Osmond's Eye

Chapter IX

Gilbert Osmond received the news of the marriage of his former mistress, Serena Merle, with slight reaction. It was not something he would have expected but found he was more interested in her gain than he might let on. Not that he cared one way or the other. He no longer lingered on the past; for Osmond, it was dead. She hadn’t wired him her news and his wife did not bother to inform him and he knew by her reticence that she considered Madame Merle history.

His wife knew of his past association and nothing had changed. He was still in command of his life, his daughter was with him and his wife was at home, placing her duties as mistress of the Palazzo Roccanera first, which is what after all, what is required. He’d by chance ran into an old acquaintance walking in St. Peter’s who mentioned he’d just come from Florence and had been a guest of Count and Countess Gemini for a dinner party and this topic was much discussed. There was curiosity, that was to be expected, and the supposition that the couple would be in Rome within the week. Osmond expected no sign from his former mistress. She knew when, where and how long she was welcome, her protocol never wanting in exactitude.

For himself, he spent his days moving around the altarpiece he’d finally managed to procure, examining the details with an eye toward Giotto’s hand for several weeks before beginning the restoration which would require time and expense. He was expecting Signore Salvatore Cellini, the foremost authority of Giotto and a conservator of artworks, Italy’s most authoritative eye for a consultation. The man was traveling from Bologna where he had been working to restore another Giotto that had long been missing. It had recently turned up in the shed on an old estate, no one any the wiser of where and how it ended up there. It had been authenticated and officially sanctioned by this foremost authority on Italian art, with a special knowledge of Giotto.

It had taken Osmond some persuasion to get the expert to Rome; old paintings, he condescendingly informed Osmond, often turned up in odd locales, usually of a more recent vintage - either an outright forgery, or a replica by a lesser known hand, perhaps from the atelier of the artist but more often, a copy commissioned by an obscure church. Signore Cellini’s time was valuable, his knowledge extensive and his eye the surest of them all.

Osmond was waiting his arrival having sent a carriage for the man over an hour ago. He was impatient and wondered how long it would take to settle Signore Cellini in, how long he would need to recover from the journey, how much he required in food and drink before he would be ready to take a look at Osmond’s altarpiece. He was to stay at the Palazzo Roccanera for as long as he needed to make a judgment and advise Osmond on the restoration. Osmond hoped it would be a quick appraisal so he could get on with the cleaning. He longed to see his triptych in its full glory. He was also impatient to know on authority that his own assessment had been correct, and to make sure that all of Italy recognize his astute judgment, his clever eye. How the voracious collectors would envy him, vie to be invited to the Palazzo Roccanera for a viewing. If Osmond was correct, and he was sure he was, the world would beat a path to his door. At least the only world he cared about.

While Osmond was waiting for his Giotto to be officially authenticated he had kept a close eye on another old masterpiece first seen at a dinner party he and Isabel had attended during the early days of their settlement in Rome. Osmond wasted no time in inviting the notables of Rome to his drawing rooms. He had been in exile in Florence for time enough: he was anxious for the recognition of Italian society, the inclusion he had long thought eluded him. The couple had entertained lavishly and in due course invitations to Rome’s most fortified castles were delivered to their door. In one such visit Osmond noted a fine old master of little renown with a dark film concealing what was, Osmond thought, a Correggio; the long lost Madonna of Albinea, if his perception was correct.

On the occasion, Osmond demonstrated not a flicker of curiosity but kept one eye on the painting and another on his hostess, an ancient marchioness barely able to see, hear or walk but able to thoroughly dominate her room, its visitors and servants, royal to her fingertips. Osmond dare not move in to have a closer look on the first visit but he had been several times back and on the third visit was able to make a closer examination while the old noblewoman greeted a throng of relatives from Naples, descended upon her castle with expectation of entertainment and refreshment on their way to Florence. Osmond’s heart pounded while he stood erect, casually gazing at the painting, pretending to look at others of lesser stature as well, hands behind his back, a slight look of bemused pleasure on his handsome face. His hostess, so overtaken with her guests, gave Osmond more than enough time to circle back toward the Correggio, vexed that it was placed so high on the old stone wall that to see a hint of a signature would require a ladder. How he longed to take it down and get a good look. If it were indeed the lost Correggio, its value would be astronomical. To own such a painting would be a godsend.

Signore Cellini knocked on the door to Osmond’s study an hour after being delivered to the massive doors of the Palazzo Roccanera, refreshed and ready to greet his host and hostess. Mrs. Osmond was not then available and he and Mr. Osmond were able to talk freely about their favorite subject, Italian art. The old man saw the altarpiece covered in large sheets and begged to be given an opportunity to make his first impression. He did not expect to find a piece of this size a genuine Giotto: surely others would have learned of its presence near the outskirts of Rome before this? There was some talk, he’d heard something mentioned maybe fifteen, twenty years ago but the talk had ended when the foremost expert on pre-Renaissance art at the time had declared it nothing more than a copy, possibly commissioned by the church, as is often the case. For centuries after the demise of the great masters, copies were still being painted, some for sentimental reasons, some for outright criminal intent. Signore Cellini believed this would be a case of the former but was told Mr. and Mrs. Osmond entertained beautifully, the accommodations in their home lavish in the American style and that Mrs. Osmond a delightful combination of grace, style, wit and empathy. Only an American woman could combine these attributes these days and then very rarely, he was told by a French businessman who called on the art expert to examine an old manuscript that turned out to be a forgery. The Frenchman was amiable and did not desire to kill the messenger but laughed off his gullibility as only someone of great wealth could afford to do. He invited Signore Cellini to luncheon, fed him copiously and offered the finest wines forming a friendship between them that still today, surprised the old Italian.

It was on the Frenchman’s urging that Signore Cellini was convinced of the necessity of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Osmond and partaking of their fine hospitality. So what if Mr. Osmond thought he had a Giotto? It would not be Signore Cellini’s fault if it turned out to be a dashed-off replica from the 18th century. Meanwhile he would have a rest and visit some of the masterpieces at the Vatican. An art lover could never be bored in Rome.

Osmond began removing the sheets as Signore Cellini adjusted his spectacles and prepared to have a thorough look; prepared to do Mr. Osmond and his altarpiece all justice. If he was lucky it would prove to be a painting from the 14th century, of some value, possibly by one of Giotto’s students. That would not be such a waste of his time, he could assure the Osmonds of its value, Mr. Osmond’s excellent eye and then drink a glass of grappa and talk of Italy’s artistic past that no one had surpassed or was ever likely to. Signore Cellini had many stories to tell to alleviate any disappointment an art collector might have and he would soon be on his way to Bologna, back to the genuine Giotto he was lovingly repairing.

Osmond took his time removing the sheets, building suspense not unaware of the portentous time that would follow. If Signore Cellini was hesitant, he Gilbert Osmond, would not fail to inform the old man, whose eyesight might not be all that accurate why he was certain it was by the hand of Giotto. Nevertheless, he would need the old man’s verification if wanted to impress Roman society.
“So, my good man, there you have it. I will let you examine it at your leisure without breathing down your neck, take your time, I will leave you for say, a half an hour. When I return, we will have a little dinner and discuss your findings. There is no hurry at all, no pressure, speak honestly, I have nothing to lose or gain at this point: I have purchased the piece and only require your expert opinion.”
“I see it has been left unattended so to speak, it is very dark. Do you mind if I do a little scraping, oh, nothing remarkable, just to get an idea of the signature, the age of the paint that sort of thing?”
“Of course. That is your job. I will leave you now. You will be quite alone. Ring for a servant if you should require anything, anything at all.”
“Thank you Mr. Osmond. I’m quite comfortable and look forward to examining your altarpiece though I cannot promise a verdict this afternoon.”
“Naturally, one would not expect it. You will have all the time you need.”

With that, Osmond left the room, gently closing the door, heading for the outdoors. He had to walk, to still his mind. He did not care for the old man’s attitude. He sensed a certain condescending predisposition against his purchase. There was a certain quizzical humor he did not appreciate in one so able to make or break his hypothesis. He did not wish to have Isabel witness this man’s dismissal of his own decree - that it was indeed a Giotto. He would need her approval if he were to go after the Correggio, they would need to pursue the painting with patience and cunning. He must have his wife on board for this; they would have to entertain dull people frequently in the coming months, not the least of which, the old marchioness and her nephew Prince Viticonti, a young man of considerable looks, position and fatuity. The prince showed a marked attention to Pansy that could work in Osmond’s favor. But first he would have to investigate the young man. He would not be able to call on Madame Merle or his sister. Isabel tended to shun gossip and vulgar tales of the nobility. She didn’t seem to realize that is the way society functioned in this country. He couldn’t depend on her; she of a disposition that bordered on the puerile. No matter. He would do what he had to do.

It was during this walk he learned of Madame Merle’s return. She would be in a position to advise him of the Viticonti clan but he dared not meet her. His sister he had no intention of speaking to. He would have to use discretion but that too was one of Osmond’s talents. He thought for a moment about his his old co-conspirator, wondering with whom she might have aligned herself after all these years. She must be nearing fifty, he thought to himself. He couldn’t remember her exact age but it was old enough to expect she would remain Madame Merle for her lifetime. Not for the first time did Osmond puzzle over American culture. Who would marry an aging woman without money or title? Only in America, he thought. Well, it was no concern to him. Her arrival once again in Rome might prove bothersome but Osmond had mellowed. All was right in his world. Or would be once his Giotto was authenticated. Until then, life rewarded him consistently. His wife had ceased to be the thorn in his side - she was a partner with a pocketbook. He could have done worse for himself, he thought. And with that in mind he made his way back to the Palazzo Roccanera reassured of his superiority; in all the ways that counted.