Pansy’s Fancy

Chapter XIV

Pansy Osmond came from the kitchen where she was making an intricate orange marmalade torte on invitation from her stepmother to join her and a guest in the courtyard. Pansy’s cheeks were flush with animation on an August morning and it was not just the intense heat of late summer in Rome. She rushed to her room, always cool whatever the temperatures outside, and began rearranging her hair, wondering if her new dress was too decorative for morning tea.

No, it wasn’t the heat that had our young lady flushed. The day before she had met a young man, and was in anticipation of seeing him again. Yesterday when her stepmother called her into the parlor, she had no idea who might be calling. Rome was deserted this time of year. The heat settled over the city leaving the streets free from the throngs who visit in the early summer months, they having returned to England or America while the residents hibernate until autumn calls them out of their torpor to once again court strangers - turisti they were now referred to as.

For the first time in her life of twenty years, Miss Osmond talked to a young man without uncertainty. The young man in question did not refrain from ebullience - he had not regarded Pansy as a hothouse flower waiting to be plucked, on display as a delicate porcelain doll whose thoughts need never enter into the equation. She was spoken to and listened to for herself. She had not enough worldly knowledge to be able to describe her feelings when Mr. Harold Ludlow directed an inquiry in her direction with eyes that looked unswervingly into hers, except to say that she, for her part, answered without hesitation or barriers. In short, the young woman spoke freely as if given a voice she scarcely knew she had.

“What do you do, Miss Osmond?” he asked her.
“Do?”
“Yes, Miss Osmond. You must spend your days doing something? Do you study, are you a student? Do you have hobbies? Do you go out? See friends? Do you have charity work? I’m told many young women in Europe do good works. That is, in England where I am to be living.”
Miss Osmond had, she felt, never been addressed so pointedly about her own life. Whenever she had been introduced to young men previously, it was they who “do” and she who listened to the details of their doings. No one, it seems, even expected she herself had any doings. Of course, in the presence of her father, they turned their inquiries toward him, afraid to go straight to the object of their interest, having heard the father brooked no advances toward his daughter without his consent. Prince Viticonti whose company was becoming a regular feature in her home had never, to her recollection, addressed a single question to her directly. He spoke of her obliquely, in a round-about fashion, either through Osmond or Mrs. Osmond. Who is your daughter’s favorite artist, Mr. Osmond? Where does your daughter like to walk, Mrs. Osmond? Even though Pansy was in the room, the prince tended to regard her in the third person. As such, he never struck Pansy as anything but an apparition of no real concern to herself, he did not speak to her except when departing. Then he would take her hand, kiss it and say, I bid you farewell, Miss Osmond, I shall hope, indeed promise, to see you soon. The look he displayed was one of simpering compliance with a mode of behavior prescribed in a book that she had never read. He thoroughly looked at her - she was a pretty girl - but never took in her person. His gaze floated around her like a vaporous innuendo.

Pansy knew she was awkward in the company of the prince. She did not try to be charming despite her good manners and her father’s subtle allusions to please the prince and his aunt. Pansy could not imagine what she could do besides offer excellent tea and cakes; she knew not what she was supposed to tender other than her presence at the tea table. Her father talked of a good many subjects, none of which Pansy knew anything of and even her stepmother did not join in may conversations on topics she was unfamiliar with. At times they spoke of the Pope and his recent decrees but Pansy only knew of his eminence as a reverential figure, next to God, and would never dare offer an opinion on him. Even to talk of him as a mortal had her fidgeting, visualizing the reproach of Mother Catherine. The only things she could offer as conversation would be how to make eggs rise for a souffle or how to keep the crust of a croissant crispy light. She doubted whether anyone would want to know this although she herself found it fascinating. She once talked of a particular English pudding she made with a special lemon brought by the brother of their cook from Naples that received many compliments in the kitchen but her father cut her off and returned to news of the day. Pansy ever after, answered with no more than the perfunctory reply that reminded her, on more than one occasion, that she was easily bored in the royal company. They looked upon her as an empty vessel, she thought. Devoid of content and she soon grew impatient with their frequent visits though would never express anything of the sort. She had to paste on a superficial smile when greeting her father’s guests and though Prince Viticonti pretended to be delighted by her company, she sensed he was much more interested in her father’s Madeira and his American cigarettes sent especially to Osmond by a member of the Archer family in New York.

With Mr. Ludlow, what Pansy experienced was of a different nature altogether. When he spoke, it was to her. His voice was soothing. He talked of any number of activities he himself was involved with and regaled them with stories of his fellow-students, the youth hostel where they were staying with a rummy old couple who managed it but could not seem to keep track of the guest or the keys required for the rooms. He talked of the places he’d seen in Rome and the food he’d eaten. He had stories to tell of hansom drivers, children begging in the streets (he found this a morality problem) and talked of the hospital he’d visited for the tubercular. He had no end of opinions on it all and wanted his aunt to fill him in on the details, things he could not quite understand, such as matters involving hygiene. Often he directed his questions to Pansy, unable to comprehend that as a lifelong resident of the city she did not seem to know much about its workings. When she expressed interest in an orphanage he’d been to, he promised to take her there himself the next day. No one in her lifetime, ever offered to take her anywhere without first consulting her father or her stepmother and in fact, she would never be without a chaperone, something he thought rather old-fashioned but said that he would have to respect as a visitor to her country. Her country. Never had she dreamed of a country described as hers. She was much too paltry to own a country. It had never occurred to her to think of it in that way.

“Miss Osmond, why do you not walk about and see other parts of your city?”
“Mr. Ludlow, I walk with my stepmother almost every day. Sometimes I go out with my father when he is not busy with his collection. I do not go on my own, it is not the way it is done here.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean alone. But why can’t you walk with me or join our group? Have you no friends of your own?”
“I have a friend who is recently married. She calls on me here. We used to walk with her mother but now my friend is busy with her home and her husband.”
“But what do you do with your days?”
“I sometimes work in the kitchen but I am not supposed to tell anyone. I like to make cakes but it is not something for me to do. But I do it because I have nothing else to do and I enjoy cooking. Father prefers me to paint or practice the piano and I do try to please him but I am not so very proficient at either one.”
“And your charity work?”
“Oh yes, we distribute food and clothing to the poor. Father does not like for me to get too involved with the sick; he says he does not want me to get sick. I’ve never been sick but he says I must stay away from sickness. In the convent I would help with the children when they were ill.”
“Convent?”
“Yes, I was raised in a convent. I have no mother. Well, I had no mother - now I have a stepmother. But before that, I lived and studied in a convent.”
“Will you marry, Miss Osmond?”
Pansy blushed and for the first time in Mr. Ludlow’s company declined to answer the question. She hoped she would not have to. She would not care to tell of Mr. Rosier, in fact she had forgotten Mr. Rosier. She was fortunate that her stepmother, sensing her awkwardness, introduced another topic and she could safely pour the tea and serve the sandwiches. It was good to be spoken to but some subjects she would not know how to respond to properly and the many questions that fell forth from Mr. Ludlow, while intriguing, could only be left unanswered. She could not mention in her stepmother’s presence, her visits to her brother’s grave.

In the end, he spent the rest of the luncheon looking at her but discontinued the probing. Upon departure, he shook her hand and apologized for his rudeness. “I am quite a blundering fool, Miss Osmond. Do not take it as an offense. I am unaware of the customs here but would like it if you would see me as a friend. I’m at your service.” With that, he took his leave, and Pansy without meaning to, followed him to the door and if she had not been trained to withdraw, would have continued following him to the street. Never had she felt so imprisoned; without free will. In fact, never had she realized freedom was something to be sought. Harold Ludlow on that afternoon gave her a idea of it; and his voice, his steady gaze and his kindness, remained solemnly in her mind for the rest of the day as she attempted a Bach fugue before deciding she was hopeless at the piano.

When Prince Viticonti was once again with them for dinner that evening, she never felt more isolated or apathetic. The prince spoke of his horses, the selection of wines he was importing from France and his visit to the home of a Russian nobleman who was richer than all of Italy. He spent some time on the opulence of the Russian’s drawing rooms while Pansy wondered what Mr. Ludlow was doing that night; he’d said something about a concert of opera duets performed by music students. Would he come again tomorrow? The possibility preoccupied her for the entire evening as she graciously though somewhat absently made small-talk with the Marchesa Viticonti. She longed to ask her stepmother but did not get the chance.

Harold Ludlow, listening to ballads of exalted love by Verdi, Bellini and Donizetti, in a language he was not familiar with, found himself returning to the parlor in the Palazzo Roccanera. More specifically to Miss Osmond’s fixed stare. How poised and still she was. Not at all like American girls. She was not like the English girls he’d met either. Despite her vulnerability, and Harold could see how that might be the case - where others may see fragility, he saw strength of purpose. He planned to see his aunt on the morrow and if at all possible, see this girl who was not a cousin at all, but to Harold Ludlow, an all-encompassing artifact of a type he had yet to come across in his life of nineteen years. Unlike Mr. Rosier whose elevated feelings had once been parallel, he had no notion of the drawbacks to possible courtship. He was new to Europe, fresh from an egalitarian upbringing, his mind unclouded by class, status or outmoded concepts of marriage.

As he listened to the music that was at once, to his sensibility, ridiculous and sublime, he sat with a feeling of intention. Yes, Miss Osmond must be allowed walk with him. He wanted to show her things, to know them from her perspective. He wondered how early he could arrive at his aunt’s and whether he should present the young lady with flowers. He wished his mother were on hand to advise him. He would have to depend on his Aunt Isabel? Mr. Osmond, he had yet to meet. His heart felt light as he joined his friends in a café after the performance. He heard not a word of what they were saying and wished the night were over and he could be back at the Palazzo Roccanera where he’d discovered a buried treasure. He sensed she was buried. In what way, he might not be able to articulate. He planned to unearth her heretofore unexamined significance.

He arrived at his aunt’s portal by ten o’ clock the next morning, unable to explain what brought him at such an early hour carrying a small bouquet of violets. His Aunt Isabel knew precisely the reason though she did not know precisely how she would approach the young man’s ardore. She then reminded herself of her purpose: to learn of Pansy’s desire and help her attain it.

Just at that moment, Pansy entered the courtyard with a luminosity that threatened to dispel the gray cast of the turgid morning sky, heavy with the promise of rain, and Isabel at once knew what her course was to be.

Isabel Plans

Chapter XIII

Isabel received a telegram early the next morning as her maid was finishing her hair announcing the arrival of her friend Henrietta. She experienced a jolt of renewed vivacity with the arrival of the missive and made immediate arrangements to go to the Hotel de Londres, a short journey by hansom, letting Pansy know she would be unavailable for the morning. She also had to check in with Osmond; to let him know of her friend’s arrival though he would not show any marked enthusiasm. He, with a few curt words could cause her light to diminish as a fast-moving cloud obscured the sun.

She knocked on his study door to see if he was in almost hoping he would be out and she could leave a message without any danger to her equilibrium. Higgins answered the door and indicated that the her husband was in. Isabel entered and noticed a watercolour sketch on the large ornate easel he used to showcase works on loan or less frequently these days, his latest effort.

“Ah, Isabel. What brings you to my sphere so early? Bad news again?”
“I’m not always the bearer of bad news, Gilbert, you exaggerate and look for it. It seems I am unable to enjoy your approval for anything I might have to say, or to offer; you pretend scorn even if it is of some interest.”
“If you have come to rile me again today, Mrs. Osmond, please know that I keep score.”
“That is something you need never remind me of, Gilbert. I am familiar with your scorecard.”
“Well, what is it you want? Don’t tell me you’ve set my daughter to laundering now.”
“Your daughter likes to keep busy. She is not indolent or lazy and it is not odd that a girl might like to learn cooking. She told me she often helped in the kitchen at the convent and it was something she looked forward to each day. It won’t hurt her, even if she never has the need to cook. She is not the first person to find some art in this pursuit. I believe it’s harmless.”
“I might wish she would concentrate on skills more marketable for one of her breeding. It’s unseemly to see one’s daughter mopping her brow in a hot kitchen with the servants. Better she should practice the piano a little more, or perhaps improve her watercolour technique.”
“We all have our individual interests, Gilbert. Pansy says she has no feel for the piano and that she will never draw like you or…” She stopped. It was not a name that they could casually converse over.
“Or Madame Merle I suppose you were going to say? Don’t worry Isabel, she is not on my mind but we can’t very well tell Pansy never to mention her name, now can we? I only hope that some day she will forget the name as we both have. Until then, it’s not anything we need bother ourselves about.” He moved to the other side of the room and stood before an arched window looking out on the garden.
“I did not come here to discuss Madame Merle or Pansy, Gilbert. I simply came to tell you I am going to meet Henrietta and Mr. Bantling for luncheon. I wanted to know your position…you mentioned you would not mind meeting Mr. Bantling and if that is still your desire, I wish to invite them. Of course, I will invite them for our Thursday evenings but I thought I should like something before then - that is if they have no other plans and they wish to come.”
“You mean, wish to see me?”
“As you say.”
“How rich. Your friend hasn’t an ounce of ingratiation and yet I am made to feel like an ogre in my own home.”
“Please let’s not quarrel, Gilbert. I only came to make sure of your hospitality, your willingness to extend yourself for Mr. and Mrs. Bantling. I never really know what mood you will be in or how you will take something.”
“Yes, it’s always me who is at fault; always me who causes suffering. I tell you, Isabel, I’m perfectly willing to meet Mr. and Mrs. Bantling whenever you choose to invite them. I will be graciousness itself. You have no need to fear me. Haven’t I always been on hand to help enliven your little soirees?”
“I think you do not enliven as much as deign to put in an appearance where you would rather not and it is always obvious.”
“All the same.”
“And I do the same for your company. I am rather tired of the Marchesa Viticonti, her nephew and the rest of the old entourage she keeps about her but I know you are up to something…I do my part equally, Gilbert.”
“I would like Pansy to favor us a little with her presence when Prince Viticonti visits. It’s not every day a prince graces our home. He asks for her if he doesn’t see her and I am made to feel as if my daughter is snubbing him, a most unwelcome impression if I may say so. Surely she can leave the kitchen now and again to dignify us with her company for an hour.”
“Pansy understands what you are up to and she doesn’t care for the prince. He eyes her as if she were a choice morsel on the dessert tray.”
“Perhaps she smells of the baking oven these days.” He said this with a bemused expression, still able to charm if the mood struck him.
“Pansy plays her part beautifully; you cannot fault her. Her manners are excellent.”
“Now that she spends her time with a scullery maid and a laundress among fishmongers and greengrocers, may we expect to see her with her head swathed in rags talking with a cigarette dangling in her mouth.”
“Not our girl. She’s perfection. They take excellent care of her in the kitchen. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not sure a prince would feel elated about a wife who does the cooking.”
“Gilbert, surely you’re not expecting her to marry the prince?”
“Why not? Do you prefer your friend, what was his name, Mr. Rosier? The collector of lace and enamels?”
“Mr. Rosier no longer carries a hope for Pansy. You’ve managed to ward him off. In fact, I believe he may be engaged to a French girl, a friend of his family.”
“Well, good for Mr. Rosier. I wish him a long and happy life in France or anywhere but upon my door slobbering over my daughter.”
“You are insulting, Gilbert. What do you get out of it?”
“My dear, I get nothing out of it, but I do place my daughter in a higher bracket if you won‘t.”
“I don’t wish to discuss Mr. Rosier again. Let’s have his name be another we do not mention in the future.”
“I agree wholeheartedly for once.” He laughed congenially. He was in excellent spirits. Signore Cellini was nearly finished with the first step in the cleaning of his altarpiece and it was a thing of great beauty. It was everything that Osmond had anticipated. Even the old man looked appreciative of the spectacle and Osmond felt pride in his purchase. “Bring on your friends, Isabel. I can wait no longer to offer my congratulations to a man brave enough to marry Henrietta Stackpole, lady journalist and obvious bore.”

With that note of disparagement though offered in a, rare for Osmond, humorous light, Isabel took her departure eager to see her friends again. She found a hansom and was soon on her way. The morning was brilliant and the air had an aroma that you only find in Italy; that of coffee, fresh bread, animal scents, greased wheels and dying foliage. Never had Rome seemed so enticing or friendly as when Isabel greeted her oldest friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling with her vibrant, fearless character and her attentive husband bent on her every move, always in service to this person he was lucky enough to find at the age of forty. He did not find her in any way a bore and he never had.

“Oh Isabel, you look wonderful. Such fine clothing you wear. Do you know if you are not careful you may soon be referred to as a lady of high fashion.”
Isabel hugged her friend in the lobby of the hotel and shook hands with Mr. Bantling. They strode toward the dining room at the encouragement of Mr. Bantling who was always up for a luncheon. Isabel walked arm in arm with both of these amiable people - friends who would give her spirit a much needed lift.
“Henrietta, my dear, you yourself look ravishing and it is not entirely your gown. Marriage certainly agrees with you. Mr. Bantling, have you ever seen our Henrietta look quite so fine?”
Mr. Bantling’s eyes had a twinkle but he said nothing. He was busy with the major domo, organizing the procurement of a table amid the jostle of a hungry crowd. The place was overflowing with English-speaking patrons and Mr. Bantling recognized several acquaintances who greeted him effusively. He had to introduce his new wife and her friend and all this took a good deal of time before they were seated in a large settee in the corner of the room. Mr. Bantling ordered a whiskey with soda and the ladies ordered tea. A tray of sandwiches, scones and cakes were delivered and the party couldn’t have been more animated.
“So my dear Isabel, what has been going on since you left Florence? What I mean to ask is, what did your husband think of you inheriting Gardencourt? Does he express an interest in visiting England?”
“To tell you the truth, Henrietta, I haven’t told him.”
“You haven’t told him! That’s incredible - such important news. Why do you withhold it from him?” Henrietta could think of a few plausible reasons but chose not to air them and listen to what Isabel said.
“Well, I haven’t decided quite what I’m going to do with it, it was my cousin’s house, and Osmond was not particularly fond of Ralph and well, I just haven’t broached the subject because my cousin is a sore topic between us.”
“I can believe that. Does that mean you haven’t given any thought to staying at Gardencourt in the near future?”
“No, I haven’t. I’d like to bring my stepdaughter to visit; she has expressed a wish many times to see England but her father would have to approve of the travel and I haven’t brought up that subject either. He has recently purchased an altarpiece, a triptych that he believes will be very valuable - he’s awfully busy with the restorer, an old Italian who will authenticate it. He is with us at the Palazzo Roccanera hard at work with an assistant. Meanwhile, Osmond thinks he has located another painting, a lost Correggio and has his mind on that. It belongs to an old family of the nobility and he is hoping to strike a deal for it. Of course they will never agree to sell it unless they can get a very good price and even then, they will flinch at the slightest transgression. You know how the Italians are about their possessions? It has to do with their standing.”
“I know they will sell anything on their walls if they can do it while saving face,” said Mr. Bantling. “It is the same in England and to a lesser degree in France. No one wants to be the one selling off the family heirlooms but with poorly managed estates and the need to modernize, sometimes they can be talked into parting with an old picture they really haven’t looked at for years. They balk and pretend to be offended, especially if it is to go to America which, these days, is usually the case.”
“I would think Osmond would be curious about the paintings at Gardencourt. There are some very fine specimens,” said Henrietta.
“The paintings, I’m afraid have all been left to Lord Warburton. I’m not sure if they have been removed yet, but that was in Ralph’s will. If the gallery at Gardencourt was to remain intact, I might have told my husband immediately. That would surely have interested him and we would be planning a trip to England. As it is, I would like to make sure of Lord Warburton’s plans before I do anything.”
“No doubt. Well, I can’t see not telling him; he has to know at some time and meanwhile he will be more than a little miffed at your keeping a secret from him,” said Henrietta, taking her third sandwich. “I’d tell him soon, if I were you, Isabel.”
“My you are hungry, Henrietta. I’ve never known you to care about food. You were always more interested in your environment, the milieu, the people around you…”
Henrietta stopped eating, slowly drained her teacup, placed it in the saucer with a tremulous hand and looked at Mr. Bantling. He looked in her eyes knowing what was coming. “Well, Isabel, you must congratulate me again…Mr. Bantling and I are expecting a child.”
“Oh Henrietta, Mr. Bantling, that is too exquisite. Oh, no wonder you look so splendid, oh, dear, I’m so very happy for you.” Isabel had tears in her eyes as she reached out and took her friend’s hand. Mr. Bantling sat very still, beaming at his wife. “Mr. Bantling, my most heartfelt congratulations!” Isabel could not keep from crying though Henrietta, a woman of lesser sentiment, managed to remain dry-eyed through her announcement though if an outside observer happened upon the scene he would have wondered at the slight moisture beneath Mr. Bantling’s right eye.

After the tray was removed, the emotions recovered, Mr. Bantling made his departure, needing to send a telegram to his sister, Lady Pensil, though he promised to give away nothing until they were home in England and both husband and wife could relay the good news. The two friends were left alone and more tea was ordered. They continued talking about the expected child, Henrietta’s career and how it would all fit together. Henrietta said she could no more give up the magazine than she could her husband. Everyone would have to share her energies and she expected with such a helpful husband and a nurse, she would have no problems. She said she planned on taking her baby as well as the nurse to the newsroom as she planned to breast-feed for the first six weeks, having read how important it was for a baby’s development. She was aglow with plans and Isabel could not help but think what a sad affair her own convalescence had been: her husband had turned cold, he spoke to no one of their expected child and kept Isabel in a state of emotional torpor throughout her time of withdrawal. When she bore a son, he proceeded to act as if he alone were responsible and immediately took charge with a pompous, rigid, possessive attitude that frightened her. When their son died after six months, a chill settled in the Palazzo Roccanera that had not yet abated. Isabel mourned alone, as did Osmond though Isabel had frequent letters from her friends and family. Osmond was never to speak to anyone of his son and no one dared breach his fortress of silence. Pansy looked on in ignorance not knowing what went wrong with her father and his wife. Every night she said a prayer for her brother; we know she visited the cemetery alone.

Isabel returned to the Palazzo Roccanera with the promise of the couple to dine the following evening. She wondered how she should tell Osmond about Gardencourt. It was foolish to keep it from him but she, at the time, was unsure of the status of their union. As the days progressed and she found that life went on with or without passion or even friendship, she retreated into her own world and left Osmond to his. Now she was questioning the wisdom of keeping another secret. He was sure to be offended but then he kept his own secrets, of this she was certain. What they were, she couldn’t have told anyone. She didn’t dwell on these matters but instead tried to form a plan for her own life. Gardencourt remained in the background of these imaginings only as a setting that had as yet no characterization. But yes, she would have to tell him - tonight. She did not want the topic to come up unexpectedly leaving Osmond in the position of an unenlightened husband, sure to rankle and humiliate him, adding to his scorecard of grievance against his wife. She could not do that to him, nor live with the anxiety of his reaction and decided to inform him immediately upon arriving home. He would be disdainfully rude or conversely, charmingly indifferent. She hoped the latter.

Osmond was out for the evening and Isabel and Pansy dined without him. She waited for his return in the front parlor and eventually went to bed. It was past midnight when he returned, she was awake, but decided to talk to him in the morning. She fell into a deep sleep dreaming that she left for Gardencourt only to find he had arrived before her - already installed - lord of the manor. She awoke briefly, feeling strangled and in a panic with nowhere to find escape. He laughed at her fear; he depended upon its continued renewal. That was where his strength lay. It was, however, only a dream, thought Isabel, and she went back to sleep hoping for respite. In so many ways.

Isabel knocked on her husband’s studio door the next morning, intent on conversation, hoping he wasn’t in a mood. Lately he had been drinking quite a bit with the endless round of dinner parties and socializing that kept him busy. Most of it had to do with his art collection and he usually left Isabel out of that equation unless her presence could affect whatever outcome he was seeking.

“Gilbert, good morning.” She waited in the doorway, to be invited into his orbit.
“Isabel. Again at my door so early. You must not sleep well. Could that be?”
“I do not sleep soundly if that is what you mean. I heard you come in. You often come in rather late. Have you become a member of the haut mode suddenly?”
“I do what I must to keep up appearances and…well, let’s not get into it. You are always welcome to join me, you tend to prefer your own company these days. I hope you will not let that be a habit, self-absorption gets one exactly nowhere.”
“And you know of whence you speak.”
“Thank you, as always, the cryptic phrases on the tip of your tongue.”
“I only came to tell you I have invited Mr. and Mrs. Bantling to dine tonight. I know it is short notice, I hope you will be here, I wanted you to meet Mr. Bantling especially.”
“At your service. I am even looking forward to it.”
“There’s another thing I must discuss with you, I haven’t before, I have been trying to think what to do…I had some unexpected news when I was in Florence with my aunt last month. It turns out I have inherited my cousin’s house in England. He left it to me in a last-minute codicil - I have the use of it for myself or my family for my lifetime. Then it reverts back to my uncle’s banking firm. It’s a rather nice house, Tudor. Old. Very pleasant. Madame Merle visited frequently. She said it…never mind."
"Ah, that name. Somehow it always finds its way into your conversation. You're not obsessed with the woman, are you? I assure you she rarely enters my consciousness except that you keep bringing up the name. Why is that?"
She ignored the implication and continued: "The point is, Gilbert, I would like to visit England soon, if only to see what remains after…well, after certain things have been removed, things my cousin willed to others, such as the art collection. I’m sorry to say, that has gone to Lord…”
“Lord Warburton. Another name from our list of unmentionables. So a lord owning half of England is left an art collection he probably has no need or appreciation of.”
“I do not know. He has his own gallery. My cousin’s paintings will grace a very fine room. Ralph had an excellent eye, you have that in common. He owned two Turners, several Gainsboroughs, and I believe a set of drawings by Claude Lorrain. Mostly English works. A few French mannerist paintings, oh, a small Tintoretto, that would have interested you. He recently acquired a Corot, his last purchase. There were about sixty works altogether.”
“Why are you telling me all this if they are no longer a part of your new home?”
“I’m just talking, Gilbert, just remembering.”
“Ah yes, remembering those happy days in your cousin’s home, with his elusive intellect, his acerbic wit.”
“He is gone, you can refrain from cynicism. There are other things to discuss.”
“So what are you telling me, Isabel? Are you planning to set down roots in England? What are you planning? With this secret kept for the past month you must have been hatching your schemes. One never knows where one stands with you. Here today, gone tomorrow.” His jaw clenched up, Isabel could see the vein in his forehead pulsing.
“I’m planning a dinner party tonight. After that, I have no formal plan. I would like to visit England before winter. I should like to take Pansy with me. You are welcome to come if you like…”
“Thank you. Such generosity from one’s wife.”
“Do not quibble or carp, Gilbert. Come with me, refuse to come, you are free. But I wish to take Pansy with me.”
“I need her here.”
“You do not. You need her to perform social functions of which she has no interest.”
“Whether she is interested or not, I need her here.”
“The prince does not interest her.”
“Be that as it may be, I need her here.”
“Please let her visit England. We shall only be a month. Your plans can surely wait a month. I have promised her to one day take her to England and I think that should be before she is settled.”
“Settled?.”
“In marriage, then.”
“Ah my daughter’s marriage. Do you have a campaign for that? I’ve not heard anything. Your Mr. Rosier is no more in the picture, Lord Warburton also has found a bride, what is it you offer her?”
“I want her to see England. It’s that simple. When she returns, we will have the winter to introduce her to high Roman society. We will do the season in style.”
“Very well. I’ll give you a month. Do not detain her in England. I want her here with me. This is her home.”
“Yes, her home,” Isabel sighed. She left that subject, not anxious to reopen old resentments. “I’ve invited a few other people for tonight, including Mr. Henry James, the author. Mr. James is in Rome, terribly busy working on a book but it seems he can find time for us. I met him in England a year ago. He knows Henrietta fairly well, they have a family connection. She would like to talk to him about a serialization in her magazine. So I’m helping my friend. Mr. James is agreeable. You can have no complaint with his company. He is American but lives in London. He spends time here in Italy. I don’t suppose you have ever read his books? Novels mostly.”
“No. I am not a reader of American novels. But by all means, bring him on. The last author we had here left in a huff, dangling his poor wife by the coat sleeve. It seems he couldn’t take a little friendly criticism. I hope your Mr. James is less delicate. In any case, I know nothing of novelists so I will have no reason to be offended, will I? I look forward to meeting another author. He cannot be any more disagreeable than many other Yanks I have been forced to endure for your sake.”
“He’s quite agreeable. You will not find better company.”

With that, Isabel left his studio, thankful he held no rancor over the Gardencourt secret. She made her way into the kitchen to examine the menu for the evening’s dinner party. She was excited to be able to tell Pansy they would be going to England for a short visit, but she would wait until she had a chance to finalize a timetable. She wanted her visit to coincide with that of her sister Lily. She walked down the long corridor to the kitchen’s stairway, a spring in her step. All things considered, having Mr. James to dine was not without a certain social cachet. Henrietta would be thrilled. Even her husband would find no fault with the illustrious author.

Late that afternoon while resting before her party preparations Isabel received a telegram. It was from her nephew Harold Ludlow saying he was in Rome with a student-group and at his mother’s insistence, wanted to let his aunt know he would be for a week, viewing the sites of Rome. He left an address but no message other than that of his presence. She sent a message asking him to come to the Palazzo Roccanera at noon the next day. She had many questions. Though only a boy when they last met, he was her favorite nephew and had also come to know her cousin Ralph before he died. She had an intense longing to see a member of the Archer family. Isabel, after nearly six years away from her country, was having a bout of homesickness.

Henrietta To The Rescue

Chapter XII

Isabel had made acceptance her daily diet but was finding it less than nourishing. Her days consisted of a sparse round of domestic duties, necessary obligations and minor pleasures, with walks around the gardens and piazzas of Rome with her stepdaughter, her only source of solace, a means to use her pent-up energy. It is true she is not as unhappy as she had once been: she is after all, a young woman with great resources. She knew she was not as a rule more or less unhappy than many other women and tried not to dwell upon the forces that kept her awake at night, lying in her large ornamental mahogany bed alone. She would study the carved leaf pattern interrupted in the headboard’s center by a pair of round cherubs delicately carved to inspire a soft sentimentality she could not longer take seriously. She often wondered where the ability to sleep effortlessly had gone, and she could only conclude that it left with the simplicity of youth. That she had lost innocence she was certain but realized that to grow older is to lose many things and this did not bother her unduly. Of late, it gave her satisfaction, this she thought was normal but what then was she to replace it with? Her husband was not a true husband in the sense, her child was dead, her stepdaughter getting old enough not to need her and her family in America. Isabel was in a rut. She no longer had her old friend Madame Merle, no great loss, but she had been a source of knowledge and interest at one time. Sometimes she thought of their travels together and missed her easy companionship. Then she would remember the betrayal and feel scorn. She no longer had to contend with the Countess Gemini, she never cared much for her husband’s sister but lately found she missed her brittle attendance, her flapping of wings, the endless nonsense that spilled forth, a product of her giddy, restless mind, her flirtations, in short, all the vagaries of a personality though not of the enriching sort, still a presence to distract her, to help keep one’s mind off the inexplicable tedium. Osmond refused to budge on a reprieve for his sister and Isabel did not write her either.

Only at odd intervals did she think of her previous suitors: What sort of life she would be living if she had given either of them the answer they had wanted. She knew in her heart she had been right in refusing what they so generously offered, she did not regret anything in that regard, still…she was not proud of what she had become…she felt no conceit for her life in the Palazzo Roccanera despite the growing art collection, her own expanding library and a lavish wardrobe of very finely tailored garments. Maybe for some women this was enough, but our heroine was not to be satisfied with mere material though what she would be satisfied with was not known to her at this time. She tried to read, to gain insight, but found she put down the book after a few pages. She, who once would read everything available, eager to understand the world. She was sinking into the meaningless world of parties, dinners, visits to people she did not especially care about. She envied Osmond his keen desire for art collecting; it took up many hours of his day and it seemed on the whole to gratify his existence in a way Isabel could not imagine. At times she thought she might be too American after all.

She was sitting in the garden of her home, the trickling of the fountain the only sound on a dull, windless morning. The early rituals that came with each fresh day were concluded. Her calendar had been gone over, the servants instructed, meals had been planned, a delivery of books from England had been dispatched, her hair had been dressed, her gown chosen. Isabel had no luncheon engagements nor any letters to write on this morning. Signore Cellini, with his chatter and mirth, was now relegated to his studio working on Osmond’s altarpiece and his company could not be sought. Pansy was intent on learning cookery and spent her days lately in the kitchen to Osmond’s disapproval.

Isabel was waiting to hear from Henrietta Stackpole Bantling on her arrival in Rome. The time was not clearly set and Isabel sat wondering if she would invite her friend and Mr. Bantling to dine. In the past, she was reluctant to do so but now Osmond expressed interest in meeting the good husband of her friend and implied he could put up with her "coarse interviewing", her rigorous inquiry and implacable eye that left no proprieties in place. He seemed to have gotten over his initial disdain for her friends. With the death of her cousin he no longer felt as threatened as previous, with the airing of his secret, less pressured to put on a formidable front. Osmond was adjusting to daily life with his wife whom he avoided as much as possible but as she did the same, the marriage was less constraining than might be imagined. The Osmonds were, as it is said in America, settling in. That is all that could be said about the couple at this time. The arrangement of these two people was not all that different from that of other married couples. They’d had their initial courtship, the pleasures of romantic solicitude, their time of quarrelsome grievance and the attendant shock, and on to the current impasse. How long it would last no one could really say. But there are changes in the course of living and Isabel Osmond could expect, at the age of eight and twenty that fluctuations would gather momentum eventually, life is not lived in a vacuum especially for those with resources and an active spirit. Though Isabel in these late summer days, the golden Roman slumber, as the tourists returned to their respective countries, was prone to brooding, her pluck would not languish forever, especially if her friend Henrietta had anything to say about it. Isabel had felt alive again in Florence last month and returned to Rome with renewed vigor only to have it dashed in ways that had no real structure, no exact spot for blame. She often thought of her cousin Ralph; his sense of humor. How he could turn a dull day into a festive array with his sparkling wit, his obdurate inability to perceive the world as anything but a trifle, his lack of the commonplace rejoinder…she remembered things he said that made her feel gleefully carefree, as if all one had to do is take a second look at a thing to find joy in its absurdity. Her father had been light-hearted, full of fun. Isabel wondered if she would die of a heavy spirit - if she would be crushed and made to look at things from a disagreeable viewpoint - as Osmond did. At times like this she felt like crying but knew she was being overly sensitive and would survive somehow. It was that “how” that kept her awake every night.


Mr. and Mrs. Bantling arrived in Rome two days hence with all the fanfare and enthusiasm that was a part of her friend’s entry into new territory. They established themselves at the Hotel de Londres in the English quarter. Her cousin had used it on his last visit to Rome, his last visit to anywhere.

The Bantlings were unpacking and sending telegrams; they arrived rather late in the day as the sun was setting in illuminating patterns on the Eternal City. They were having a quiet dinner in the dining room, familiar with and appreciative of its menu and service.
“Do you think, Henrietta, that this hotel will perhaps be a little sad for Mrs. Osmond? It just occurred to me...”
“I hadn’t thought of it quite at all. It’s a good hotel and we were treated so well during Ralph Touchett’s convalescence, I prefer to continue with this hotel. I’m glad to give them my business. That’s how I think of a thing. You know I don’t go in for sentiment or living in the past. I don’t think Isabel will mind this hotel. I don’t think she spent so much time here to have memories of an indulgent form.”
“So like you dear. But not every one is like you. It may give Mrs. Osmond reveries is all I’m saying. She tends to take things harder.”
“So it is. Isabel will need to gather strength. Living with the man she chose can be no stroll in the park, I tell you. That man is not one to be trifled with, I’m sure Isabel has a rough road and I don’t envy her. I don’t envy her living in this city either. Oh, I know it’s spectacular in many ways, but it’s foreign in ways that the rest of Europe isn’t. It’s positively feudal and that can’t be pleasurable for someone raised in America in a family with...Isabel was raised in a manner that hardly anyone would understand. Her father was what is refereed to as a free-spirit. It’s not surprising she’s so unique; that’s what I love her for. It can’t be comfortable with the Catholic Church as the backbone not only of the country but of daily life. I can’t see why she does it.”
“Because she married a man who lives in Italy just as you, my dear wife married a British subject. You once thought Britain relinquished to feudalism, do you remember? You let me know on our first meeting. You were astonished by it. No one would expect you to be making England your home but you are adapting, I dare say. Our ways are not yours but we are finding compatibility.” He was teasing her now. He often joked of his fear of her taking over England, pushing and shoving it into the modern age. He knew she was outranked but he also knew his wife: She would make her mark, that he had no doubt.
“Well, I still say Isabel made poor pickings of it: not only in a husband but in a country.”
“She can always return to Gardencourt whenever she needs a breathe of fresh air. England will always be there for her, she is not a prisoner.”
“That’s what my intended approach is to be. Get her back to Gardencourt. With or without the husband. She was not meant to spend her days as an accessory to a dilettante’s collection. We’ve got to get her out into the world. She has a fine mind if it could be put to some use. My guess is she’s as bored as the poor daughter is. Meant to sit all day with indolent fallen peoples, to have no opinion, scarcely a personality at all. Why, it’s positively medieval. Isabel is too good for this country. I've sent a message to the Palazzo Roccanera and I hope we will see our prisoner by mid-morning.”
“I hope you do not intend to alienate Mrs. Osmond. Go easy, dear. We have not all your resilience.”
“Oh you. You make me out an monster when you see how I am getting more permissive by the day.”
“And more lovely if I may say, Mrs. Bantling. Funny how I never thought of you as a beauty, now don’t mind my saying it, you are not vain, but lately you have come to seem as if you are radiated by an inner angel who has decided that instead of taking the bloom off the married lady, has instead decided to enhance the garden with its own special rose. I’m trying to be romantic and am a silly ass but as you know I’ve no skin for it. I think the Italian wine has gone quite to my noggin. That is something that this country has to offer - excellent wine but turns a man into a blithering idiot before a woman, even his own wife.”
“Mr. Bantling, the things you say. But once again you are correct though I don’t say I‘m any kind of rose - unless you consider the thorns.” She threw back her head and laughed loudly at this simile. “The fact is, I’m expecting a child, we’re expecting a child. Now what have you to say for yourself?”
Mr. Bantling had a moment when he had nothing to say for himself but his face alighted as if he had swallowed a lantern. “Good gracious, my dear, you tell me this in a hotel dining room as if it were a new washerwoman you’ve hired. Mrs. Bantling, do not tease me.”

Mrs. Bantling could have gone on bantering with her husband, that was their way, but she detected a tear in his right eye and instead put her hand to his face, a face she’d become so familiar with, so dear to her, and only said, “Not a washerwoman, my dear, perhaps our own lovely daughter is coming to stay with us. Or our beloved son. Which do you think you’d prefer, dearest?”
“I think I could be most happy either way - I’ll leave it for you to decide. You always have your way and that is what I prefer. You always know best, Mrs. Bantling.” He took her hand and held it tightly and then remembered they had just journeyed twelve hours on a rumbling train and he was immediately worried for his wife’s health. He began making plans for their removal to England, if only in his mind. Home had never seemed more dear now that he had to get his wife safely back on English soil.

The couple finished their simple meal. Both were tired from the journey from Florence. They left the dining room after the sun had long set on Rome. Tomorrow they would see Isabel; the only reason for this expedition of mercy. Henrietta was once again, afraid for her friend.

Osmond’s Impatience

Chapter XI

Signore Salvatore Cellini had been en residence with the Osmonds for seven days before the subject of the authenticity of the altarpiece was broached. Signore Cellini seemed reluctant to discuss it after the first three days; indeed, he seemed to have lost his curiosity, a cause for dismay by Osmond. Signore Cellini was much more interested in Mrs. Osmond who from the first day, was graciousness itself. They visited museums and cathedrals together, walked in the campagna each day and enjoyed tea in the courtyard with the golden light of a Roman afternoon imbuing a simple repast of bread and orange marmalade with a sense of poetic leniency. To say Signore Cellini had developed a reverence for Mrs. Osmond may not, in so far as it went, be an exaggeration. His devotion to Osmond’s Giotto was receding as his adulation for his hostess expanded. Osmond knew not how to break his wife’s spell on their guest but was not content to watch him eat and drink heartily at his table each night only to sleep for most of the morning until such time as he thought Mrs. Osmond might be serving tea in one of her drawing rooms or the courtyard. That is, unless he was seen gallantly holding the door of the carriage for Isabel and Pansy, the three en route to one of Rome’s numerous points of interest. Often Mrs. Osmond had guests for luncheon, many of whom were art lovers so the art expert had fine company and was able to expound on any topic pertaining to the craft of painting or, depending on which room they were taking their repast, the collection of the Palazzo Roccanera which made Osmond’s temper short, noticeable by only a twitching in his left jaw while vigorously maintaining an outward demeanor to hide his seething. He left the room during these discourses or avoided it altogether. At these times he missed Madame Merle: Only she would be attuned to Osmond’s ire; only with her would he allow himself to vent with his own brand of mockery. He depended upon her indulgence; he could not get it from is wife.

Many days Isabel and her stepdaughter were alone in the afternoon and Signore Cellini had their attentions unto himself. Signore Cellini noted Osmond’s absence and wondered why the husband of such a charming wife would stay away. He also noted that very little was said between them at dinner or during their Thursday evening salon, they made no eye contact or much of anything resembling communication. At times the lady looked saddened, one might say morose but it was only for a second before she put on a mask of affable charm. This, the old Italian of finite receptivity could easily discern. How could such a lady be ignored so cruelly? But then Mr. Osmond was not an Italian - but a strange hybrid of European and American sensibilities. There was no accounting for such apathy. He was much more enthralled by his musty old altarpiece than by the beauty and wit of his wife, so regal in her black gowns graced with cameo broaches of the finest Italian carving, accentuated with strands of corpulent pearls. Signore Cellini was unable to take his bleary eyes off such a illustrious model. He’d heard that American women were harsh, ignoble, almost crude. This could not be said of Mrs. Osmond on even her worst day.

Signore Cellini entered Osmond’s study on the eighth day of his residency. Osmond had sent Higgins for the man, unable to endure his fawning over Isabel any longer. He preferred his sycophantic talents to be used on his altarpiece which is what he was, after all, paid to attend to but this he could not tell the man in so many words. Not yet. He knew he should humor him but a sense of humor had never been Osmond’s strong suit.

“So, my good man, in your opinion, can you tell me that my altarpiece is by the master’s hand?”
“No, Signore Osmond, I cannot tell you that it is by the master’s hand nor can I tell you that it is not by his hand.”
“Come now, Signore Cellini, surely you with your expert eye have some opinion. What is your guess, if it is to be an uncertainty?”
“My guess is that it may be by a student of Giotto.”
“What is your reasoning?”
“The master’s hand was a little more fluid, if you will. He had a grace that of course, everyone tried to copy but no one really did, it was for the master alone, his gift.”
“I understand the master’s fluidity, his gift precisely. That is why I believe the altarpiece is by the hand of Giotto. An early work no doubt.”
“Of course, once it is cleaned, we will be able to determine more. When did you plan to begin the cleaning, Signore Osmond?”
“I’d would like to begin the cleaning today, Signore Cellini. Are you interested in the job?”
The expert rubbed his eyes, seeming to concentrate on a bottom corner of the right panel. “It would require me to stay on here at your beautiful home for some time, Signore Osmond. Unless you would like to transport the altarpiece to my workshop in Bologna.”
“What do you recommend, Signore Cellini?”
“Naturally it would be better to have it remain in one place. Moving old works of art over the crumbling roads of Italy, over hill and dale is not in the best interest of preservation.”
“So do we begin immediately, Signore Cellini; are you saying you will stay on for the restoration?”
“As you wish, sir. Though I will have to send for one, possibly two of my assistants unless assistance can be found in Rome, but I have trained my men thoroughly, I can trust them to do exactly what is needed and no more. We do not want a heavy hand anywhere near a work of this value.” He was now placating Osmond whom he felt might be easily riled.
“I wish you to tell me it is a Giotto as soon as possible. You see I’ve examined the work before it was as darkened as you see it today. I’ve studied it closely over the years. The church was recently flooded, the wood has been penetrated severely by moisture; it has given it a rather turgid appearance that is deceiving. I thought so myself when I first entered the church early last spring after the flood. Before that, it was grimy, to be sure, but I saw the color, the light, the beauty of the figures. I don’t believe I am mistaken, Signore Cellini.”
“You may be right, Signore Osmond, we shall see what we shall see.”

Osmond knew the old man was stalling for time. He knew his wife had so enamored him he couldn’t see what was in front of him. Damn Isabel! If everyone only realized how simple and tedious her mind was. Her moralizing was a thing of prosaic dross. He found her insufferable. The only thing he deemed worthy in her was her attention to his daughter, her willingness to play a grand role when it was required and her generosity. He would give her that. She did not withhold. She did not resort to petty humiliations. He did not know quite how he would handle her if she started down that road. If he was made at all to grovel, a murderous rage would be his daily diet. Perhaps his wife knew this, she was quick, she had strong instincts. Clever, everyone said. Osmond was sick to death of his wife’s cleverness but recognized that it was only he who felt this way. He was even sicker of Signore Cellini’s presence in his home but for now he would have to accept him. But he would be no more with his wife. He would, from now on, be working on the Giotto. Osmond had really had enough of the old Italian’s obsequiousness that carried with it no results.

The next morning he met his wife having her breakfast in the small courtyard in the center of the palace. Signore Cellini thankfully was not with her. Nor was Pansy. She was pouring a dark coffee from a silver pot and had pealed an orange but had not yet broken it apart. She was startled by Osmond’s abrupt presence, he did not usually seek her company in the early hours.
“I have given Signore Cellini notice that he is to begin the restoration of the Giotto immediately and he is to take to the task rigorously without delay or side trips to the Villa Borghesa or any of the other highlights of Rome with you and my daughter in attendance. He seems to be taking your hospitality for granted and I do not want to see you burdened with his company. He is nothing to you and I cannot see my daughter socializing with his sort.”
“What sort is that, Gilbert?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Isabel. I’m not in the mood.”
“What mood are you in Gilbert?”
“I am in one of exasperation that the man I hired to work on an important project for me instead plays on my wife’s generosity and my good manners while ignoring the task at hand.”
“Very well, Gilbert. I can find other ways to spend my time. I was trying to placate him for your sake, surely I didn’t invite him to stay. It is up to you to arrange the timetable of your guest. But I will shake Signore Cellini if you insist. I have plenty to do, and many people to give attention to. As a matter of fact, I didn’t mention it before but Henrietta and her husband are in Italy and will soon be in Rome. We were together in Florence. In addition, my sister Lily is in England and I may invite her to visit. Or I may meet her somewhere; she’s to be in Paris for several weeks. Her son Harold is with her.”
“Well, you’ve been keeping secrets again, haven’t you. It seems that is your specialty.”
“No Gilbert, that is your specialty. Mine is trying to keep you from any anxiety my friends or family might cause you.”
“I am perfectly ready to meet your sisters whenever they wish to show themselves at our door. Miss Stackpole or Mrs. Bantling now, is another matter but even for her, with her grating laughter and crude innuendo, I can make an effort with enough warning. I’ve become hardened to your peculiar choice of friends.”
“You may not have to concern yourself. They will in all likelihood stay in a hotel.”
“Even better. I shall, nevertheless, be on hand if they should visit our humble home.”
“She doesn’t like you, I may not invite them here.”
“Oh that’s rich! She doesn’t like me. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. If such a woman as that did like me, I should wonder at my total being.”
“Her husband is very gallant. A military man. Very straightforward. I don‘t think you would find objection to him though he knows very little of the artistic milieu.”
“He must have nerves of steel and a spine of rubber. I should like to meet such a man who would marry your friend. He must be very close to a saint.”
“Yes, Gilbert you might find him so. He is pleasant, thoughtful, honest and quite in love with his wife.”
“As I am not, you infer, any of those things?”
“Please Gilbert, let’s not carp. I have heard you on Signore Cellini. You may have him to yourself.”

Osmond stayed a moment looking down on her as she sat drinking her coffee. On rare occasion he remembered the woman he was once infatuated with. He did not often think of that anymore. She had come down so far in his estimation it seemed another time, another woman. He did not regret marrying her: it was too much of a grand coup to be regretted. He only wished she were the girl she presented herself as. He had been deceived. He thought her malleable, their union a creative experiment in conjugal blessing. How foolish he felt over such sentimentality. Well, it would never happen again. They would go on forever, married but only in the most perfunctory manner. A shame, but not the only one in this old world. It wasn’t good enough but it would have to do. It was going to be a long life without companionship. Maybe in time he would take a mistress but now was not the time. He must be careful with Isabel; she was not reasonable and had a repellent penchant for didacticism. At least Pansy was happy. She felt nothing but love for her stepmother. The marriage hadn’t been a complete loss. He hadn’t been all wrong. His love of art would have to be his salvation, his collection his pride. And Isabel would have to practice the art he’d mastered over the lean years in Florence: Acceptance.

All this Osmond mused on while walking to the studio he had set up for Signore Cellini in a vacant room with a northern exposure and a massive pine table that had been used in an earlier time by a haberdasher to an old Roman family of noble standing. The first assistant would arrive in three days time. He hoped to unveil the triptych by Christmas. If Signore Cellini’s opinion was in doubt, he would call in a second opinion. He'd hesitated to call in the curators with their politics and petulance. But it may be necessary. There are some things that cannot be accepted.

Moving The Story Along (Commentary)

If you’ve been following my sequel to The Portrait of a Lady, you know I have decided to post the chapters and numbers 1-10 are offered here. With Chapter ten, I answered one of my many questions about why the Osmond’s marriage turned rancorous. What happened during the missing three years, omitted by HJ, from Isabel’s rebellious betrothal in Florence to finding resigned enemies living in a palace in Rome? Yes, it was predicted by everyone that Osmond would be a jerk. James wrote the book and he had to give Isabel a conflict as she "faced her destiny". He loved his character who reminded him of his cousin Minnie. But the master is subtle. It is not black and white, good against evil. He leaves it open to some interpretation, especially with Isabel's return to him at the end of the story.

I also answered “a thing”* that has been bothering me all along: how do you just dismiss so thoroughly a dead baby boy? James gave this incident approximately one sentence in the entire long saga of Isabel Archer. (And that sentence blithely iterated by none other than the scheming Madame Merle.) I take issue with that omission but I do know that infants did not always survive in the 19th century, it was not all that uncommon to lose a child at birth or shortly after. In chapter ten of my sequel, their son is given his due. It is my opinion that his death was the start of the disintegration of the marriage. I show that to be the case.

So now we have the Osmonds reunited after Isabel’s renegade trip to England to see her cousin before he died. They’ve called a truce. The story continues though I have no storyline in place. I think I’ve mentioned this more than a few times. I’m taking it brick by brick as HJ did. He cared not a whit about plot or endings. His only concern was character, in this case Isabel Archer Osmond and to a lesser extent those around her - he referred to them as spokes in a wheel of which she was the center.

I hope I can come up with some dark moments. I’m not at all sure HJ would care for lighthearted or a happily-ever-after scenario, as is my tendency. But then again, it is my sequel, is it not?

*HJ was always talking about “a thing” this or “a thing” that.

Family Loss

Chapter X

Miss Pansy Osmond, sheltered in her father’s embraces, was growing restless, touchy. She knew these personal proclivities did not correspond with the teachings she had received in the convent where she spent he formative years until coming of age. What she missed was activity. In the convent she did not sit around waiting for things to happen. She had chores assigned to her. Prayers to offer, Mass to attend, children to oversee. Convent life was far from idle. Life in the Palazzo Roccanera often was. Her stepmother would take her on outings; they visited many people, they brought food and medicine to the impoverished, they occasionally went to the new tearoom recently opened by two English women catering to the expatriate community, a growing assemblage in Rome. Still, her life was without meaning, as she dared say to herself one particularly dull night at home.

She could not put her mind on how exactly she was lacking or the cause of her pent up energy that seemed to have no proper outlet. She no longer found it restful to sit with her father in his studio while he drew or studied. How she savored those moments when she was a girl, home from school, happy to be in his presence. Her aunt would bring around visitors. Madame Merle would be ever on hand though Pansy did not enjoy her visits as much as she did her aunt’s. Her aunt was difficult for a sedate nature such as her own, but Pansy would listen to her, understanding little enough, but fascinated by her confabulations, her fluttering extravagant apparel. She lived in a world Pansy would never traverse, her father would never allow her to penetrate, but she provided a coloring to the emaciated days spent with only her father’s company.

When her father married Miss Archer, Pansy was overcome with joy. Now she would have a friend near at hand. She could talk to Miss Archer. And she seemed to make her father smile rather more. When her stepmothers was to give birth, when a son was born, a brother, Pansy’s heart wept with gratitude. She could not imagine anything more lovely in the world than to have a baby brother. How happy her father was. He vibrated with well-being such as Pansy had never before witnessed in him. There was no piece of art in his collection that pleased him as much as his son. Isabel too was in an exalted state. She and her stepmother spent hours together playing with the baby. Pansy became a little mother, dressing her brother, taking care of him. The nurse Osmond hired found she was scarcely needed, so complete were Pansy’s ministrations. When the baby was nearing six months old, he was taken outdoors for the first time. For one week Pansy and Isabel took him for a daily walk, just a short distance, to get him used to the air of Rome. How Pansy loved pushing his perambulator through the park. Perhaps people thought she was the mother - this thought was delightful to her intrinsic being. But she always referred to him as her brother, eager to never permit a misinformed notion.

The baby was soon to be baptized; Isabel wanted it to be in the Protestant church, the first bone of contention between her father and her stepmother. Osmond wished for all the pomp of a Catholic ceremony and what accompanied a Catholic baptismal. Osmond felt that since Pansy was baptized in St. Peter’s and was raised Catholic, his son should be also. He and Isabel, heretofore a couple who could be described as synchronized, began to show the first sign of a rivalry. Isabel wanted a Protestant baptism and Osmond wanted something else. He wanted his son to belong to the great church of Rome, not a secondary, small church of loosely affiliated transients.

As it was in the beginning of this marriage, Osmond’s wishes dictated. Not wanting discord in her home or marriage, she agreed to the Catholic baptism scheduled for one week after the child reached six months. Osmond was in a flurry of preparations; it was to be a grand ceremony with a festive luncheon at the Palazzo Roccanera afterwards. Everyone who was worth knowing would attend. Isabel’s sister Mrs. Lilian Ludlow would be the child’s godmother. She, at great expense arrived in Rome, prepared to do her duty by Isabel and her new nephew, only mildly uncomfortable with the Catholic ritual that seemed to her American sensibilities as vaguely overwrought, obviously pompous. She put her alarms aside for this was to be an Italian child who would no doubt be raised with different values than her own American children. She also did not care for Osmond’s authority. That he ruled the home was evident from the first - but Mrs. Ludlow could not quite manage the change in her sister. Isabel had always been the opposite of the persona she now presented. In America, she was considered “intimidating” to the young men in their circle. A fellow had to know something to be able to talk to her, said a school friend. She had been sought out especially by the shrewd Caspar Goodwood but had not felt ready to capitulate to a stronger will than her own. Now here she was bowing to the slightly insignificant Gilbert Osmond, a man she married to support, a man who should by all rights be deferential to her. Oh, not that Mrs. Ludlow thought marriage should be a power struggle, quite the opposite. It’s just that in America, men often listened to their wives, especially on matters of the home and family. That was the woman’s domain and it was here she was able to express herself. The Palazzo Roccanera presented a tableau of a dissimilar tenor.

What Mrs. Ludlow found, to her dismay, was the willful Isabel bending over to placate her husband, seemingly afraid of him. Afraid of one’s husband was a notion so foreign to Mrs. Ludlow it took her some time to quite figure out a response to her brother-in-law. She noted the air of authority with which he conducted the household matters, leaving Isabel prostrate before his administrations. “How odd,” was what Mrs. Ludlow wrote to their sister Edith in New York and was heard muttering under her breath the first week in Rome. She longed to ask Isabel how it was she had been brought to this state of subservience but Isabel seemed to have a shroud of protective covering that made even a close sister desist. The couple did seem to have forged a bond and Mrs. Ludlow decided to leave well enough alone. Isabel had settled in a foreign land. She was bound to change, each society having its own morays and manners.

Mrs. Ludlow was also willing to overlook her brother-in-law’s arrogance when she met his daughter. Pansy, to her, was all that a young woman should be. Mrs. Ludlow approved entirely of Pansy and thought if this were the result of a Catholic upbringing, she had no fault to find. The girl was as docile, as pleasing as an angel. Her demeanor, her dress, her articulations were perfection. She hoped her own sons in time would find such a lovely girl. Mrs. Ludlow each day took Pansy out in a carriage while Isabel attended to her own affairs. She bought her a dress for the ceremony, a small strand of pearls and a hat. The two visited the tearoom each day, walked in the campagna and visited the sites Rome is famous for. Mrs. Ludlow could not recall ever enjoying the city before, or at least as much. She had always wanted a daughter but had instead, three sons, truly wonderful boys in her opinion but still she missed something by not producing a girl to spoil. Pansy flourished in the glow of attention and activity. Not more so than when Mrs. Ludlow, braving the fully-staffed kitchen, instructed Pansy on how to make a Boston Cream Pie, an American favorite of the Archer/Ludlow family.

On the afternoon before the baptismal ceremony, Isabel and her sister were in the courtyard drinking tea and fanning themselves. Madame Merle had called earlier and they talked of her. Isabel did not like to gossip but told her sister that her friend had been in Rome for a fortnight having come from visiting a royal home in Denmark. They talked of the Count and Countess Gemini who were due to arrive in time for dinner. It was an unusually hot day for early summer and no one wanted to venture outside, content to eat fruit and rest in the shade of the old oak tree that spread its branches generously over the courtyard in the late afternoon. The fountain trickled lazily as if too restrained to splash. The moss on the side of the building lent an air of composure and a softening effect to the scene. A lemon tree drooped, heavy with fruit and a patch of jasmine, its sweet aroma mingled with the smell of the fruit, the moss, the desultory breeze. Our two ladies happy in each other’s company for the few hours that remained of the afternoon, spoke quietly, in a leisurely manner.

“What do you plan to do for the girl, Isabel?”
“Why, whatever she chooses, sister. Why do you ask?”
“Well, she needs a place. If you ask me, she needs a husband.”
“Oh Lily, you always think a husband is the answer to a woman’s life.”
“Of course I do. Usually it is. I know there are exceptions these days but Pansy is not one of that ilk.”
“No she is not.”
“Bring her to America next year.”
“You want to find her an American husband?”
“It could not hurt. She’s innocent. I suspect that Europeans are not quite as much, in general.”
“You know this for certain?”
“Of course not. I'm only a tourist. It’s just intuition.”
“Are you thinking of any one in particular?”
“Well she’s just a year older than Harold, but so much younger than girls her age.”
“What does Harold have to say?”
“He doesn’t know anything about it. I’ve just met your stepdaughter myself. She’s lovely. So gracious, so helpful. And with such a boorish…" she paused uncertain of how to retract her partial sentence. "Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean…”
“Boorish father you mean?”
“Well a stickler let’s say. She hasn’t inherited his manner.”
“They are very close.”
“Yes. So it seems. Nevertheless, a girl of seventeen will need a husband or the prospect of a husband. There comes a time when a father, no matter how attentive, is not enough. Don’t smother the poor thing. She’s made for motherhood. Anyone can see that by her care for your baby.”
“I have every intention of helping Pansy in any way I can but her father will decide on her future.”
“Let me take her to America for a year.”
“Her father wouldn’t agree.”
“How is her father helping her?”
“It remains to be seen.”
“Don’t rule out America, Isabel. You were given your chance to travel to foreign parts. Don’t impede your stepdaughter. America is the future.”
“I don’t think Pansy is tough enough for America.”
“She isn’t being given a chance to learn who she is.”
“Her father thinks she is exactly who she is meant to be and awaits a prince to carry her off.”
“Nonsense. Are you speaking metaphorically or do you have a royal prince in mind?”
“No one I can point out. At this time. But he wants a great match for her. But for now, she is still a child.”
“Not for long. Think about America. You ought to visit yourself.”

With that the women went to their quarters to rest before dinner. Pansy was with her brother in his nursery, he was unusually fretful in the heat. As a rule such a good baby, he spent the afternoon crying, unable to be consoled. He was hot, and Pansy rubbed him with a cool cloth and rocked him to sleep. It was not a sound sleep and the nurse intervened at that point and alerted Mrs. Osmond to the boy’s condition. She did not think it more than the heat and had a brief misgiving that maybe Miss Osmond should not have taken him out that morning. But she was a no-nonsense nurse, not prone to misgivings, a German woman who had raised twelve children and had an authority that even Osmond was wont to come up against. She believed in exposing a baby to the elements, not to pamper him, to pamper was to weaken. She gave the girl permission to take him for a short walk but not more than ten minutes. When they returned she could see the baby was irritable, overheated. She bathed him and gave him a fruit juice mixture and he seemed to improve. Now here it was getting close to dinner and he was feverish. Pansy held him, crooned to him, songs she’d learned in the convent, she prayed and hoped that he would settle down for the night. He would be baptized in the morning and she was sure he would be fine after receiving God’s blessing and protection. She hoped it would cool off overnight.

The next day was more of the same. A torpid heat mixed with a forceful wind. Dirt blew around the streets and the sun played an obstinate game of hide and seek. It would blaze murderously for fifteen minutes only to disappear with a slash of moisture that could not be called rain exactly but a heavy mist of heat and grime. The streets were empty as the carriage containing the Osmonds made its way to St. Peter’s Cathedral. The baby who slept intermittently during the night was quietly inert, lovingly held and caressed by his sister. The boy’s countenance suggested a dull acceptance that it would be his lot to travel in the heat for an appointment he knew nothing of nor cared, draped in several layers of silk and ribbons that swaddled him in fiery sartorial irritation. The nurse was in attendance in a hansom following a procession consisting of the Gemini entourage and of course Madame Merle in her own rented carriage.

A fussy infant, a nervous mother, a father who was occupied with the lavish luncheon to be hosted by him afterwards, visiting relatives and the worst heatwave Rome had experienced in more than twelve years was the backdrop for the child’s first foray into the city of Rome proper, his arrival at the exalted Catholic institution that was to be his for life. Bandaged in a precious garment that could not but be a hindrance to a normal body temperature, crowded in a carriage with sweating, agitated bodies, themselves longing for it to be over so they might cool themselves behind stone walls and cold drinks, they arrived at the church and entered the illustrious premise - the child’s first brush with God Almighty who would supposedly protect him from hell and damnation though a few people in the congregation thought they might be experiencing hell on earth during the ride in the various carriages.

Only Osmond looked fresh. He spoke with authority to one and all, presented his son to the bishop and for all intents and purposes was in his glory. Isabel looked wilted beside him, her sister tried but couldn’t quite restore Mrs. Osmond nor could Pansy’s composure and loving assistance. The Countess Gemini was over dressed in a florid gown with a high collar, a mantle of beading and a tight bodice that was nearly strangling her breathing apparatus. Madame Merle, with her usual sanguine expression watched the proceedings without any undue disturbance of her own. She was lost in thought of another baptism, one where she was again in the background, an observer, not a participant. She thought of how proud Osmond was to have a son. He had always taken to the role of parenthood. She was happy for him; glad that his marriage seemed solid, he was coming into his own. A late bloomer, she thought. Isabel she noted, was not at all blooming on that day, but was flaccid by his side. The baby blatted when the water splash his head but only feebly. His aunt Lily held him. He was blessed in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. He would henceforth be a child of God.

The baby's listlessness continued into the afternoon on the day he was baptized and Osmond was forced to cut short the luncheon. A doctor was called. Osmond paced outside the nursery, Isabel weakly hung onto her sister’s arm and the high temperatures continued in Rome with the newspapers reporting the number of deaths caused by this freakish weather for May. That was the scene as witnessed in the Palazzo Roccanera for three days after the ceremony. The aunts stood by ready to be of any use they could be, Pansy remained on her knees, never ceasing her prayers. The baby died on the fourth day at five o’clock in the afternoon. The heat subsided at about the same hour with a pelt of hail and a wind that ripped two branches off the oak tree in the courtyard. The rains came and never let up for two days. Pansy remained on her knees, Osmond disappeared and was not heard from, Isabel could not be comforted and the family members were stricken with grief. Malaria was the confirmed cause of death.

There was a funeral arranged by Mrs. Ludlow in the Protestant church so recently rejected. The baby was buried in the little cemetery adjacent to the church. Osmond, who was not present up to that point, arrived, ignored his family and with an aged deportment, bowed his now gray head until it was over. He left abruptly offering no words of comfort to his wife or his daughter and wanted no consolation in return. He sent a message to the Palazzo Roccanera later saying he would be gone for a fortnight not to think about him. Isabel, distraught, in need of her husband, the only person suffering as much as she, had to make due with her sister and her stepdaughter. She never forgave her husband for leaving her, for not sharing the sorrow they both would live with until they died. Her hurt feelings piled on top of her grief for her beloved son, later turned to rage, but that was not for some time yet. Rage requires strength for its proper expenditure.

She knew her sister Lily looked upon Osmond as an egotistical monster but she did not; she knew how great his suffering was. He wasn’t a monster, but he was not a husband either. When Madame Merle paid a visit of condolence to the Palazzo Roccanera, it was with an offering of gentle, exquisitely-worded comfort expressly for Isabel. When she proffered words to the effect that she knew also of Osmond’s pain, his withdrawal to his apartment in Florence, Isabel had her first obfuscated pang of jealousy. How did this woman know where her husband had gone but she did not? Madame Merle sensing she had committed a faux pas, unlike her, rushed in to say, Of course, I only know because a friend in Florence wired me… Even she could not quite put the correct tone on this slip and made a hasty retreat. Overheard by the Countess Gemini, and despite her own natural grief, she gleaned some small pleasure hearing the grand lady so at odds with her own careless words. Mrs. Ludlow was appalled when the countess relayed the story to her. But by this time, Mrs. Ludlow was appalled by many things she had witnessed.

Life does go on with or without our participation or approval. Isabel mourned for more time than society deemed necessary but in truth, she continued to mourn long after shedding the official black garb. Osmond came home as promised, Mrs. Ludlow reluctantly returned to America and Madame Merle made a point of visiting the Osmonds in their home less frequently. Osmond called on her in her apartment near the Coliseum when he wished to converse with his old friend.

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond never spoke of their son - as if he never existed. Nor did they entirely regain their close affinity though they each made some effort. They could not seem to act in harmony as they once had and petty disagreements, inconsequential incidents began to accumulate. Secretly Isabel blamed Osmond for the death because he had been caught up in a showy unnecessary ritual with too many people involved; that her son had to be dressed up and driven in an overheated carriage and shown off as some sort of prize when he was ill. Mostly she blamed herself because she too was lax in her attention. Osmond blamed Isabel for taking him for outings the previous week. They both blamed the nurse but derived little comfort in that. They blamed each other for being unlucky, punished. There was plenty of blame and little consolation.

Only Pansy visited the little Protestant cemetery each week, with her flowers that she picked herself in the summer and bought from a street vendor in the winter. She went alone, with only a housemaid, and stayed for approximately an hour. She swept and cleaned his grave and prayed for his salvation. She told him how much she missed him, how much his parents missed him. She talked of Jesus, she talked of what his life was like in the hands of God. Some of this she made up to keep a steady flow of conversation - she did not want to let him go and thought if she kept talking he would hear her and not be so far away. She too suffered guilt for the loss of the greatest gift bequeathed to the Osmond family. At the end of her prayers she whispered his name with rapt intention: Ivan. My darling brother, I will never forget you.