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.