quietly. Other guests were scattered in the remaining downstairs rooms—intellectual-looking young men, for the most part, who wolfed down the delicacies laid out for them, though only after firs
t eyeing them with evident scorn. The Countess Gemini was present also, poised at a small table in a far corner of the room, observing everything. Her dress was less ostentatious than before, though no less form-fitting. She wore a red polka-dot silk scarf around her narrow throat.
Only Viola seemed unchanged, marooned on her accustomed small sofa in the middle of the room. Her dress was a trifle less girlish, her hair a little more brushed. Otherwise she was exactly as before. She sat stroking a gray and white cat, which she fed little tidbits from her plate whenever she could be sure no one was looking. Of all the guests in the house, she looked the most isolated—and the most content. Libby took her place beside her stepdaughter. She stroked the cat’s forehead with two fingers. The cat purred. For the first time all afternoon, Libby smiled. “Is Mimi enjoying her snacks?” she asked.
“Don’t tell Papa!” Viola pleaded. “He claims she’s getting too fat.”
In answer, Libby laid her finger on her own lips, silently promising secrecy.
The Countess Gemini swept over. “Can’t I get you to eat a bite?” she asked Libby. There was unmistakable tenderness in her voice.
Libby shook her head. “No, nothing.”
“I can make you up a very small plate,” pleaded the Countess.
Libby shook her head again. “Thank you,” she said.
“Let me see if I can tempt you,” said the Countess, scurrying back to her table in the corner. She began placing items on a gold-rimmed plate: a bunch of purple grapes, a few crackers. She busied herself with the arrangements.
There was another knock at the door, and Libby rose automatically, straightening her dress, venturing a glance in her husband’s direction. He was absorbed in conversation. He kept his back to his wife. Libby moved toward the door, but halfway there she gave out a cry of undisguised surprise and delight. “Lazarus!” She flew into her cousin’s arms, practically knocking him over at the doorway.
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