The Osbornes

by E. F. Benson

“Pathetic? You mean that you don’t think so highly of them?”

Dora’s heart suddenly sank. She had not meant that: she had meant only that it was a pity they stayed in Venice to please her, when in reality she was not enjoying their stay. She knew well that they were out of place in Venice ... it was hopeless to try to explain. But even if she had meant the other, it would have been a fatal error on Claude’s part to put it into words. He called this kind of frankness “getting at the bottom of the thing.” She felt he was certain to use that phrase now. He did so.

“Let’s get at the bottom of it, dear,” he said, “and as we always do, I shall speak my mind, just like you. Perhaps it will sound harsh to you: I’m sorry if it does.”

He leaned back again, but without looking at him she could see that he tilted his head back, and put his chin a little out, the identical gesture which before she had found so attractive, so fascinating, even. She had told him so, too, a hundred times: had said she loved a man to know his mind, to be firm and decided, especially with those he loved best. No doubt he remembered that at this moment: perhaps even he was doing it consciously or at least half-consciously, so as to present what he had to say in the most attractive guise. But, suddenly and disconcertingly, she found the gesture scarcely less than odious.

“I think the pater’s been awfully good to you, dear,” he said. “He’s done a lot for you, given you all sorts of things you had no reason to expect. There’s this month in Venice, to go no further than that. Well, it will stand him in a pot of money, and it’s just because he doesn’t grudge you one penny of it that I think you ought to feel rather more cordial to him about their stopping. I don’t say that you behaved not cordially, because I think what you said was all right, and neither of them noticed that anything was awry, but you hadn’t got the right feelings to back up your tongue. Wait a moment. I’ve not finished; there’s something more yet, but I want to find words that won’t hurt you, and yet will express what I mean.”

There was something in this that roused a certain sense in Dora that she knew had been often present in her mind, but which she hoped would always remain dormant. But now it began to awake; his words, kind as they were, implied an impossible attitude. He was judging, so it seemed to her, making himself jury and judge all rolled into one, and it was understood that she, put in the dock before him, would make no defence. He knew that he was right—that was what it came to—and was going to tell her, as kindly as possible, what was right. And on the instant she found herself refusing to be judged and condemned by his standards. He did not know what Venice meant to her, or how essentially his father’s attitude toward the things and the place that she loved jarred on her. And unfortunately the affair was typical of hundreds of other affairs. That Mr. Osborne had no artistic sense of any sort or kind did not matter, but what was beginning to matter was that Claude, who apparently could not see that the entire absence of it in a person with whom she was brought into day-long contact made something rather hard to bear, had put on his wig and was going to sum up on a matter about which he knew nothing. Her behaviour had never broken down; he had said that himself, and she believed it to be true; the matter was that he could not understand that she had to struggle against the disappointment of spoiled days, and was yet serenely confident that he had the complete data.

“Don’t mind about hurting me,” she said quickly. “I want you to say exactly what you feel.”

They had arrived at the water-gate of their home, without her noticing it, and Giovanni was already standing, hat in hand, to give her the support of his arm on to the steps, which were slippery with the receding tide. Claude was conscious of this first: he was quite conscious, also, of Dora’s tone.

“Not before the servants,” he said. “Get out, dear, and take Giovanni’s arm. The steps are like ice!”

Again Dora was in revolt: it seemed to her that he was advising her against a thing he might have done himself, but which she could not have dreamed of. She had been absorbed in this—this dispute was it?—had not noticed. He had noticed, and warned her against an impossible thing.