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.