Isabel and Pansy in Friendship

Chapter IV

Isabel and Pansy were once again united in their shared love for a walk in the Campagna, neither deterred by the overcast sky or the lack of interesting people. Osmond, who joined them on rare occasions complained, One tends to run into every shabby European at this time of year, and would pace about with an absent air in a diffident attitude. Isabel and Pansy looked upon their fellow-humans as a study in tolerance, a tableau to be regarded as education. When Osmond wasn’t in their company, Isabel would tell Pansy things her friend Henrietta Stackpole said: We are all of the same cloth and should take an intense interest in each other’s weave. Miss Henrietta Stackpole, a journalist had a deep curiosity about her fellow-species and could be rigorous in her inquiries. She never tired of them nor took a superior attitude unless it was a superior attitude she wished to admonish.

Isabel found herself thinking of Henrietta more often than she ever had. One might say with our heroine’s new independence, Henrietta Stackpole now figured once again. Mr. Bantling had long been Henrietta’s entourage, eventually they would have to settle. Isabel had no word from her friend since her cousin’s funeral, she did not know if she had married. She was curiously without curiosity and she wondered if that is the first aspect of a personality to go when corruption sets in. Isabel knew herself corrupted. She could not explain this, if she was forced to, but her allegiances were battered and she would lie awake most nights thinking about what she could do to recover herself but came up with no answer except that she had lost her once high regard of herself and tended toward self-absorption. This she knew was dangerous and wished she had more activity to take her out of herself.

“It’s nice to walk alone, isn’t it Mother?” So lightly did Pansy address the woman who was not her mother but whom she would prefer to call Mother.
“It is nice. We shall be very much alone I fear, we shall not see anyone out in such weather. There was a steady drizzle of rain, co-mingled with a gusty wind and the air was sharp for Rome. Discarded paper blew about their feet before shifting off into the horizon and Isabel and Pansy held each other’s arm and sought warmth within velvet capes that covered them fully. Isabel’s was dark azure, a color Madame Merle often wore and Isabel emulated before she had acquired a personal confidence in her clothing. Her husband had once said, Please do not feel you need to copy Madame Merle’s dress; she is not so glorious with her blues. Isabel remembered being afraid for a moment. She was on instant alert to Osmond’s mode of address, changing with the day. If Isabel annoyed him, and the wrong cape could do just that, he was glib with venomous irritation, such was his sense of aesthetic violation over small matters. After that, she was careful with her apparel and took to asking the opinion of her dressmaker more than previously. She stopped trusting her instincts; her husband saw to that. It was one more piece of confusion rattling around in her brain during the long nights, spent alone with her dismay. But that uncertainty was now in the past. She no longer cared what her husband thought of her appearance or attire and conversely, he no longer seemed to care about it either.

“Is Papa going to the little church tomorrow?” He said he would take me if the weather were nice. Do you think it will be?”
“I think I would not count on the weather. It seems to be getting worse and I think you will find your Papa will make an early departure without you--we will have to find something to occupy you, something equally nice. What might that be?”
“Oh, nothing is as nice as a ride in the carriage with Papa, oh…I mean, with you also Mother.”
“It is perfectly fine to love your father’s company for yourself, dear. Do not worry about my feelings, you need not detract or edit your words for my benefit.”
“Thank you Mother, but I am just as happy with you.”
The two walked to the end of a stony pathway and turned back looking forward to refreshment in the new tea room that had opened that summer. Pansy enjoyed watching the tea being made and cherished the time sitting in the elegant little room with the aromatic bouquet permeating the atmosphere.
“I would love to work here, making so many varieties of tea and serving it in such beautiful little pots,” she said after their first visit. Isabel laughed at her and said it was doubtful her father would ever approve but that she understood; it was a wonderful ambiance with ever so many interesting people, out in any weather.

As they were about to enter, their eyes sparkling with the brisk walk, their expectation of the warmth of the shop, the door opened from the inside and Isabel was face to face with Edward Rosier. With Pansy immediately behind her, she reached for her arm, preferring to keep him from her vision but they were far too close for evasion.
“Mrs. Osmond, Miss Osmond. How do you do, out on such a beastly day.”
“Mr. Rosier. You see my daughter and I find our entertainment despite the damp.” She had no desire to converse in the doorway and bade Pansy to move forward as one of the two owners greeted them affectionately offering the most desired seat. They wasted no time following her. It was a deliberate snub to Mr. Rosier, finely tuned to Osmond’s frequency, Isabel again recognizing the extent of her altered state.

Mr. Rosier buttoning his coat, adjusting his scarf retreated, his head high, his nostrils flared with the briefest hint of pomposity. Isabel immediately understood his reluctance to stop for conversation: he had a young lady with him she did not recognize, possibly French, younger than Pansy. Pansy showed not a flicker of discord and immediately took up the tea menu, making no mention of Mr. Rosier at all. It was as if she had never heard of him before. This gave Isabel pause. Could her stepdaughter have cut off her feelings so completely and if so, were they so vivid in the first place? She would have liked to know but she was reluctant to ask or bring up past hurts to Pansy.

After they were welcomed by the second of the lady owners and they had their tea, Pansy herself brought up the subject: “Don’t you think the lady with Mr. Rosier was lovely, Mother? I do not know when I have ever seen a hat so pretty. She looked like a Christmas ornament, a very precious one.”
“What makes you bring it up, dear?”
“Just that I want you to know you do not have to edit your words for me either. We can speak freely, can’t we? I am not very sophisticated, I know I am not worldly but you can teach me. I need to know more than I do, for social conversation, and to know how to take people. I am fond of Mr. Rosier, I wish always to be but it is not so simple, is it? Papa forbids me to talk to him and so he is now talking to another who looks at him…the way I did. He has found someone else because he is free. I am not free and have to wait until Papa approves of someone. I do not at all know how to act, what to say to young men. I do not wish to encourage them if Papa will not like them, as with Mr. Rosier. On the other hand, I like the young men who approach me and would like to know them better. Mr. Rosier was the only one willing to fight for me and I wish he could have made Papa see him differently. He is good and I believe he loved me.”
“I will be frank and say, dear, that your father did not think him good enough for you because he was not rich enough.”
“Yes, and I said that there is no reason for me to have a rich husband, I am not rich, I am not fashionable, I do not care about dresses or jewelry or opulence. I was raised in a convent.. Why must I have a rich husband? I want a gentle, kind husband.” She blushed at this and Isabel took her hand.
“Oh Pansy. It is so complicated and yet to you are so simple. Have patience, I will advise you. Tell me what’s in your heart, maybe I can help you. Don’t hold back, I will not let you down.”
“Thank you Mother. When I am confused, I will come to you. Can we go quickly? I am to have dinner with Papa. Will you join us?”
“No dear, I have plans tonight. Enjoy your time with your father. Do not mention Mr. Rosier just now. I don’t think he will call.”
“That is too bad. I should like to see him, I should like to meet the pretty lady…where do you think she is from?”
“From her dress, I would say Paris but that is only a guess and you need not concern yourself with her. I hope you are not too disappointed…I should not like that.”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I am at peace. Papa knows best for me, I think, still…”
“Yes, cara mia, still what?”
“Still I would like to have children.” She blushed again, this time putting her little gloved hands to her face.”
“That is a perfectly reasonable desire, my dear. There is no need to be embarrassed.”
“Yes, but first I will have to have a husband and I don’t know when or if Papa will approve of anyone.”
“Don’t worry. We will have a look around and this time, your wishes will prevail. Of that I am certain.”

They left the tea room, the two lady entrepreneurs flush from the heady surroundings and their own goodwill bidding them a safe journey home, sending a valet to find them a hansom in which to depart. Pansy, flush from three cups of tea and her confession let herself be guided into the cab. Isabel, thoughtful from her stepdaughters heartfelt declaration, decided she would have to entertain more, take her to parties and dances again. It was a worthwhile project, something for her to put her mind to, something to dispel the dry tedium of her days now that she was established once again at the Palazzo Roccanera.

Hence, Isabel resumed her active life in Rome and within a fortnight, she opened her door on Thursday evening for the couple’s open house. The Palazzo Roccanera sparkled with a polished sheen that came from the hands of capable servants imported from England on the recommendation from Mrs. Touchett, a wedding gift she said. The palazzo, despite its somber exterior, presented an interior--with its pretension, its local color that can only be described as blood red, the carpets, the upholstery, the gilding, the paintings--illuminated in the newly installed electric lights.

Mrs. Osmond offered a brilliant, yet vacant smile that would have dazzled many men but left Osmond unmoved. He could not be more indifferent to his wife. This she knew subconsciously despite his warmer tone of recent. She still thought he hated her; she believed it but he did not hate her; he loathed her stupidity, to be sure, but he was mostly impassive to her needs. If she would not forsake all to him, he did not want her at all…it was that simple and yet that complex. To Gilbert Osmond, she simply meant a bank in London that allowed him to obtain the things he coveted, admired, required. As for the Palazzo Roccanera, he was indifferent even to that except as a showplace for his trophies. He wanted the world to see his success, envy it, and acknowledge his right to this success. That was his place in the world and he was proud that he did not settle until the almighty settled on him his due. Isabel was his due; he had only what was just. He had purposely forgotten that it was Madame Merle who put this success in his line of vision--he had a way of forgetting matters that did not conform to his vision of himself and having to patronize an old acquaintance was not in Osmond’s repertoire.

In the first years of their marriage, a part of Isabel’s role was appreciating her husband’s taste, his proclivities, his knowledge of her chosen country, his exquisite ideals. She used to do so with an eager response but now it was an acquired mannerism; the expected response, an unspoken agreement. She was not asked much--it was a pantomime publicly and apathy privately. She did not fight with her husband as she once had. He did not pick on her as he once had; her personality that rubbed him so ruefully in the past disappeared and he was able to feel nothing towards her, almost as if she were a au pair for his daughter. She had no taste that interested Osmond. He was glad she could afford the finest gowns, the most brilliant hairstyling. She was regal and that was what he wanted most--a queen by his side. He’d had to conquer her unruly temperament and he was arrogant enough to think that he had.

On the following Thursday after the talk between Mrs. Osmond and Pansy in the tea room, the Osmonds were in attendance for their guests. Isabel did not have social inhibitions. Nothing had changed outwardly; perhaps an astute observer would notice that the couple spoke less to each other. It is an old story on the continent: couples with means can pull off public displays of rapprochement. The evening began with a solid presentation of old nobility; some up, some down. Isabel had much protocol to attend to. She settled them, the old marchese, the nephew, a prince, whose eyes intent on Pansy for a second before returning to a mask-like edifice at his aunt’s grimace of reproval, demanding resolute obedience to the plan--to not give way by showing interest unnecessarily. Pansy neither knew nor seemed to notice the Italian prince. They were not in the same corner of the room and it was quite crowded. Pansy still served the tea in the second drawing room as she always had. But Osmond did not miss the flash of ardor that crossed the Italian’s expression. Though he would not care to marry his daughter to an Italian, he might be persuaded to open his mind. It would not be the worst thing to have your daughter married to a prince even if a younger son to a deposed family.

Osmond gave it scant thought before being deterred by an author whose book Isabel had read and enjoyed. Osmond was often forced to suffer fools though never gladly. It took him no time cutting through the premise of the proud author’s book and Osmond left him sputtering but undaunted. They argued for some time before the author’s wife came in search of her husband and found him quite red in the face, having lost the playful zip he displayed earlier. Osmond was not moved in any way; one would not be able to tell that a confrontation had just taken place; that the author had been not only insulted, but incriminated.
“Your little book manages to bore and blaspheme at once, though the former is the more egregious sin,” said Osmond with remorseless candor.
The author leaving the room in a stew of fury with his wife trailing after him, found their cloaks and made a hasty departure, muttering as they emerged into the night. “It is a pity Mr. Osmond is so odious as Mrs. Osmond is an utterly fascinating and charming woman,” said the baffled author to his wife. They both hoped they would be invited again to such a presentation of glittering festivity.

Mr. Rosier did indeed make an appearance near the evening’s end. He came alone. He greeted Isabel with polite civility, ignored Osmond and in the end spoke only to Pansy after searching for her with no intent toward subtlety. He clearly had something in mind when he approached her and did not bother with a formal greeting.
“I want to say to you that I forgive you,” he said to her in a hushed voice, barely discernible.
“Thank you, Mr. Rosier, but it is not my reasoning. My father forbids me to marry you…or to speak to you.”
“I would like you to know I am engaged to be married. I shall not say anything to your parents…to anyone…but you saw me in the tea room and I thought you must wonder…well there you are…you see your father can no longer matter to me. Tell him so. Tell your stepmother I need nothing from her. I shall not come back but I wanted to see you because you are the truth while everyone else is fraudulent, and I want you to know I was sincere in my words…my intentions. Your father is not lucid.”
“I cannot speak of my father with you.” She turned pale and fussed with the teacups in front of her.
"It's well you shouldn't. I shan't come back and I'll soon be living in Paris. I thought I should see you once before I...well, I wish you all the best, Miss Osmond. You are worth the world, I only wish you could find a way to...well, that is not my business anymore, is it? God bless you, Miss Osmond."

What Mr. Rosier really thought, but did not say, was that her father was quite mad, but he couldn’t utter such a statement to one as delicate as Pansy. That Osmond was diabolical, Edward Rosier was certain of, and his other opinion was that Isabel, once so spontaneous and lively, had turned to stone, a beautiful, collectable stone. They both depressed him and even Pansy did not impress him the way she had. She looked wan and vacant. He bade his farewell, dared not take her hand, and left hurriedly, not wishing to see or speak to the host or his wife. He felt he’d been lucky to get a pass on Osmond and though he had no contemplation of avowed revenge, it would not disturb him unduly if the fates made it so that a little retribution were to take place.

Pansy may have looked pale to her former suitor, but with her stepmother’s return color was restoring itself to her fair complexion. Her mind as well was opening since the day in the tea room they’d agreed to talk freely, to become friends. She felt a new hope.

Isabel began planning on Pansy’s behalf; her real mother had been disabled effectively by Osmond but Isabel would do what Madame Merle had wished all along--to take care of her daughter and do what she could for the young woman’s future. She didn’t do it for Madame Merle or for her husband but for her own redemption. She was not completely absolved…she may never be; never for an instant did she feel blameless.

That is the power her husband and his former mistress had over Isabel.