Osmond's Exalted Purpose

This is a chapter from my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady." Having changed slightly the premise of the story, it may be dropped. I decided to pare down the passages regarding Osmond's collecting--so much art info may just add bulk and detract from the plot. Isabel has also begun collecting art as you will see so we are awash in art history.

Gilbert Osmond sat on a stool placed before the altarpiece he’d purchased in June from a church that had been flooded and started its descent into a ravine. The village had been propping up the old edifice for several years now and this time it was deemed impossible to do anything more. Osmond was aware, and had indeed been watching with anticipation the demise of the church: he had set his sights on procuring the altarpiece that was, in his opinion, a rare and valuable thing to behold.

He’d attended a wedding in the church ten years before and his keen eye, with nothing more stimulating to observe than the discolored stained-glass, studied the three panels set upon the altar, darkened with age, and came to the supple conclusion, while waiting for the bride to advance down the aisle, that it might possibly be by none other than Giotto de Bondone. He wasn’t at all certain but it gave him something to analyze while suffering an impatience he was unable to prevent even in the most convivial of times.

He hadn’t wanted to attend this wedding, the daughter of old friends of his parents when they were alive, but his sister, the Countess Gemini insisted they must attend. Osmond could find no real enthusiasm for the prospect but agreed to escort her to the small, 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 wait. 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 immediately proceeding. Surely someone would know of it? These musings kept Osmond occupied while his sister fluttered and fanned herself, issuing universal banalities he took no interest in, reminding Osmond once again what a tiresome companion she could be but nevertheless, appeased by a possible find of the most estimable quality.

When the church was flooded, Osmond’s acquisitiveness sharpened. He paid a visit to to gauge the damage. When it was flooded a second time, he knew it was just a matter of time and discretion. Osmond had 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 outstretched hands of the village council and had the altarpiece carted to the Palazzo Roccanera, his home in Rome, where a special studio he had set up for its restoration. This was the most Osmond had ever paid for a work but if it proved to be authentic, it would be a paltry sum.

Osmond was delighted at how little invasive refurbishment was required considering it had been taken from a molding building that had flooded twice the previous winter and had been residing in perishable surroundings since the fourteenth century. By some miracle,the panels had not been warped though mildew had set into the bottom left corner, the paint badly flaked. Signor Salvatore Castellini, the restorer 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 and assorted animals,flowerings and angels flanking the rapturous mother, was a thing of rare beauty and in Osmond’s estimation, could be a work by the hand of none other than Giotto. Here is where confusion entered over its province: it was not signed by the master nor a pupil of the master nor from the atelier of. Only Osmond recognized it as a Giotto, albeit, an early work, simple in concept and design, and had purchased it on his own instinctive assuredness. He had diligently studied every work by Giotto in Italy and his eye had never failed him yet. He could discern the slightest line variation as a handwriting expert could. Osmond had what could be called the discerning eye of an connoisseur but because he had never pushed his opinions or tastes on anyone other than his closest acquaintances, the art world did not know of Osmond’s skill though many admired his growing collection, his relentless pursuit of beauty. With this hunger for all that was desirable, decorative and evocative, Osmond had unearthed the works of Italy’s greatest artists by trusting his own instincts.

And that is what was on his mind as he contemplated his Giotto panels. He had been disappointed that Signor Castellini had not confirmed officially that it was indeed a Giotto. The man was considered an expert on the artist though he was not an art scholar or even a curator. He was essentially a craftsman in the art of restoration. But his opinion carried weight. He had restored or consulted on most of the Renaissance artworks unearthed for the past forty years.

Osmond had transported Signor Castellini from Bologna to work on his altarpiece at great expense. He and his assistant had lived at the Palazzo Roccanera for four months. When it was completed, he would not give his seal of approval. He hesitated. He would not say it was a Giotto nor would he say it was not. He would only commit so far as to say that it had definitely been painted in the fourteenth century and appeared to be by Giotto but he, Salvatore Castellini would not be made to attest to a thing if there was any doubt and yes, it certainly looked like the hand of the master. This made Osmond furious and the two men had violent arguments over the piece. This went on for a week and Signor Castellini 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 the Palazzo Roccanera’s first floor salon graced with his altarpiece, 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 studio door that had been set up for Signor Castellini and his assistant.
“Enter,” Osmond half-heartedly said, expecting his valet, but was surprised to see his wife, Isabel enter the room.
“Hello Gilbert. I thought I’d find you here. Her eyes immediately traveled to the Giotto. “Oh my, your altarpiece is much improved. Are you pleased with it? It will be splendid in the front drawing room.” She was always eager to praise her husband’s taste, his acumen when it came to artworks. The couple disagreed on many topics but Mrs. Osmond knew her husband had a gift when it came to recognizing artistic greatness.
“Yes," he mumbled. "So it is.” He was pacing. “What brings you into alien territory?”
“I want to remind you Mr. Whistler is dining with us this evening.”
“You needn’t have. I have it etched in my mind, I am not that forgetful.”
“It’s just that Mr. Whistler can be contentious and I want to warn you.”
“Do you think me so thick I can be put off in my own home by a third-rate dauber?”
“Please, Gilbert.”
“Don’t worry Isabel. I’ve quite grown accustomed to your choice of friends. I can do nothing about them but hold my tongue and bear up. Look how well I do with your friend, the journalist, now that I've accustomed myself to her voice of a wheel that needs oil. I’m quite acclimated, I tell you. Bring them on.”

Isabel strode briskly to the door, taking a last look at the altarpiece. She knew her husband had been greatly disappointed, vexed in Signor Castellini’s verdict, or lack of verdict. She was hoping for Osmond’s sake a good outcome--the hand of Giotto confirmed. It was unfortunate but a more renowned scholar could be brought to the Palazzo Roccanera and expected Osmond had been mulling over his options when she entered the studio. Before she left her husband’s domain, she turned back and said, “Oh by the way, Robert Durelli will also be dining with us tonight. He is after all, Mr. Whistler’s dealer in Rome.”
“I’m perfectly aware that he is showing your Impressionists. A man of impeccable taste reduced to displaying...rubbery, is how I might define their outward show.”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to let Signor Durelli glimpse your altarpiece. His opinion might be worth hearing.” Osmond stared at her but said nothing. Brooding, Isabel thought. Nothing penetrates his consciousness when he’s in a mood.

She returned to the kitchen where the menu was being reviewed again and the daughter of the house was baking an elaborate torte for the finale. Pansy, patiently waiting for her life to begin, took up the art of baking which vexed her father but kept her busy and mildly absorbed. Isabel was in a state of animation. She had visited Mr. Whistler the day before and his mood could only be described as combative. The Impressionists were not being given the regard he felt they should be in Rome. Things were not selling and Isabel was certain the artist needed money again. He seemed to go through it at a rapid pace. Nevertheless, she was looking forward to his visit and even to his meeting her husband. She knew Osmond would be on his best behavior. That was a part of their truce. They would both play their public role with conscientiousness and valor. She thought Osmond would have many bones to pick with Mr. Whistler but for her sake, he would not let any ire leak into their discourse. Osmond excelled at this even if it could be said he did not suffer fools gladly and usually did not. Mr. Whistler was certainly no fool but Osmond had not as yet come around to the side of the Impressionists. He still deplored their “tricks,” as he referred to their technique of capturing light. It was Osmond’s view that all that had been discovered during the Renaissance, that it would never be surpassed, that the Impressionist’s gimmick amounted to nothing. He did not subscribe to the theories given for the use of primary colors splashed about to represent light. He thought it was all humbug--an insult to those with sensibilities.

He had not seen the works of James McNeill Whistler except for a few drawings hung in Durelli’s. He might acknowledge that the man could draw; that he could call to mind a scene, convey its poetics, but it was a device. All of this he expounded upon to Robert Durelli despite his current exhibition of the Impressionists in his gallery. Osmond attempted to educate Isabel on the tomfoolery of the Impressionists and was more than a little alarmed that she had begun collecting these daubs unbeknownst to him. Apparently they were to be hung in her gallery at Gardencourt in England, the house she inherited from her cousin Ralph Touchett. Osmond had not yet visited Gardencourt, did not know quite when he would, if ever but was thankful Isabel did not mar his own gallery with her taste. It was all well and good that they were on display at Gardencourt. He did not care what anyone in England thought. Italy was the land of artistic spectacle and he cared not a whit about England or France for that matter. In his opinion, the only good French artists were the ones who painted Italy, most especially Claude Lorrain. Osmond had been trying to purchase one of his watercolor sketches of Rome from Durelli who was driving a hard bargain. Someday, he was certain, he would have it. Meanwhile, it was not the prize.

The real prize was the lost Madonna of Albinea by Correggio he was certain hung in the drawing room of an old marchesa in Rome. Osmond placed his shrewd eye on this prize. His daughter was the linchpin to its purchase. That she was being stubborn, he could deal with, his daughter was no obstacle to Osmond. It was his wife who might be the problem, always interfering where she didn’t belong. Now she wanted to take Pansy to England, away from Rome and Osmond’s plan. He needed her presence to convince the Marchesa Viticonti that her nephew, Prince Viticonti, may have a chance with Pansy. The family, he knew would suppose a large dowry which they needed. Osmond needed the painting. An exchange must be brought forth using the subtlest methods; much honor was at stake. The family would not wish it to be known they were selling their ancient paintings any more than Osmond would like it to be known that he would be capable of pledging his lovely daughter for a painting. Osmond would certainly not exchange his daughter for any price but there was no harm putting the two together and letting nature take its course. Perhaps Pansy and the prince could care for each other. Osmond knew nothing to dissuade him of the prince as a suitor for his daughter. It is true he hadn’t really taken a hard look but when the time came for serious negotiations he would know everything there was to know about the prince. He was no fool and knew what a precious object was his daughter: the most prized of all Osmond’s works and not subject to artless negotiation with the Italians. Hadn't an English lord put in a bid or would have if Isabel hadn't intervened?

Meanwhile, he would keep his wife happy by entertaining clowns and sycophants. After all, he wasn’t the only husband to humor a wife. It’s true, it wasn’t done in Italy but Mr. and Mrs. Osmond were not Italian; they were American and Osmond, though thoroughly inducted into Italian life, never having set foot in America after his first year, could, when of necessity, pretend he had the casually tradition-free mind-set of the Americans. He could make use of his home country now that he was married to it. He had not liked his wife’s staunch puritanical nature and he bristled when it came up against his own beliefs but lately he found he could put this dual nationality to good use when the situation might call for a more liberal tone. It was one more tool to be used in building his collection.

Osmond thought he might be growing mellower as time went on but this only put him on his guard; he could not be made a fool of. James Whistler could play the fool all he wanted. He, Gilbert Osmond, would wait and watch. His own art collection was worth all the Impressionist open-air dabbling being perpetrated. Nothing they could spew out could compare to his Giotto much less his Caravaggio and they certainly had to know it. Perhaps he would let Whistler take a look at his altarpiece, if only to shame him for his own meager effort. Osmond still had a need to put others in their place; indeed tradition required it--not for himself, but the entire course, past, present and future, of art which could not be blemished by braying donkeys. He would maintain his disapproval while others sought to ingratiate themselves with frauds. It would be his duty to put out the fire the Impressionists had lit. Osmond perked up and looked forward to the challenge and reckoned meeting Mr. Whistler not such a burden after all. It would be just the beginning of his crusade--to stop the Impressionist insanity cold.