Osmond Philosophical

Chapter XXV

Gilbert Osmond had shaken the virus that had him bedridden for a fortnight but had not been able to shake the feeling of defeat that had as of late rendered him lethargic and prone to a trepidacious mood. He had not countenanced his daughter’s steadfast resistance to Prince Viticonti’s proposal of marriage. In his wife, he had become accustomed to a formidable willfulness - she was after all, from a country that encouraged women to assert themselves, to demand equal standing in affairs of life previously left in the care of the male of the species. Osmond had not set foot in American after his first year when his parents moved permanently to Europe in search of just that equality it was presumed in abundance in the New World. He looked upon his own wife as the irrefutable product of such a culture. Osmond was now accustomed to the obstinacy of women but he had yet to become complacent at their victory. Now his daughter, the most lovingly benign girl, docile by nature and by virtue, had been corrupted quite complicitly - with that most disagreeable trait - the need to have her own way. She went about it in a subtle fashion but as a father who has reared her alone, he was all too aware of the change.

Osmond had not heard from the prince or his aunt since the day a proposal was made and rejected. Osmond had been woefully unavailable to visitors. He was aware of the presence of his sister, the Countess Gemini; having somehow slid past his restrictions. Her fluttering nervous facade could be felt - Osmond highly sensitive to the reverberations, the aberrations in his own domain.

That his sister was an aberration was in his mind and when Isabel suggested he grant her an audience as soon as he regained his strength. He hadn’t the will to refuse, nor did he have access to the anger necessary. “Bring her on,” he said. “I feel the need to be contrary, she’ll do fine for that purpose.”

He was recovered sufficiently to spend the afternoon in his study where he was awaiting the countess with a formal ennui, a resolute boredom from having been too much alone with his thoughts in the past weeks. His illness had tempered his edge and he was ready to greet his relative with neither bitterness nor animosity. Tolerance would be another test - she was not for him, the most satisfying conversationalist. She dealt in the material, whether fine or coarse, she seemed not to know the difference.

The countess entered the rather warm study of her brother whose appearance, she noted, had little resemblance to the often fierce personage of yore. “Dear brother, I have come on a mission. Your pallor tells me I was right not to hesitate…judging by your doleful eyes. Are you brooding, Gilbert? Or are you really ill?”
“Countess,” mumbled Osmond. He gave a slight bow of his head in deference to her title and would simultaneously allow him to dismiss her. He did not get up to greet her - his welcome was tempered but not without civility. He was not unhappy to see her - he had been indoors, and during that time society melted off him. He never cared one way or the other what any mortal thought, though he listened to the pope. He had become a Catholic when he was nineteen, he entered the church by the backdoor; through his school. He did not necessarily believe but he did belong. Furthermore, he felt the Catholics understood the inner depths of humanity - they went for the heart. Osmond kept his heart to himself but found comfort in knowing he was part of something - that which reigned largest in Italy, the Vatican.

The countess took off an umber wool cape with a flourish and set it on a chair until a maid claimed it for removal to a rack in the entry. She kept her hat on. She was wearing a simple day dress that managed to flounce a degree more than those of other women. Men noticed it; some were repelled, others dove headfirst into an alliance, intent on going as far as necessary.
“Well…after all this time,” she said. “Give me the news, I don’t like to rely on gossip and rumor. Lord knows I get enough of it.”
“Yes, well, maybe it’s the company you keep.”
“Yes. Company. Well one makes due when one’s family can’t be counted on for simple sustenance.”
Osmond ignored this dig. He was immune to admonishment of any kind. “How are things in Florence? I’ve been ill, though I am still breathing - should you wonder.”
“The city of Florence is nearly bankrupt and the government about to be hung out to dry.”
“So what else can be expected in times like this?”
“This time there is a public outcry, fostered by the press. They are naming names, including mistresses. It seems freedom of the press so recently touted by the politicales as progress has come back to bite.”
“The press?”
“Yes, they have taken the American philosophy and want to push democratic reform, whatever that is. We have abolished the king, what more do they want?”
“They want your head, my dear.”
“My head! My head is worth little, I’m afraid.”
“Then perhaps your husband’s.”
“Oh, his is too little, less than mine. The count is an imbecile. Why would anyone trouble themselves over his empty head?”
“Ah, you see, his head may be empty, but his coffers are not. And it for that they take the trouble.”
“You are scaring me.”
“You, in your relation to the count, represent the seedy side of the Old World.”
“Pshh. He represents nothing of importance, not even the seedy.”
“My dear, they do not know that. You do not get it. He represents all that has gone wrong, continues to go wrong, according to certain precepts.”
“What have we done that is so wrong?”
“You enhance yourself at the expense of the masses.”
“I do not understand these things. I don’t want to. It’s odious.”
“Nevertheless, your time may be running out.”
“Gilbert? What do you know? Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes. That’s it. Forget what I said. I know nothing of your class warfare, I disregard reformers. They never really know what they are doing but make a lot of noise, stir up dust and disturb our peace.”
“Vulgar opportunists, the count calls them.”
“That is just how they see your husband, Countess, and his allies. But they can’t win.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Let’s talk about something more interesting, shall we?”
“What would that be?”
“Tell me everything about the marriage proposal from Prince Viticonti. How was it arranged?”
“There is nothing to tell because there will be no wedding.”
“Is it so definite then?”

The countess having ascertained from her sister-in-law that it was, as a subject, closed - took this false line with her brother for a reaction. Was he as calm as he appeared? His wife and his daughter were exasperatingly calm - but Osmond she suspected was carrying a zealously guarded motivation - the likes of which she could not guess. Her mind did not move toward endgames. She took things as they came and did not worry…she was fortunate in some ways but this superficial stance was vapid, she, an empty cage. Her brother was her opposite in every way. He bristled with latent Catholicism and artful intent.

The countess did have a few insights gleaned but she was holding close, unwilling to offend her relative at this juncture.
“My daughter seems to have made her stand - where the logic in it resides, I can’t behold," said Osmond. "Conjoined with my wife as she is, I can expect rebellion from here on in. That is to be my lot for…” He paused, unwilling to go on in this vain for his sister’s benefit.
“…for what brother dear? Thinking you would always maintain the upper hand? Punished are you? Are you so shocked to find your wife not in accord? You were not so nice to her in the past. Did you think it wouldn’t matter to her? She is not like European women. She doesn’t play her hand in the same manner. She shows too much. She is not subtle.”
“You mean devious, don’t you?”
“Ah Osmond, how it rankles you. You need to come to terms with the bargain you wrought.”
“Don’t speak to me of bargains. Why are you here, to burden me, to dig it in?”
“You dramatize, Gilbert. I’m not your enemy. I am here because I spent a good portion of the autumn in Rome and have yet to lay eyes on my closest relative. It doesn’t look good. I made amends with your wife. She has forgiven me. We are to be friends. She bears me no grudge.”
“But I do, sister. I do.”
“My little indiscretion hasn’t hurt you. You are well-fitted. By the way, I saw your altarpiece. Quite a coup. I remember it from the De’Loro wedding we attended many years ago. You think I don’t pay attention but I saw you sizing it up that day. I’m not as thick as you think. Have you any idea what is it worth?”
“It is worth the world. It’s priceless.”
“As you say. Art is not my realm. But it is very beautiful, I understand that much. And very old. You are fortunate, Gilbert. I hope you realize it.”

Osmond had remained seated for this discourse but suddenly felt restless. His sister could put him on edge after a half hour. He bore her residency with agreeable fortitude but did not pretend to any solidarity. She could bore him but then many are guilty of that. She was no worse or better in that regard. He rose from the deep armchair he had been firmly situated in and paced for a bit and settled in front of a tall window, watching the clouds’ rapidly increasing threat of rain. A bleak sparrow pecked about the deserted fountain that had little to offer on any level. It was dry, filled with dead leaves and a stray branch leftover from the old felled oak tree that had been his comfort in all weather. Gone.

Osmond was subject to a brooding. He thought there was not much to recommend for the last two months of the year. He always looked forward to starting a new year but suffered through holiday festivities, begged off but then hosted a rather large Christmas dinner and spent money on his table. He would have to shop for gifts soon but even that left him desolate. The gift he wanted, The Madonna of Albinea could be lost to him now. He mourned her. He did not have the will to seek out the company of the Marchesa. It would wait now, something for the future. With the nobility, you couldn’t wave around cash as he could with church aldermen for his Giotto, pride, the pride before the fall, could not be swept away completely; the nobles would soon learn their lesson of Democratic reform. The Marchesa would never forgive the slight to her nephew. The Italians held a grudge, indefinitely.

“How do you find Rome, Countess? Has it lived up to your expectations? My wife has been much in society lately.”
“But not yourself?”
“I’ve been ill. And taken up with the Viticontis before that.”
“Ah yes, the Viticontis. How is it that a proud noble family found it in their hearts to notice our little Pansy?”
“It doesn’t matter, I tell you. I have no desire to talk about it. How long are you in Rome?”
“I’m due back in Florence in a fortnight. I’d rather not talk of that.”
“Is there anything we might want to talk of? I’m bored enough. Give me some gossip. Tell me all of it. Everything you know or think you know.”

“I saw your old friend this week. The grand Serena Merle has elevated her position by marrying a sizable fortune. It happened for her after all. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her. She has done up quite an elaborate setting for herself on the Via Venetti I’m told. America is truly the land of either miracles or opportunity.”
“Have you met the husband?”
“Her husband? As a matter of fact, I have.”
“And what do you make of him?”
“Not at all what I was expecting. Not nearly as dull as many Americans you meet.”
“Is he a man of some culture then?”
“Not overtly on display.”
“What makes you say he is not dull then?”
“He may be dull but not without a particle of charm. Not as old as I expected. Not as staid.”
“Surely not younger than Serena?”
“About the same age. But somehow he seems younger. He has a childlike quality. And he keeps himself well. Not at all jaded like…”
“Us, do you mean?”
“You said it, I won’t.”
“And this childlike husband, does he seem to get on with his wife, who is decidedly unchildlike?”
“You mean, does she get on with him?”
“The same conclusion, then?”
“They seem simpatico. He caters to her. She appreciates the sentiment.”
“You mean she tolerates his ardor?”
“More than tolerates, she ministers to his affection with a great deal of finesse. She plays her part beautifully.”
“We could expect nothing less.”
“She is not stupid. She knows what bounty arrived at her feet and does not take it lightly. She works for her elevation.”
“Well, I’m happy she has found employment.”
“Should you like to see her? I can arrange it.”
“My dear sister, if I wished to see my old friend, I have only to do so on my own volition.”
“Then you don’t wish to?”
“How do you know I haven’t?
“Exactly. One never knows with you and your former accomplice, now does one?” The countess made ready to leave, bustling about, checking her hair in the mirror while fitting her gloves on her ten fingers. Osmond marveled at the strange brew his sister had become. When they were children, she was the innocent one. Always looking to do good for others. To be her best. The big sister who taught him manners and penmanship. How had she acquired a reputation? He thought of her as a teenager. She was lovely, vivacious. A catch. Her husband wore her down. Her march toward the nervous subliminal aristocracy in a county thoroughly corrupted has forced her hand. She changed tactics, or developed them - for this she had to alter her definition of Acceptable. She was slowly downgraded but was only half aware of her fall. Ah, for lost innocence, Osmond said to himself.

He walked her to the door and put an arm on her hers, affectionately.
“I’m happy to see you again. I’ve missed you, Gilbert. I am your sister. We may not be alike but we are siblings. It’s not good to be estranged. It doesn’t look good. And it has no purpose.”
“You said that already. What do I care for looks? And what purpose are we hoping to fulfill?”
“You used to very much care, enough to make out some sort of purpose. Our purpose was in our survival and then our satisfaction.”
“I’m past that.”
“Yes, money does help with the passage of time.”
“You are very cynical, sister.”
“Not as much so as you think…Gilbert, about this marriage proposal: Was it about anything more than an innocent arrangement? Did Pansy show encouragement, what does she say? Was there a hope? I was told you and the Marchesa were conjoined quite yourselves, to use your term. What was in it for us?”
“For us? Nothing for us, as you said, a suitable match for Pansy.”
“I came right out and asked your wife. She, as usual was taken aback. Obtuse. But then later I thought she might be in the dark. What was the gain? Surely you wanted something more than a watered-down noble for Pansy. They have no money, you know. It’s all out in the open. So their gain is on view. And there are a few innuendos going around that wouldn’t sit well with Isabel. She would not want to hand over a large dowry in the circumstances - if she knew all. She’s getting easier, but she is still pragmatic and as you say, democratic. But of course, she would in the end if it was what Pansy wanted. You’ve still got that anyway. There is a soft side to her that we have all witnessed. I repeat, you were not so nice to her. Your wife is generous to you, you are free. But I didn’t I want to get into all that today. I came here to talk of Pansy. A few years ago your prince would have been a catch, but not today. We are in reform mode, you know. The count says we are being robbed.”
“Yes. I suppose it was not a match to get excited about. Perhaps my daughter has more to her than I suspect.”
“She’s become lovely. And so poised. I would not be surprised if she made a good match yet.”
“No, I think she will stay at home with her papa. There won’t be another offer.”

The countess leaving the grand entrance of the Palazzo Roccanera was traveling with a light spirit. She was welcomed back. It was a good visit. She didn’t learn much, but then, her brother was always tightly wrought. She had to work to get anything out of him, using a subtle manipulation, thought out beforehand. She had it in her to improvise but found her brother’s weak deportment and listless eyes touching. She had taken care of him as a child. Their parents were flakes but sister and brother had each other. Well, she would find out what she could. Obviously Pansy and Isabel had plans that Osmond was not yet apprised of. His daughter would in all likelihood, not be staying at home with Papa much longer.

But what are they always waiting for? she mused. Their ability to sit still, to wait and see, their little maneuvers to get what they each wanted…they gain no momentum. They are always stuck. The Countess Gemini liked each day to have a plan and work on its progress, even those that could be qualified as trivial. She did not like the studious closed atmosphere at the Palazzo Roccanera, she found she really liked staying in a nice hotel and had already decided to move into one right after the new year. Preferably in Rome but if Florence, she would make the best of it.

Osmond’s mind was in a stimulated frame, although he did not gain much from his sister’s visit. She knew a few odd facts and rumors of Roman society. Of course he knew Serena Merle was in Rome. He had seen her, thrice. Each time he wished for more of her. He knew she could help him devise what would be a prudent strategy - he still wanted very much to purchase the missing Correggio, The Madonna of Albinea. And he had formulated a plan. He was to consult an American dealer who would be a front for Osmond and contrive a way into the Machesa’s parlor. He would play the role of a crass American fulfilling all their prejudices - he would put cash on the table, or somewhere central in the room. He would offer to take a mere three or four things from their very large collection, reason with them that they had plenty more; they would never lack for pictures, tapestries or statues. The artworks would stay in Italy, he would assure them. One day they could buy them back when things settled…

The faux dealer would offer assurances that what they were doing was within proprietary boundaries. He would, after the initial aggressive show of gold, talk to them like children who had to be convinced to eat their vegetables. He would remind them that the world was changing, and as unpleasant as it is, some of it they would have to accept. Osmond was scheming, he had no choice. It was only a game. There is no moral to it - Osmond wanted a painting - he wanted to preserve it, show it to the world, give it its glory. He was the hero of the Madonna of Albinea. He dreamed of her at night. She was in his higher conscious and he could not do anything but take possession of her, protect her from further debasement.

From a rotting pile of decrepit moldings and complete lack of comfort or protection from weather conditions, windows that were cracked without replacement. Thieves would eventually get in. From the roof to the foundation, it could easily flood. It could catch fire from faulty chimney maintenance. An unscrupulous dealer could lay eyes on her and she would be carted away for a song to God only knew where. This would not do. He would not rest easily until the Madonna was hanging on his most pivotal wall. This was his goal and his gift to Italian heritage. It took no trouble to justify his avarice in a more congenial frame; we can always justify most desires if we are with an imagination. If we have a point, we are in particularly good stead. Osmond was of the assured mind - that he had the right intentions.

The Countess Gemini In From The Cold

Chapter XXIV

Pansy Osmond was quietly embroidering the border of a delicate handkerchief she planned to give to her stepmother for Christmas. She needed to keep her hands busy lest her imagination take hold. Her mind was capable of conjuring a less than desirable outcome for her future. She did not have an active imagination, she knew it, but thought it best to keep occupied nevertheless. Her future was very much on her mind but she was not unduly worried about it; her concern was more toward the present which had lost its sanguinity with a proposal of marriage from Prince Viticonti one week previous.

That she refused the prince had her father wildly agitated though he had not as yet spoke with her or determined how to rebuke his obstinate daughter. The fact was, Osmond had written Sister Catherine about having his daughter spend time with the sisters until “certain matters were attended to.” Her reply left him little in the way of options in that regard. Though we love her dear self so, she wrote to Osmond, we feel this is not the best place for her; we have girls in need of what we offer, your daughter has had the benefit and now must make her way in the world.

Pansy had taken it upon herself to retreat; she kept to her room purposely - the solitude gave her time to not only think - she had much to think about these days - but to work on her gifts. She finished the watercolour sketch she planned to give her father of their courtyard before the sprawling oak tree had been felled in a storm one of the most damaging in recorded history in Italy. She knitted Harold Ludlow two pairs of socks and a scarf to keep his neck warm. He wrote to her of how cold England was and how chilling a damp climate was to his bones. Just hearing these words from her beloved set her fingers immediately to work and with each stitch she thought of how cozy he would be, how sheltered, in a sense, she would be keeping him. As she worked she thought of nothing else and each stitch was mired in her love, feeling thus, was what her future was about. How it would come about, she was not sure but she was certain that it would. She had a vision and her vision held. Meeting Harold Ludlow had released the imagination she was said to have lacked. She gave little attention to this; but if she would have, she would say she was changed, had become a grown woman and this she thought, infinitely for the better.

She was also embroidering a handkerchief for her aunt, the Countess Gemini. Her stepmother let her know the countess would soon be in Rome, thought not to be staying with them at the Palazzo Roccanera.
“Why does she not stay with us, Mother? Why is she in a hotel? Has she quarreled with Papa?”
“She has, dear, but it is time for a reunion. We will go see her at the first chance.”
“Thank you. I miss her.”
“You do? I never knew if you cared for her especially. She can be abrasive and insensitive.”
“Yes, she was confusing to me when I was younger but I was fascinated - with her clothing, her manner, her speech. She was certainly like no one I encountered in the convent. I would like to see her again, talk with her…”
“So we shall, my dear, we certainly shall.”

This conversation took place a week ago and Pansy did not know if the countess was yet in Rome. Her stepmother seemed preoccupied and busy entertaining friends from England. She went out much and would sleep late, staying in her room most mornings. They had not spoken since the day of the prince’s proposal and then very little was said. Her stepmother held her hand when she emerged from the drawing room where she had been left alone with the prince; this was the first time she had ever been left alone with any man although her father and the Marchesa Viticonti were in the next room viewing the artworks on display. Her stepmother hovered in the vicinity unusually anxious, fearing what was coming, whether Pansy accepted or declined. Isabel wished she could take her place and do her bidding; she had much experience declining the offers of gentlemen but it was never a pleasant experience. For Pansy it would doubtless be agonizing - she had not her stepmother’s verve.

Pansy retreated immediately, slightly bewildered though not at a loss for her natural poise, but heard her father and stepmother arguing later that afternoon and her stepmother then took her dinner in her rooms. She wanted to go to her and tell her not to take pains on her account - she was an adult and though she could not determine her own fate entirely, she had determined who she would and would not marry.

There had been no family gathering since; Osmond suffered a virus and took to his bed the next day. She went to his room to let him know she cared for him, that she wanted to sit with him in his illness but he brushed her aside and said he wished to be alone. Pansy was hurt but knew she couldn’t expect a sick man to wish his daughter by his side, especially when he was surely vexed with her. She wanted to explain but he blocked her opening sentences and said, “I am not a tyrant, my girl, I do not force a marriage on you. I am only disappointed you chose to refuse a fine man so inequitably. You will never see such an offer again, I’m afraid.” He then turned his head to the wall and Pansy crept out of his room, saddened but without self-reproach toward herself for her position. She would have to tell her father why she could not accept the prince but sensed it was not the moment. When he was well, she would confess.

After being turned out of her father’s room, she made the decision to retreat to her own room and be as quiet as possible. She did not write letters or visit her bother’s grave. She did not venture into the kitchen to try the new recipes sent to her from America by Harold’s mother. She stayed, alone, occupied, and found sustenance within the framework of her own mind. Silence had always been her very best friend.

Isabel Osmond was occupied also but it was not locked within her own mind and was indisputably not in quietude. Mr. Whistler had been in Rome for a nine days and she found herself in much demand. She was invited to several dinner parties, gave two elaborate parties in return, attended a ball and the opening of the Impressionists first exhibit in Italy. She and Mr. Whistler, with a grouping of various admirers and sycophants, visited the prominent sights of Rome and the surrounding area. They had picnics, luncheons in prestigious homes as well as restaurants. Mr. Whistler, it seems, had taken up Mrs. Osmond with a force and she found herself after years in Rome, suddenly on the inside of its society, at least the expatriate social circle though a few nobles made their way into the drawing rooms of this lately-come moneyed class. Most of these activities did not include her husband, not because he was excluded, but because he declined the invitations.
“You know my views on Impressionism, I cannot hide them.” Conversing with its practitioners, even if the artist had an extensive knowledge of art and, Osmond granted, exquisite taste for the most part, was more than he could stand for. He thought the man a poseur, a mountebank. He was polite to him when he dined in their home but said to his wife, “I would not go out of my way to seek his company. I leave him to you; I know how your taste runs.” To which Isabel only rolled her eyes and left him to his sketching. She had no more rancor toward her husband’s narrowness, it had somehow been dispelled.

Pansy was invited to participate in some of the daytime activities but she too declined. She told her stepmother that she was making her gifts, she was behind with her needlework and had rather more gifts to send out this year. Isabel waited some days before approaching her with the subject of which she knew her stepdaughter did not wish to dwell upon. She was curious as to how Pansy held her own; she would have liked her to confide but Pansy seemed locked away in a world of her own and could not be reached easily. Finally, Isabel broached the subject on a day when they met in the kitchen corridor to sort linens.
“Tell me dear, what did you say to the prince? How did you express yourself? Your father is quite of the mind that you insulted him but I know that is not possible. Do you wish to talk about it?”
“The less said, Mother, the better, I think. I hope I did not insult the prince, I did not try for that, but a prince can be insulted in ways we might not be aware of. If he was, that was not my intention.”
“But you did not give him the response he was seeking, you disappointed him?”
“He shouldn’t have asked such a thing. I never gave him any idea I would be…I would find his offer acceptable. Why did no one warn me? Why did not you or Papa tell me in advance so I was not taken unawares. If the prince was insulted, I am not responsible. I may have not had the poise I should have had but I was disarmed. I am irritated that Papa gave permission to speak to me on this subject. I am no more a child.”

This was the most vehement Pansy had ever been to Isabel’s knowledge. Her stepdaughter indeed, was no more a girl. Isabel admired the way she stood up for herself, as she herself had when approached with a proposition she was not seeking, it being handsome, only made matters less concise, fraught with insistence. In the past, Pansy crumbled or went silent. Now she not only seemed to know what she is about, but equally so, who she was not.
“Pansy, I didn’t tell you because your father forbid me to speak until he had a chance. He said he would talk to you beforehand. I trusted that he would find the chance. But he became ill and the prince demanded an audience with you and he let it take place. He meant to talk with you, I believe. He thought you would be so pleased to have such an offer - the prince so handsome, so charming. You would have a grand life.”
“It would be someone’s grand life but not mine. What would I do, dress several times a day to sit around with stuffy people I do not know and be silly and idle? Draped in silks and satins to sit in drafty rooms alone because I couldn’t go out anywhere or speak to most of the population of Italy. That is not my life. That is the life for a different woman. I hope the prince finds her and is very happy. I told him so. I was very kind to him. I wished him every happiness.”
“I think the prince connected his happiness with you and was dismayed to find you were not enamored of the role of princess.”
“Let us not speak of it further, I wish to forget about it, I have my thoughts elsewhere and I think you know what they include. Or should I say, whom.”
“Yes dear. Is it still your wish to marry Harold?”
“Of course it is, Mother. I am not fickle. I hold to my promise. I’m sure Harold will hold to his. We have only to wait. I wish we could wait at Gardencourt. Can we really go there in the spring?”
“First we have to tell your father of your intentions. We must do this soon. As soon as he is well. Then we will make our plans. Let’s take good care of him while he is ill, have a beautiful Christmas and begin the new year with hope. That is what we can do, what we should do.”
“Yes, Mother. I’m happy to know there is a plan, that I can depend on you, that you will take any confusion I have and see me through. Thank you.”

Isabel hugged her stepdaughter tightly. They stood before the window, in each others arms for a moment. They heard the clicking of horses hoofs echoing in the drive in front of the Palazzo Roccanera and assumed it was the doctor who was coming to look in on Osmond. After a time Isabel made to leave Pansy’s room when a knock was heard on her door. Both women were more than a little astonished when who should make her entrance but the Countess Gemini, resplendent in a vermillion cloak over an emerald silk day dress with matching gloves. There was an replicated bird of various hues situated on her hat, its tail feathers fanning the forehead of the grand lady, elaborate even for the inspired tastes of the countess.
“My dears, I am at last, here for you. Oh my delightful niece, how you’ve grown in just this year. Why you are a proper lady altogether. I mean, darling, you have become a woman. Oh, give your old aunt a hug, I’ve come a long way just for this moment. You can’t imagine how I’ve missed you, longed to see you.” She held out her arms and Pansy could do nothing but enter them and return the affection.
“Aunt, I’ve missed you too. I was just telling…I was just saying that if you quarreled with Papa you should see him and make it up. He is ill but maybe he would like to see you.”
“My dear girl, your Papa has it in his head I did him an injustice but I did not. Oh, let’s not talk of that. I want to know all about your recent proposal. Is it true you have refused a prince? I was so astounded at this droll idea I came at once despite my brother’s intention to keep me away. I am at your service. Tell me all about it. Maybe I can help.”
“Hello Countess,” said Isabel, ignored up to this point. The two women lightly kissed each other’s cheek.
“Oh, Isabel, I’ve missed you too. How I’ve wondered about you, your feelings, your thoughts. If only she would write I kept saying to myself. Why have you not? Do you think I did you a disservice? Surely you are not as petty as my brother? I give you credit for more than his brand of narrow-mindedness.”
“I was not expecting you but it is good to see you, Countess. As you can see, we are well, although your brother has a virus and is indisposed at the moment. We thought you were the doctor arriving. As for help, what would you help with? We had just now finished talking of the subject you allude to and it is now closed. I do not think the prince will make a second offer and would not be encouraged to do so.”
“I see. Well, we’ll talk more. Do you think you could rummage up a cup of tea for a family member who has come so far?
“Let us go downstairs, Countess and leave Pansy to her needlework. I’ll arrange luncheon if you like.”
“No, just tea. I couldn’t eat a thing so anxious was I about my niece.”
“There is no need for anxiety, Countess. She is quite well, as you see.”
“So you say.”

Isabel led the countess to the first floor parlor she used for afternoon guests. She rang for tea to be brought in. The countess wasted no time with her interlocution. “Isabel, tell me what really went on with the prince. Hints and innuendos come my way but I could not believe half of what I heard. Rather than listen to rumor, I decided to learn the facts. Surely you do not begrudge me that when it involves my niece?”
“I do not begrudge you anything, Countess.”
“You say that but you look as if you are still put out. Do you really dislike me for what I said to you when we last met? It has been some time now, almost a year. Can’t you forgive me?”
“Countess, I have nothing to forgive. You tried to help me. I never thanked you but at the time I was suffering.”
“Suffering over my brother?”
“Suffering over my cousin and my husband’s …”
“Your husband’s reluctance to have you see him one last time.”
“Yes. It all came down on me at once and I needed time to think.”
“And what have you thought? Obviously, you did not stay away. I thought you might. I thought we may never see you again. I dare say even my brother, arrogant and assured as he is, thought you might not come back. He was peevish, I can tell you. He barred me from your home. I’ve had no word on you or my niece since. It was only that I had the pleasure of talking briefly with Mrs. Touchett that I decided I would come to Rome and see for myself.”
“Mrs. Touchett? You spoke with my aunt?”
“My dear, Florence is a small society. It is more unlikely that we never meet.”
“And how is my aunt?”
“She is thoroughly American. I like her so. Oh, she keeps her distance from me, that is to be expected, but she granted me a few words. Like me, she wonders about you. She said you do not confide in her. I’m afraid our one topic of commonality was limited by what neither of us knew about the doings in the Palazzo Roccanera.”
“There is nothing to know. I came back as expected and life goes on.”
“She did tell me you inherited your cousin’s house. That must be gratifying. If only I could inherit a house separate from my husband. How I should love that. To get away, seek my own way…”
“Yes, it is very nice. Pansy and I have recently returned from Gardencourt where we had a wonderful visit from my sister. And my friends the Bantlings, you remember Henrietta? She is now married and settled in London.”
“Interesting. I heard she is to start a magazine.”
“We have already seen the first issue. I will show it to you. Perhaps you would like to subscribe since you are an expatriate, of sorts.”
“I don’t go in for reading, but if there is anything interestingly juicy, I could make an exception.”
Isabel laughed. “You know, Countess, I have missed you too. I forgot that you can lighten a mood. In truth, I wanted to write you…I just wasn’t sure what to say.”
“Say anything. You know me, it does not have to ring with sincerity or cleverness. I’m undemanding, really. No need to hesitate with me. I’m always ready for whatever people put on offer. I’m not wedded to ideas, you know. I take what comes my way.”
“Yes. I think I may admire that.”
“Really? It’s good of you to say so. I’d like to be admired for something. I’m not at all. No one gives me much thought. It is only by stirring things up that anyone pays any attention at all to me.”
“Is that what you do - stir things up for attention?”
“I am not malicious, Isabel. I hoped you would know that. I never do anything to hurt anyone. It’s just that people take themselves so seriously. My brother is a prime example of that.”
“You brother has mellowed. He is not quite so set in his ways as he once was. He goes his own way and allows others to do the same. Oh, he still has his arrogance and will not suffer fools easily but he is not quite so inflexible. His art collection keeps him busy and focused.”
“So you give him a good allowance, I take it?”
“I give him what he needs or asks for. I take no pleasure in depriving him. His collecting is harmless and a good investment. His artworks will never depreciate unlike some other investments. He has me convinced we can’t go wrong with fine art. Of this he is assured.”
“Ah yes, Osmond and his trinkets. Well, better than keeping women.”
“They are more than trinkets these days. We have quite a marvelous gallery. Would you like to see it?”
“Perhaps later. Art means little to me. I admit it. I’m a philistine, as my brother once refereed to my husband.”
“How is your husband?”
“Odious. How else can he be? He has no other way. There is no nuance.”
“Ah, Countess, you are too funny. How long are you in Rome?”
“I dare say as long as I’m needed. Oh, I’ll go home for the holidays but until then, I’m free as a bird.”
“And what are your plans for Rome?”
“My plans are negligible. I wanted to see my niece. I’ve seen her. But of course she will not confide in her aunt. She hasn’t much use for me. She is like you.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“How this proposal by the prince came about. I know the Viticontis, they would not rush to include an obscure American into their famille without a strong incentive. What have you offered them?”
“I have not offered them anything. Pansy does have a dowry, however. I’ve settled that on her. Osmond has been with the Marchesa frequently. We have entertained the prince and his aunt and have been invited to them. Osmond thought the prince a good choice for Pansy, he seemed to be interested in her, we are both of the mind that she should be married soon.”
“Soon! My dear, it is past soon. That is why I’m here. I am in society, I meet many people, know of many eligible young men. I worried so that Pansy was sheltered by her father and you…well, I don’t understand you, Isabel. I don’t pretend to know what moves you, your reasoning. I am simple. You are not. I need things spelled out. What are you doing to find a husband for my niece? I have no gift for conjecture.”
“Countess, I believe it has all been taken care of.”
“Really? Now you are being mysterious again. Has she changed her mind on the prince? Have I heard falsities? Has she really accepted him?”
“The prince is out of the running. Pansy has made her preferences clear to me and I am not at liberty to say more but just to assure you, Pansy has made her choice.”
“Her choice? Oh, Isabel, you can’t keep me in the dark. Who is this choice?”
“I do not wish to name him until her father has heard. He is ill, we have not spoken yet of Pansy. She needs to tell him first. He’s upset about her refusal of the prince. I think he had quite come into the idea of being related through marriage to the nobility. He has suffered a disappointment.”
“Let him suffer a little. Can’t you give me a hint? Some such morsel of information that will tell me you have forgiven me a little?”
“I will tell you that he is American.”
“Ah, wonderful. That is, if he’s rich. A rich American is preferable to a poor noble I always say.”
“Yes, you always say many things that are nonsensical and charming. I’m so happy you have come to us.”
“Really? I think I’m going to cry a little. I've missed you so.”

Osmond’s Ire

Chapter XXIII

Gilbert Osmond entered the Caffe Greco at eleven on a rainy Tuesday morning in an aggravated disposition having just come from his art dealer, Roberto Durelli, where to his utter amazement he learned that a picture had been sold for a substantial sum to none other than his very own wife, Isabel, and she had not requested the discount usually reserved for the better customers, of which, as his wife and he a frequent buyer, she was entitled to, though this is not first and foremost what had him in a furor.

No, what had him in such a fury was that she was buying a work of the so-called Impressionists, a laughable style of no redeeming value perpetrated by dealers in Paris to make fools of naive Americans and significantly line their own pockets while encouraging artists of lesser merit in their hostile campaign against all that was deemed intelligently sublime in the art and craft of painting as it had been practiced for many centuries. That his foolish wife of little taste should be among such gullibility was an outrage to Osmond, more so, as he had been negotiating for a superb Gian Lorenzo Bernini architectural drawing that was to be offered for a considerable sum, and Osmond hoping to extract this sum from his wife’s bank was incensed that she should part with one half the needed cash for this daub by the irascible James McNeill Whistler, a poseur, a hack, possibly the worst of the assemblage calling themselves Impressionists.

Now he was to learn by an indirect route that his duplicitous wife had purchased a mere chalk and pastel drawing of a of the Campanile Santa Margherita in Venice, a more weak, unfulfilled representation one was likely to find of a motif that had been rendered by greater artists in the past but leave it to Isabel to be willfully obtuse - her central ideas having been born in ignorance, encouraged by a society gone mad.

She also had to know he would not hang this piece of humbug in the Palazzo Roccanera - she was therefore planning to hang it in Gardencourt, her house in England - a fact Osmond found as disagreeable as the artist she chose to sponsor and where Whistler made his home although he did not place the two facts within the same frame.

Osmond ordered a Campari and soda and took a corner table when he chanced to see a personage he vaguely recognized, that of Edward Rosier, a collector of objects de art, old lace and enamels, and once a suitor of his daughter Pansy to no avail, a face he did not immediately distinguish - the gentleman had grown stout and now sported a full beard - and before Osmond could place him, wishing thoroughly to ignore him on principle, could not but take the offered hand as Mr. Rosier approached his table - though inviting him to a seat would have been beyond Osmond’s sociable endurance.

“Ah, Mr. Osmond, don’t tell me you are now looking to establish in your drawing rooms a sampling of the Impressionists? I would never have taken you for one who falls for such shenanigans but it is all the rage these days so you may have made a good investment.”
Mr. Osmond glared at the man, his eyes ablaze with rancor and deigned not to answer this mocking accusation but instead return the jab: “I don’t in the least know what you mean, Mr. Rosier, is it? Ah, yes, now I remember you and your little collection, you sold it, did you not? And got a good price too if I recall.”
Mr. Rosier colored a little at the obvious reminder of their shared past and decided to continue his, he thought, subtle attack on a man he considered possibly mad. “I’ve just come from Durelli’s and I couldn’t help but notice that you and Mrs. Osmond now possess a Whistler pastel drawing, might I congratulate you?” he said with a factious grin.
“You may congratulate my wife if that is what it is, I myself know nothing of Whistler nor care about his amateurish daubs.”
“So you do know some small thing? I understand your wife is a great friend of the artist? He’s quite sought after. Quite the darling of the public. I hear he is to paint Mrs. Osmond’s portrait. You are tolerant: sitting for Mr. Whistler can take considerable time. Many ladies have been quite worn out posing for hours on end…he takes great pains with his portrayals.” With that he gave a robust laugh, tipped his hat and left Osmond to his stewing.

Osmond’s mood was blackening to a deadly rage as he contemplated what the insufferable man Rosier told him. If it were true, he would surely have to rein in his obdurate wife again. She would become a blot on his reputation as a collector of fine art and antiquities. There would be no Impressionist doodling in his habitation and the sooner she learned this, the better. He would begin by demanding Durelli refund the money for the Whistler drawing and put it toward the Bernini. As for the alleged portrait, tolerance had never been Osmond’s forte and it would not now be practiced in any way regarding the Impressionists, a trend soon to be consigned to a brief bout of madness.

He returned home, eager to seek out his wife, still on edge, wet, vaguely feverish, uncertain how to approach her and the contentious topic of the Impressionists. She could be purposely oblique when it suited her, but today he had no intention of letting her off on that sort of scheming with large sums of money at stake. He had his limits as well as his own refinement that must be defended.

“I cannot quite believe what I happened upon in Durelli’s today,” said an agitated Gilbert Osmond to his wife, finding her in a small parlor on the second floor having tea alone, engrossed in an English-language journal he had never before seen.

Isabel Osmond about to be confronted by her husband about the purchase of a Whistler drawing, knew this moment would eventually arrive, steadied her resolve, an American trait that her husband found willful but in her own country might be seen as steely, admirable even - but even her own countrymen saw it as a liability for a woman, her brother-in-law thought she spoke in a higher key than what was generally sought in the softer sex.

Isabel had been in Europe and even further abroad for seven years and although she had taken a good look around and settled in the city she thought had the most benevolence, would treat her with a kind regard, a supple inclusion, she failed to take into account that a rich, attractive woman is given a certain latitude in almost any city in Europe as well as in America but that Rome retained the right to confound all. That she found Rome to her liking had more to do with the preferences of her husband, in whose opinion, in the beginning, she enthusiastically sought and adhered to.

But that was only in the beginning. After almost five years of marriage she no longer concerned herself with the likes or dislikes of her husband, she followed her own dictates for the most part though she still went through the motions of marital accord when it suited her. She was more on her own than she had ever been and she found this to her liking as time passed.

Isabel, after setting her teacup gently into its accompanying saucer, swallowing its last comforting sip, wiping her mouth delicately with a small, though beatifically embroidered napkin, said, “And what was that?” knowing by the tone of his voice, he was about to confront her with sighting her name on a sheet of paper in the foyer of Durell’s Gallery next to a red dot that announced to anyone who cared to look, that she was the owner of a drawing currently on exhibition, a delicately rendered scene in Venice by James McNeill Whistler. It could also have been learned she purchased a small oil by Berthe Morisot that had as of yet been notated on the list of sold items.
“That my wife, who has access to a very fine collection in her own home, some of the finest artists ever to apply paint, chalk or pencil to panel, paper or wall, should find it necessary to purchase an inconsequential daub by an American shyster for a ludicrous sum, without mind you, consulting her husband who not inconsequently is something of a connoisseur of art, should, with only her own sense of discernment, hardly developed, take it upon herself to add to their formidable collection a mere scribble by a man unworthy to call himself an artist, as Raphael, as DaVinci, as Michaelangelo could, with no shame do so. Is there an accounting for this blasphemy?”
“There are many, Gilbert, who regard Mr. Whistler a very fine artist and I happen to be one of them. I also happen to be an acquaintance of Mr. Whistler, a brief acquaintance only I admit, and I admire his sensibility. In fact, this is the second work of Mr. Whistler’s I have purchased. The other is at Gardencourt. An oil, quite evocative, and if you’d ever care to visit Gardencourt, you would learn that I have been collecting paintings to restore my cousin’s gallery and I am, in fact, only just beginning. So you see, Gilbert, if you took a closer look, made a more thorough examination of your wife’s mind and activities instead of plotting how best to marginalize her, you would have learned that like you, I too have been bitten by the collecting bug. It’s quite exhilarating, I must say. Captivating. I see how it could occupy many hours of the day. I now have a better understanding of you: the quest, the taking possession, the display of a recent acquisition, your taste on view, your judgment ready for approbation or approval. Oh, I don’t pretend to have your acumen, your extensive knowledge but in my own meandering way, am also proud of my findings. Money does offer one more than just a secure living…you can actually purchase respect, if you will.”
“If that your motive, I’d advise you to look a little further. There are many who look upon the so-called Impressionists as charlatans, it is not only myself. You might find that these knowledgeable minds would not treat your collection as anything but a joke and you as a gullible woman easily taken in and for my part, I do not care to have my wife associated with a joke.”
“I’m grateful for your concern but you needn’t bother about it unduly. The collection is for Gardencourt. It is something for me and for Ralph’s memory.”
“Ah, that’s it. Always you - you and your pervasive will. I should have known. Well, if you are not concerned with your reputation, or mine, perhaps you will consider the sums spent. They will not appreciate as my Giotto panels or my Caravaggio. No, you will be the proud possessor of a collection that will one day be considered a brief madness. You will hide them in the attic as you do outdated fashions. Perhaps burn them for firewood.”
“The prices of the Impressionists are rising rather quickly. I’m surprised Mr. Durelli hasn’t told you.”
“He knows my views on these sketches. He only reluctantly told me of your purchase as I did not care to glance at the ledger for these absurd works if that is what they can be called.”
“I’m sorry you don’t approve. I find I am quite taken with them myself. If you are right and they are a madness, I will no doubt have to burn them from the shame but if I am right, I will feel quite proud of my vision, of my instincts. I’m willing to take that chance.”
“Well, I do know Mrs. Osmond, that it is useless to talk to you…you are obstinate to a perilous degree when you wish to prevail. I know it only too well. I don’t suppose you care that I have in my sights Correggio’s lost Madonna of Albinea, worth more than an entire gallery of Impressionists?”
“You will do your pursuing, and I will stick to Mr. Whistler and Monsieur Monet. Oh and, by the way, Mr. Whistler may be coming to dine when he arrives in Rome. He will be invited everywhere so I wanted to secure his company immediately. I hope you will put your disdain aside, Gilbert.”
“I shall be prepared to meeting this charlatan in the flesh. My disdain however, goes where it will.”
“I have no fear for Mr. Whistler. He is quite capable of handling anything that might come his way from either friend or foe. I put you on your guard; you will not offend him easily nor get him to back down.”
“You’ve taken quite an interest in the man, I see. I want you to know I find that indefensible as my wife.”
“You need not worry about my personal regard for the artist, he is just one of many I plan to sponsor. But I look forward to his presence again. He had the most entertaining luncheons in London. I suppose that also doesn’t interest you but I should like very much to show him a great hospitality while in Rome.”
“As you wish. I consider it my duty, after all, you so much as told me; we each play our part. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with the Marchesa Viticonti regarding my collection. I might wish to be informed on the purchase of artworks in future so I am not taken unawares by my dealer but I know how you like secrets.”
“Ah, Gilbert. Never speak to me of secrets. You are the master and I will never rise above you in that department.”
“Always the sarcasm. I do believe you may one day outdo my sister in that regard.”
“I’ve learned that from you, Gilbert, you see, you’ve given me so much. But my love of art is the only lasting value I place on our mutual exchange at this point. For that I am grateful. And speaking of secrets, is your Madonna in the hands of the Viticontis?”
“If you were grateful or learning anything, you would not be spending on your collection of hacks but I leave you with your own proclivities. You’ve been forewarned in any case.”
“You have not answered me on your lost Correggio. Is there something I should know? I assume it will require a fount of financial support, should I be forewarned on this acquisition? To whom will I be writing a check?”

Osmond determined to ignore the question for now. His negotiations were still a way off. He had no details to present, only a wild magical thinking. The prince had yet to speak to Pansy. Negotiations could begin soon after if she accepted his offer. Osmond would not leave it to chance but would speak to her before Sunday. He planned on taking her riding this afternoon and then taking tea with the Marchesa. He felt renewed; that his maneuvers would soon see fruition. He left his wife to her journal regretting that he had not held sway over her ridiculous purchase; he had not mentioned the Bernini drawing that was a far better investment nor had be broached the subject of an alleged portrait to be painted by Whistler. These things would have to be discussed when he felt better, regained his strength, after the prince made his proposal. This was his paramount interest, the others, merely background material that could wait.

Isabel thought she handled her husband with a mild use of her will. She didn’t care what he thought but she did hope that she would be proven right. It had never seemed more important that she be right about the Impressionists. She said she was a sponsor but that did not accurately describe her role. She was as yet, mostly unknown in the art world. But having said it to her husband, vowed she would do more for them. Going back to England would be necessary. She missed Gardencourt and her new gallery. She would return soon, as soon as she could convince Osmond to let her take Pansy. She sensed another battle and wondered if she were up for it and then remembered that she promised Pansy to fight for her and her resolve returned. She gleaned some intimation of what Osmond was up to: he wanted a painting hanging in the castle of the Marchesa. Well, she would not let him trade Pansy for all the Renaissance works in Italy if that was what he was doing, which was low even for Osmond. She didn’t press the point; she had little information to go on. Before Sunday, she would seek another audience with her husband. She had to put a few pieces of the puzzle together and then she would do battle if required. She hoped it would not be.

Later that day she received two missives: the first from Mr. Whistler accepting her invitation to dine while in Rome in two weeks time. Osmond and Whistler; no telling how that would come off, she mused. She had no fears for either. The other was from her sister-in-law in Florence that said little but implied much. That she would be in Rome was the main tenet and that was quite enough. Another touchy topic of conversation to be had with Osmond; why was the countess not writing to him? This and more was what was on Isabel’s mind as she headed to the kitchen to plan her menus for the week. Truth be told, she had Mr. Whistler and the Impressionist exhibit on her mind to the deprivation of Pansy, Osmond or his sister. Ah, the joys of connoisseurship.

Pansy Into The Bargain?

Chapter XXII

Gilbert Osmond sat on a stool placed before his altarpiece, in a ruminative mood, with many disparate thoughts in mind. Yesterday Prince Viticonti demanded an answer to his proposal for Pansy’s hand. “Will you, Signore Osmond, give me permission to speak to Miss Pansy? My aunt says it is time for our arrangements to be finalized. I would very much like to walk with Miss Pansy on Sunday. We will attend Mass together, my aunt says this is appropriate as she will attend with us. I will make my proposal to her afterward. Do you find this acceptable?”
“I have not yet spoken of our arrangement, as you say, to my wife. She will need to be informed of your intentions. I will speak to her as soon as possible; she will have a part in the proceedings, naturally.”
“Naturally. I’m surprised you have not presented my proposal to her. It is not everyday that a prince makes such a request.”

The prince took a pinch of snuff and regally put it to his nostril. Osmond for a moment wanted to slap it out of his hand but was not sure if it was the impudence of his remark or the disdain for the ornately enameled snuffbox the prince held in his left hand. There was something about the color combination that did not sit with Osmond’s taste. It was an insipid green, with a pink border amidst a curling of overwrought gold laticework, the likes of which Osmond had never before encountered in enameling and he had encountered much.

Perhaps I am under the weather, he said to himself. The rain had been pouring without letup for several days and he was restless. His wife and daughter returned from England but neither was able to shake him from the lethargy; Pansy seemed lost in a dream and Isabel seemed to have developed more opinions, added ideas of which Osmond could only hope to ignore. He did not want to quarrel, especially over things that did not concern him, but he did have a premonition that his wife was more engaged with life in London than in Rome and this did concern him. For the present, he needed her to be engaged in the doings at the Palazzo Roccanera. A wedding might do just that although he could not take an immediate interest in it himself. He was tired of the prince and although he enjoyed the Marchesa and some of her more eccentric relatives, even she was beginning to pall. Osmond thought the prince might begin to work on his nerves but once Pansy was settled he could move on to the negotiations for the Correggio. Yes, he was impatient, that’s all. Things were not moving quickly enough. Osmond had once been adept at waiting, considered his life was nothing more than a waiting game. Now that he’d won the game, he was put out at having to loiter in the wings of his own imagination, unable to move forward at a pace that suited his temperament.

He put his gaze on his altarpiece, in its brilliance, ready to refurbish his tired mind, a joy to contemplate. He remembered his first glimpse of it. He thought of a wedding in the little church ten years before when his keen eye with nothing more stimulating to observe than some discolored stained-glass, studied the panels set upon the altar, darkened with age, and came to the opinion while waiting for the bride to march down the aisle, that it might possibly have been painted by none other than Giotto de Bondone. He wasn’t at all certain but it gave him something to consider while suffering an impatience he was unable to prevent in the most convivial of occasions.

He hadn’t wanted to attend this wedding, of the daughter of old friends of his parents when they were alive, but his sister, the Countess Gemini, insisted they make an appearance. Osmond could find no real enthusiasm for the prospect but agreed to escort his sister to the largely unknown church on the outskirts of Rome. He barely remembered the family and had become irritated with the long drive over muddy roads and the subsequent delay. It was only the altarpiece that gave him pause: despite its darkened surface, something told him it was more important than its setting would indicate. But if it was a Giotto, why was no mention ever made of it? The collectors and curators were rabid for works from the Renaissance and the period proceeding. Surely someone knew of it? These musings kept Osmond occupied while his sister fluttered and fanned herself, issuing universal banalities he took no interest in, reminding him once again what a tiresome companion she could be.

When the church was flooded, he paid a visit to gauge the damage. When it was flooded a second time and began its descent into a ravine, he knew it was just a matter of time and discretion. Osmond then haggled for months, appealing to patriotic pride, the obligation to salvage Italy’s glorious art history and when he got little response from the church elders, reduced his bargaining to hard cash, something the men could understand. After three months, Osmond placed a cache of bills into the out-stretched hands of the church elders and the altarpiece was carted to the Palazzo Roccanera where a special studio he had set up for its restoration. The price was more than Osmond had ever paid for a work of art but if it proved to be authentic, it would be a paltry sum.

Now restored, Osmond was delighted at how little invasive refurbishment was required considering it resided in perishable surroundings since the early fourteenth century. By some miracle, the panels had not been warped though mildew had set into the bottom left corner, the paint badly flaked. Signore Cellini said it was not dire considering the water damage it could have suffered. He made the repairs, diligently removing centuries of grime, wax and old varnish. He told Osmond to be thankful, many old works on panel required extensive renovation including the repainting of large areas.

The altarpiece, a triptych, with the Madonna and child in the center surrounded by birds and animals, God’s creatures, was a thing of rare beauty and in Osmond’s estimation, could only have been created by the hand of Giotto. He had diligently studied every work by the artist in Italy and his eye had never failed him yet. He could discern the slightest line variation as a handwriting expert could. Osmond had the astute eye of a connoisseur, and with a hunger for all that was desirable, decorative and evocative, he had unearthed works of great value by Italy’s artistic masters by trusting completely his own instincts.

And that is what was on his mind as he contemplated his panels. He had been disappointed that Signore Cellini had not confirmed officially that it was indeed a Giotto. Osmond had transported Signore Cellini from Bologna to work on his altarpiece at great expense. He and his assistant had lived at the Palazzo Roccanera for five months. When the work was completed, he would not give his seal of approval - he hesitated. This made Osmond furious and the two men had violent arguments. This went on for a week and Signore Cellini left unable to bear Mr. Osmond’s temper any longer. Now Osmond sat with his beautiful altarpiece, awash in glorious color, stunning lines and moving sentiment. It could only be by the master, he thought not for the first time, but for possibly the hundredth. He had hoped to have it grace the first floor salon, ready for viewing, exclusive only, for the Christmas season. All he was missing was the authentication that was essential, at least to Osmond.

There was a knock on the cavernous studio door that had been set up for the restoration. The tools had been put away and the room was now barren except for the altarpiece. “Enter,” Osmond feebly said, expecting Higgins with a telegram he was waiting for. Instead he was surprised to see his wife enter the room.
“Hello Gilbert. I thought I’d find you here. Her eyes immediately traveled to the Giotto. “Oh my, your altarpiece is glorious. It will be splendid in the front drawing room. Are you pleased?” She was always ready to praise her husband’s acumen when it came to artworks. The couple disagreed on many topics but Mrs. Osmond knew Osmond had the gift of recognizing artistic greatness my the subtlest means.
“Yes, he mumbled. So it is.” He was pacing before it. “What brings you into alien territory?”
“I want to discuss something with you…it concerns Pansy.”
“Yes, well, I wish to talk to you of Pansy also. I was just coming to find you.”
“Gilbert, Pansy should marry. I’ve had many enjoyable hours talking with her. You know I said I would find out what’s in her heart and if possible, help her act on it. I thought maybe after...well, certain disillusionments, she would not be interested in marriage. But that is not the case. She wishes to marry and very much desires children.”
“Well, if that’s what she wants, she shall have it. A proposal has, in fact, been made. That is what we need to discuss.”

Isabel stiffened. She could not be sure if he was aware of her nephew; it would not be outside the realm of possibility that Harold had written to Osmond with his request. The boy was impetuous and acted quickly when an enthusiasm took hold of him. And it was not entirely out of the question that Pansy herself broached the subject. But she had Pansy’s full confidence and her stepdaughter promised to let Isabel speak to Osmond first. She was put off her guard for a moment but then reassured herself that Osmond had a way of summoning up the exact words that would unsettled her. He was clairvoyant at times.

“Yes, there has been a proposal of sorts,” she said. “I was not aware that you knew about it.”
“Knew about it? How could I not know? A suitor comes through the father, or am I behind the times? Is it now through the stepmother a proposal is made? If that is the case, I must thoroughly object.”
Once again Isabel hesitated, unsure of the ground she was standing upon. “I just thought, since it is my nephew…well, since we were in England…tell me of this proposal that’s been offered, Gilbert, I’m quite in the dark.”
“The Prince Viticonti has requested my daughter’s hand, what is it you are you referring to? What about your nephew? I know nothing of a nephew. What has he to do with Pansy?”
“You have not met my nephew, Harold Ludlow, Lily’s son. You were in Florence when he visited Rome at summer’s end. He is at Oxford studying medicine.”
“And? Go on. Are you telling me a medical student also has set his sights on my daughter? I hope you discouraged him. Good God, where do they keep coming from, these inconsequential Americans?”
Isabel, her old temper flaring once again, said, “He is not insignificant to me or to Pansy. He is a fine, intelligent boy with character and a future.”
“As a doctor? Please, Isabel. Does he wish my daughter to assist with his blood-letting?” Osmond snickered though no real expression of humor could be attributed to him. His face quickly restored itself to a dry grimace, its habitual display for the several days previous.

Isabel was now completely on her guard and knew not where to take the conversation. Her mind flailed, hoping for the right words to fall from her lips. She suspected Osmond was up to something with the Viticontis but had not thought it had gone this far. Pansy would be horrified. She’d only the day before mentioned that she wished her father would entertain the prince without need of her company. She said the prince made her uncomfortable, that for a short time she thought he was pleasant to look at but that she could not see him as anything but a child now. She was hoping her stepmother could relieve her of the duty of conversing with the prince so much, as he seemed to persistently seek her out. It was on hearing this from Pansy, not one for personal conceit, that Isabel had an idea of where her husband was going with the cultivation of the noble family. But what was he to gain?

“A proposal from the prince? Why would a worldly prince be interested in our girl?” Isabel asked.
“Why should he not be? She is charming, she is pure and uncorrupted.”
“And comes with a large dowry? Was that discussed, Gilbert?”
“It was not, per se. Of course, there will be a dowry, you offered it last spring, if you recall. But I don’t believe it was discussed, no…of course, they will assume…”
“Ah yes. They will assume. And does this idea of marriage to Pansy come directly from the prince or is his aunt behind it?”
“You’re cynical. Do you think they haven’t other options?”
“I have no idea what their options are. I just wonder why they would court an inconsequential American, as you put it.”
“Pansy is Italian by birth.”
“Without a drop of royalty.”
“Yes, well, royalty has come down. Nevertheless, he has made his proposal through the proper channels.”
“Tell me you haven’t given him an answer without telling Pansy?”
“No, I have not. That is why I agreed to Pansy’s trip to England. It would give me time to mull it over. I have not yet given an answer but the prince is anxious to speak to Pansy. He would like to make his offer to her on Sunday after Mass. I have given consent to that. Pansy needs to know of the intentions of the prince. It is in her favor. And as you say, she wishes to marry. So you see, Papa comes up with a suitor. It all works out.”
“Gilbert, there is more to Pansy’s wish…”
“Such as? Tell me what have you been hatching with my daughter?”
“I have not been hatching, as you say. Your daughter has found a suitor on her own.”
“Do you mean your nephew, the medical student?”
“Exactly.”
“And I suppose you let this go on behind my back in England, in your cousin’s home, where I let you take my daughter in all confidence she would be protected?”
“Pansy and Harold met here in Rome in our courtyard when he paid a call to me out of courtesy. You were in Florence, as I said, and Harold was in Rome for ten days. He dined here several times and we once met with his student group to visit the Pantheon and a few other sites of interest. Signore Cellini was with us, acting as our guide. He gave the American students quite a valuable lesson in the Renaissance. It was when the Bantlings were here. We formed a large group. We then had a picnic in the Borghese gardens. Pansy and Harold formed a friendship during that week. And it evolved into a more serious attachment in London. My sister and Harold were with us at Gardencourt. That is all I know except that Pansy told me she had made a ‘promise.’ I believe she intends to keep it.”
“And this promise…?”
“To marry when Harold has his medical degree.”
“Without a word to me! Isabel, what do you take me for?”
“I don’t take you for anything. I informed them both they would have to go through you. They understand that. But Harold has two years at Oxford before he returns to America. There is time.”
“Time for your nephew perhaps but the prince is waiting for an answer and I’ll thank you to stay out of it, Isabel. I warn you, do not trifle with me.” His voice lost all pretense of the mild manner he was assiduously aiming for. He was trembling and smoking one cigarette after another. Isabel could see he was not just in a mood, but had a sharp cough that punctuated his remonstrances.
“Gilbert, are you feeling well enough? You look pale. You have a bad cough. Should you see a doctor?”
“I am fine. You continue to add injury to my days. How is it that you have the uncanny knack of upsetting my plans without even knowing of them? Are you to remain by my side as a thorn I continually have to remove at my own peril?”
“You are dramatizing, Gilbert, as you so often accuse me of.”
“You have let my daughter carry on with a medical student after I placed her in your care. I went against my own wishes and permitted you take her to England. And this is the result? When will your interfering end, Isabel? Can we set a date? A date when you will leave well enough alone; a date when you will keep your infernal friends and family from disrupting my life? Is it conceivably possible?”

He was beginning to bark and Isabel shrunk into the corner of the studio once again bewildered and confused. She had no idea where she could go with this altercation that took on an ominous quality, a fearful trajectory that she had forgotten was a part of her marriage. It had been some times since their arguments reached a pitched hysteria and she was frightened anew. “I think we had better postpone this conversation for another day, Gilbert. You aren’t feeling well and I do not know what to say about the prince. I do not know him well, I assume you have learned something of him?”

Osmond was taken up short. He would not admit to a sketchy knowledge. He planned to look further into it once the engagement was set. Then he would have time, with access to more information. He planned for a long engagement, long enough to ascertain the character of the prince. If necessary he would consult his sister though he would prefer not to involve her. Mrs. Halpern may not be enough help but he was still counting on her connections and what maternal instincts she possessed. “Be assured, I will know all I need to know before a wedding takes place,” he said calmly. In the meantime, there is nothing to dissuade me from considering the prince a suitable candidate for my daughter’s hand. He has been nothing but chivalrous. I cannot say the same about your nephew, the first-year medical student.”
“I do not wish to discuss my nephew with you in this mood.”

Isabel, to regain her composure, changed the subject to the altarpiece. She strode briskly to the front of it, taking a measured look at the surface. “I know you’ve been greatly disappointed by Signore Cellini’s verdict, or lack of verdict. I was hoping for your sake a good outcome - that the provenance be confirmed. It is unfortunate but a more renowned scholar could be brought here. I know you have been considering this. I think you should go ahead and hang it in the first floor drawing room and let the public view it. Word will get out and others will want to weigh in. Someone else will recognize its authenticity. I think you should proceed as if it were by Giotto. In time opinion will bear you out, Gilbert. I have no doubts about your facility to judge.”

She changed tactic abruptly, wanting to assuage her husband and he took note. He still had the power to reduce her will to pulp. He had no longer a taste for these games of command but was not adverse to using what marital power he still possessed. His daughter was his one high card and he was not adverse to using her either. He just hoped it would all be worth it in the end. In a much calmer voice he said, “I proceed not as if it were by Giotto, but with the assurance that it is by Giotto, but thank you for your unsolicited advice.”

Isabel left the studio the worse for wear and avoided Pansy for the rest of the day. Pansy would know she was rattled; Isabel wanted to keep the news she’d learned from her. She would be bewildered and shaken to her core to know the prince planned on offering her marriage and her father gave a tentative consent. How would such a timid, obedient girl be able to withstand her father’s aspiration? Isabel could not imagine her little face when the prince spoke his words. She would not be able to articulate a proper response. She would blush and seek a way to escape his attentions. She was not sophisticated nor adept at contrariness. She aimed to please, always. She would crumble when she saw her father’s disapproving gaze. Would her desire to please her father behoove her into accepting the prince?

No, Isabel knew that for Pansy a promise was sacred. She would be there to stand with her stepdaughter Sunday after Mass. For now she would keep quiet - she must. Osmond would not truck any interference beforehand. What she had to discover was what he was to gain by this. Surely there was something. An Italian title did not hold sway as it once might have although Prince Viticonti would be considered a fine match for a girl without a heritage. She would have to bluntly ask her husband what was in it for him - another odious task for the week ahead. He might level with her and again, he may obfuscate. In any case, finding out the nature of the bargain would be her duty, she would not shrink from this no matter how hateful her husband’s response. Oh, poor Pansy!