Chapter VMr. and Mrs. Osmond, traveling north by carriage, were to look again at the alleged Giotto altarpiece and, if Osmond could prevail, make the purchase. Endless entanglements, conciliation, obscure implications and subterfuge filled Osmond’s days and the outright duplicity and dissimulation gave him an air of self-importance. No one thrived on perceived treachery as much as Osmond. Isabel would have never made the journey through the rutted roads, over hill and dale in a carriage with a wheel that threatened abdication but that she was on her way to Florence to see her aunt, Mrs. Touchett, on practical matters. Her aunt was now eighty-seven years old and had begun to slow down. Mrs. Touchett requested a visit from her niece as there were, she said, “surprising legal and financial matters to discuss.” Isabel wanted to see how she fared since Ralph’s death two months previous.
Henrietta Stackpole she would meet again, old friends reunited, none of which Osmond knew or cared to know of. The couple had settled very quickly into a routine based on the mutual benefit derived from their collusion and Isabel often questioned why a thing once struck her so deeply and then was gone, all emotion spent. She marveled at this newly discovered lack of inner turmoil and wondered if she could ever trust her emotions again. She no longer cared about the things that had once troubled her with sharp obdurate penetration regarding her husband. It might be said she adapted quickly once she had gained leverage. Only when Osmond broached certain subjects did Isabel feel the old flare in her chest, the need of a quick retort on her lips, but she quelled the rancor before it came out of her mouth, a victory of sorts. She no longer shared her thoughts or feelings with her husband and found it was a great freedom. She suspected she was corrupted, she did not care to fight it. Learning how bad was her husband, how badly she had chosen, had been a stake in her heart. But she no longer gave precedence to her heart and that too was a great freedom.
Mr. and Mrs. Osmond entered the small stone church, so lovingly built in 1369. It had been flooded, was falling into a ravine and most of the interior wood was warped badly. The altarpiece was a triptych painted on panels, which Osmond believed was painted by Giotto in the fourteenth century for this diminutive church in an out of the way locale at the beginning of his career. The painting was sadly diminished by centuries of age, neglect, sunlight and candle wax. He knew the altarpiece, few others did. The church was plain and of little interest. Osmond was going to take a chance on being right; he’d been right before. The piece had never been examined by a professional curator, this was in Osmond’s favor and he planned to purchase the altarpiece the moment he heard of the flood putting in an appearance the next day to look over the crumbling construction. Osmond had been traveling the six miles regularly in an attempt to convince the councilmen it was wise to get this artwork out of harm’s way, while conversely pretending it was of no particular importance other than for sentimental value. On other days he would admonish the men saying they owed it to Italy to save this piece, the men only giving scant thought to the painting they had grown up seeing--not really seeing it, as we tend to dismiss what is seen everyday--but now wondering if it was maybe of some importance…and yes, a little cash would be good for the rebuilding of the church. Still cash had not changed hands and Osmond was beginning to suspect someone else visiting with the town council and they trying to figure a way to capitalize on both offers. Osmond suspected competition and roiled inwardly.
He was jittery on his way to make the purchase that day, his pockets lined with bills. He was bringing his wife along though she made him tense when he needed to calmly think of his tactics. But she was necessary; they would not falter in her presence. Once the deal was completed she would travel to Florence by train and Osmond would stay to transfer the altarpiece to the Palazzo Roccanera.
With the transaction finally completed, Isabel, her duty also completed, was anxious to catch her train to Florence. “I will leave you, Gilbert. My train will be here shortly. You can reach me at my aunt’s at Palazzo Crescentini if you should need to. I will return in a fortnight.”
“I will be busy with my altarpiece and I am to dine with the Marchese Vitaconti tomorrow. Pansy will miss your presence…”
Isabel did not miss his meaning. She knew he did not regard her in the way he had of old, dismissed her as if she were nothing more than a servant. At one time this would have hurt her feelings but now she could only enjoy the impending freedom from his presence. “Yes, I’m lucky to have at least a devoted stepdaughter.”
“Let’s not separate on a note of disdain, Isabel. The day is too fine.”
“Yes, it is very much so.” With that she walked away from her husband and entered their carriage for the train station. She checked her gloves, straightened her bonnet, lifted her petticoat and watched as Osmond directed the loading of his treasure onto a cart giving little thought to their separation. We are worlds apart, she thought. Who would have ever thought I would make such a marriage? She sighed and let the movement of the carriage lull her along and before ten minutes passed she was being seated in a car on a train traveling further north with some speed. Isabel felt some of the happiness of old; when all the world was new and hers to contemplate.
Osmond no longer cared where Isabel went nor whom she might see--the truth had given him some consolation. The only important secret he carried was now acknowledged and nothing had changed. He had now a free conscious and a richer pocket. He had been contributing to the church to make his presence felt. He pretended to want nothing less than the restoration of the little church while waiting for the fall and the possession of the only thing of value in the musty cavern. It was a thing of beauty, covered in dirt. Osmond had looked at it in daylight and in darkness. He was waiting to take possession not knowing the sin of acquisitiveness is impermanence. Osmond did not believe in impermanence. He believed in possession, even more so, immortality. Osmond felt he was immortal and was in a quick snappish humor. He never looked more regal, riding through the northern tip of the Rome on a day late in June in search of an obscure church decoration and the sure knowledge that it was a valuable Giotto only he would possess.
How he would boast, thought Isabel, jostling over the terrain in a comfortable car. She did not know the importance of the acquisition nor its validity other than by Osmond’s word. She thought he might be right, he hated to be wrong, and to do him justice, he did know a thing or two about the history of Italian art and so she was willing to finance the feat. She would not buy clothes for one year, she didn’t mind, she was not vain about her appearance. She dressed smartly at first to impress her husband and his society. With his lack of appreciation she no longer bothered. Her views could not be more dissimilar than those prescribed by Italian society, its government, the Catholic Church or backwardness of any sort. She was a radical like her friend Henrietta Stackpole but only Henrietta recognized it in her attractive, rich friend wearing silk brocades of the finest weave as she did when she escorted her stepdaughter to parties and dances. Once Pansy was settled she would not need to attend frivolous affairs other than the couple’s Thursday evenings now more for Osmond’s sake. Once the Giotto was restored, authenticated and hung in the Palazzo Roccanera he would be in a heady rush to show it off. This she did not mind either. Her husband’s egotism ceased to matter to her, she’d taken its measure and found it best left unexamined.
Without much ado, Isabel decided it was for her to look around and find an occupation, a purpose. Her intent was to be free--not under the thumb of a man nor a society. She would use her money to good cause; what that was she had only a vague notion of--she had been blind to the world in the past and she chastised herself. She thought she’d found her world but it wasn’t hers at all. She was fighting for her very identity. The battlefield in the Old World was a lonely place for a quick-tempered American woman, rich or not. She sometimes laughed at her arrogance, her stupidity, but then remembered there was a time when she could not laugh. Her laughter too was a victory, she thought. There was still time for serious consideration; she knew there was much yet to do and she was ready as she never had been before. She wasn’t sure what she would gain by this trip to Florence but her heart had been light as she stepped into the car; relief from Osmond’s presence was an elevation she was ever more aware of. The murkiness that fell upon everything he came near was not something she could ignore but it no longer had the power it once had.
Isabel, stately in her seat, thought of the last time she was on a train, returning to she knew not what. She did not know if she had a marriage after her defection but things sorted themselves out little by little. Even Osmond could not sink her spirit that day as she felt the summer sun through the window of her berth, the rolling hills, the decrepit castles, the charming hillside villages. It all seemed to Isabel that day her gift of personal restoration.
Isabel smiled thinking of Osmond’s delight as the wooden panels were being loaded on a wagon enroute to central Rome. She did not mind making her husband happy in this way. It was something she could do. She approved of art, its power of salvation. She’d learned much from Osmond on this. She also knew the Palazzo Roccanera, her home, was made all the more valuable by Osmond’s diligence, it had earned some renown for its collection, as well as its restoration, which gave Osmond all the more pleasure to be able to exclude some from viewing it; omission one of Osmond’s more established games that he excelled at. Isabel once balked at his mean-spiritedness, now she was given to the Countess Gemini’s attitude: He cannot love, don’t expect it. How profane this statement reverberated from the mouth of his sister, how bewildered she had felt. That she had accepted it she knew was a form of duplicity but put it out of her mind for the time being. She would never be able to sell her sister Lily on such blasphemy and Henrietta understood only too well the weave of her husband’s cloth. Nevertheless, she would work on herself and her stepdaughter and leave her husband’s salvation to someone else. There was no shortage of Christian idolatry in his home and heart.
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