Osmond's Spite

Chapter III

Gilbert Osmond did not spend the night of his wife’s return in such an exalted state, nor did he dream of transcendence. Or repentance for that matter. Osmond did not have in him the propensity for self-flagellation that was apparent in Isabel Osmond. Osmond’s ego brooked no deference to anyone, least of all a deity he never found succor in. Though he was devoted to the Bible, its homilies and characters in theory, he had never been touched by the Holy Spirit in which, in his opinion, lesser mortals succumbed. He thought it all a beautiful morality tale of which he personally had no use but recognized its usefulness in controlling the troubling mass. He admired the Pope above all others; he considered one who could live in such an exalted sphere and yet espouse of diet of paucity for others an art form more spectacular than the deity itself was able to perform.

No, Gilbert Osmond spent the evening after Isabel’s early retirement planning his strategy for the procurement of his altarpiece, the subject of which remained paramount in his mind since he saw it in a small church subject to demolition on the outskirts of Rome, an old village long integrated into the city of Rome proper, its inhabitants blending in with The Eternal City’s possibility. The church barely stood on a ravine that grew in proportion to the area’s demise. The altarpiece would soon attract buyers from all over the world if its existence were to become known and it was Osmond’s most fervent wish that such an occurrence did not happen. He was in negotiations with the church council to buy it and knew it could be his in a day if he were to offer a sizable amount of cash, were to show up with a bulk of raw currency in hand. He knew the simple men of the town would not be able to look away from the bills, would not let Osmond leave before it was safely in their hands. The altarpiece that meant nothing to them, would be in Osmond’s possession before dusk approached. Obtaining the cash would be the purpose of the coming days; he would need his wife to procure the bills from the English bank. That he could persuade his wife would not be so difficult; he’d gotten much larger sums to furnish the Palazzo Roccanera. What was uncertain was what he would have to say and in what manner to convince her of the necessity of obtaining this piece. She trusted not only his taste in such matters, but his knowledge of the history of Italian art. Osmond’s needs led him to resurrect in his mind what had gone on since Isabel left for England and his own trajectory.

To be sure, Madame Merle had paid him a visit shortly after his wife’s departure. Osmond was still in the dark about his Isabel’s acquaintance with certain particulars. He had not yet learned of his sister’s betrayal though Madame Merle knew something to the effect and enlightened him. When the Countess Gemini confessed, when the altercation took place and he banished her from Palazzo Roccanera once and for all, Osmond had to rethink matters. He knew he had lost a great deal of leverage, it would never return and he would have to fight to control his wife’s propensity to moralize, a personality trait he thought he would be able to subdue, in fact had subdued. Now he realized that a new modus operandi would have to be established beginning with the expulsion of Madame Merle herself, which held no remorse for him. She was seated on a small gilt chair in his sitting room before the fire.
“We meet for the last time, it seems,” said Osmond with more edge than he intended. His eyes held a nervous flame the lady was familiar with.
“Yes, it seems.”
“Our little drama has come to full closure at last.”
“It had to happen, Gilbert. I would like to say I will miss you, but I cannot. You have done more damage to me than I once thought possible; I’m sorry if I offend you.”
“Not at all, Madame. I have no further use of you either. You’ve quite done enough. I have a much better use of my time than with the various and sundry manner of your presence. No, to me you are already dead. What once was has long left the field of my vision. You are no more than a ghostly apparition.” His anger ignited him to stark cruelty.
Madame Merle blanched slightly, grew a shade of pale not usually seen in her robust countenance but did not trade barbs with her former lover, knowing she could not prevail, could never sink to his level of acrimony.
“So you go to America, I take it?” asked Osmond, more to end the discussion than any interest in her travels. He moved away and began looking at a small porcelain figurine that sat on his desk.
“I leave in two days.”
“Your plans are open? Extensive?”
“Six months at least, possibly more.”
“Well, I wish you bon voyage. No need to write.”
“I would like to hear of our daughter now and again. How should I handle that? Write to her directly? I can’t write to Isabel, that opening is closed. Perhaps I shall keep a line of communication open with your sister though she does not care for me and I can no longer abide her if I ever did.”
“Please disregard our daughter. That was the agreement. I put it to your honor to stay the course we decided on many years ago. If you have no such honor, I will see to it for you, do you understand me?”
Madame Merle was visibly shaken but recovered herself momentarily. “Very well, Gilbert.” She paused for some time and pretended to look at a picture on the wall before she continued. “You are a hard man, Mr. Osmond. You will be punished, you know.”
“Please Serena, don’t lecture me. I care for nothing you say.”
Madame Merle stood looking at Osmond with sober contempt, enough to shake his composure momentarily, but only that. She knew she was beaten, that her treachery, her deceit had come full-force back at her. She did not care unduly. She had lost the ability to care years ago through gradual awakening to the true nature of her lover…just as Isabel had. She felt only pity for Mrs. Osmond though if she examined her true feelings, they could also include envy. She could do nothing for her now but remove herself from Rome though it was not at all certain Mrs. Osmond would return.

“Do you think your wife will return to Rome? She may decide to stay at Gardencourt; a more restful, innocent place cannot be found in all of Europe, I’ve always said.” She was baiting him. After years of experience she could play the game of tit for tat with Osmond to perfection though she always felt tarnished afterward. “It would certainly serve you right if she never returned. You are not kind to her. I thought you would be. Nevertheless, I wish for Mrs. Osmond’s return for Pansy’s sake.
“Pansy will get on without her just as before and I don’t care a fig at this point if she returns or not.” Osmond would not admit to defeat. His outward dignity would suffer if she abandoned him but the inner man would continue behind his façade so carefully calculated and built up over the years. His social standing would diminish; he would hide himself as he had before he married Isabel but with ever so many more valuable possessions, his authority intact. He was a shallow man who had learned the art of “depth” though Madame Merle. Only his love for their daughter was genuine, this she had to believe. That was the comfort she took. That, and Isabel’s inherent decency and affection for Pansy. Madame Merle could take herself out of the tableau with some assurance her daughter would be cared for, such a simple soul who required little. It was too bad she had not been able to see Pansy married; she would have liked to know she was settled even if it had been only Mr. Rosier. Lord Warburton, she could not hope for, Isabel had seen to that. Now she would settle for a minor character. Perhaps Mr. Rosier would prevail though he had gone to Paris after conceding defeat with Pansy. Well, she could do nothing now. It would be up to Osmond to settle her and Osmond may soon be unsettled himself. She could not dwell on this for long. She had to have strength for America and what was to come. She must shake herself loose once and for all, it was a mistake to carry on with the Osmonds for as long as she did. One of so many mistakes in her failed life, she thought mournfully upon leaving the Palazzo Roccanera for the last time. She glanced up at little Pansy’s window and saw that she had returned from the convent, her face so grave in the glass. She waved a timid goodbye, and Pansy the obedient child she was, waved back, equally timid. Madame Merle entered her carriage with only one teardrop to remind her she was still human; and of all she had lost. Damn you, Gilbert Osmond, she thought. Your conscious is not pristine, do not deceive yourself. Your time is coming.

Gilbert Osmond knew or cared nothing of Madame Merle’s feelings or projections; he only felt a relief at her departure. He did give some thought to his wife’s exodus and her eventual homecoming. He was not at all confident of this but Pansy told him she promised to come back and so he was able to hope that she would eventually. He had no intention of forgiving her; that was impossible, but he did have plans for his life that included her continued presence. He felt a great deal of relief when the telegram announcing her return was delivered and even more when she presented herself in person. She looked weathered by storms such as Osmond himself never suffered. He would use them to his advantage. He would wear her down further and when he was set, he would brush her off as a speck of dust in the street of an old Italian town. He would see what she planned for his daughter; agree if he could, fight if he couldn’t. He was certain he’d seen the last of Mr. Rosier, heard of his return to Paris and hoped Isabel would look to other fortunes for Pansy. He would bide his time. Tomorrow he would be kindness itself to his wife. She would wire for cash, he could easily sell her on the idea as he had others. He would take her to see it, traveling in style, be ever so considerate to her ladyship, he would charm her as he had during their courtship. He felt a certain distaste for these maneuvers, felt she should placate him: he had been the one wronged. He would feign indifference to her rebellion, temporarily, he had fooled her once, he could do it again. She came back after all, there was meaning in that. She threatened him today but he saw through that, she didn’t have the strength to fight him, she admitted that. He didn’t want to fight either; he had no further need to push things. As far as he was concerned, he’d won the struggle for power with her return. Now he would patiently explain how things stood as if to a sick patient. She would take her medicine, he would see that she suffered but only so much. He needed her society, the grand lady, a part she’d readily taken to. Only he knew what a absurd pose it all was. Ridiculous, but necessary, in any case.

Osmond went to bed with an easy mind but he dreamt Mr. Rosier was at the small church admiring the altarpiece before they arrived. He was told Mr. Rosier had shown a large amount of bills that were now tucked in the mayor’s pockets. Mr. Rosier laughed and slapped Osmond on the back demanding congratulations for such a find.
“The rumor is Mr. Osmond, it’s a Giotto, it will be worth quite a bit once it’s been appraised and cleaned,” said a gleeful Mr. Rosier. The mayor laughed at Osmond while Isabel looked at him with a smirking disdain.

Osmond awoke in a nervous state, grappling for water, the dust of the town in his throat. It took him an hour to calm down and fall back to sleep. He then saw his daughter marrying Mr. Rosier in front of the altarpiece with Isabel and Madame Merle looking on jubilantly. He awoke again, a queasy feeling in his stomach, his mind in a scurrilous reverberation. This time he would not go back to sleep. He was glad he put no stock in dreams, hardly ever had them, and waited uneasily for the morning light.

TO BE CONTINUED