who would he be, what would he
represent? 'Mr. Ralph Touchett: an American who lives in Europe.' That
signifies absolutely nothing--it's impossible anything should signify
less. 'He's very cultivated,' they say: 'he has a very pretty collection
of old snuff-boxes.' The collection is all that's wanted to make it
pitiful. I'm tired of the sound of the word; I think it's grotesque.
With the poor old father it's different; he has his identity, and it's
rather a massive one. He represents a great financial house, and that,
in our day, is as good as anything else. For an American, at any rate,
that will do very well. But I persist in thinking your cousin very lucky
to have a chronic malady so long as he doesn't die of it. It's much
better than the snuffboxes. If he weren't ill, you say, he'd do
something?--he'd take his father's place in the house. My poor child, I
doubt it; I don't think he's at all fond of the house. However, you know
him better than I, though I used to know him rather well, and he may
have the benefit of the doubt. The worst case, I think, is a friend
of mine, a countryman of ours, who lives in Italy (where he also was
brought before he knew better), and who is one of the most delightful
men I know. Some day you must know him. I'll bring you together and then
you'll see what I mean. He's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Italy; that's
all one can say about him or make of him. He's exceedingly clever, a
man made to be distinguished; but, as I tell you, you exhaust the
description when you say he's Mr. Osmond who lives tout betement in
Italy. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no past, no future,
no anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please--paints in water-colours;
like me, only better than I. His painting's pretty bad; on the whole I'm
rather glad of that. Fortunately he's very indolent, so indolent that
it amounts to a sort of position. He can say, 'Oh, I do nothing; I'm too
deadly lazy. You can do nothing to-day unless you get up at five o'clock
in the morning.' In that way he becomes a sort of exception; you feel
he might do something if he'd only rise early. He never speaks of his
painting to people at large; he's too clever for that. But he has a
little girl--a dear little girl; he does speak of her. He's devoted
to her, and if it were a career to be an excellent father he'd be very
distinguished. But I'm afraid that's no better than the snuff-boxes;
perhaps not even so good. Tell me what they do i