Isabel’s Infatuation

Chapter XVII

Mrs. Osmond was experiencing something of an infatuation herself. She had quite unexpectedly developed the collecting bug her husband was known for. But unlike her husband who collected from the Renaissance period and that immediately preceding it, she had become enthralled with a new style of painting called Impressionism.

While at Gardencourt to settle in her sister who would make it a second home also, she chanced to visit an exhibition in London of the works of Claude Monet, Camille Pissarro, Edgar Degas, Mary Cassatt, Berthe Morisot and Jean Renoir, a group of artists, mostly French calling themselves Impressionists. While roaming the gallery rooms with her friends Mr. and Mrs. Bantling, she heard a rather strident, raspish voice spouting opinion put forth in such a way as to brook no contention to a group of young men who seemed to worship the man opining. He was, she could tell by his accent, clearly American and Isabel was taken with his intonation that spoke of her childhood and fond memories of her father. The paintings were a whirl of intense color, bold brush stokes and an incandescent light that when examined at a closer range, was seen to be pure pigment aligned to make the eye see something that actually wasn’t there at all. Isabel was entranced.

At first she, like many others, thought it a sort of childish inanity but as she listened to the engaging American describe the effects she was at that moment feeling, it all began to make sense and she found herself to be more engrossed in painting than she’d ever in her life been before despite Osmond’s erudite lectures, extensive knowledge and a growing collection in her own home.

After the American cicerone left the gallery with his entourage, Isabel asked Mr. Bantling who had been lingering in a small room of arms and armor to whom the authoritative voice belonged. Mr. Bantling, who knew everything of importance happening in his city replied that it was indeed one of her countrymen, James Whistler, a well-known painter and etcher residing in London for these many years, a man of some scandal whose talents were considerable according to certain parties, negligible according to others.
“It has been said the man has a bigger talent for notoriety than the canvas,” he commented. “He is nevertheless quite the bon vivant and keeps London society in an uproar.” All this Mr. Bantling relayed with an amused air, always ready to find humor in the human spectacle especially if it involved something as innocent as the arts and did not concern Parliament or the trains. “Henrietta can tell you much more. I believe she interviewed him during his trial.”
“Trial? The man is a criminal?” said Isabel in mock horror.
“Believe it or not, he sued the critic John Ruskin, who had the terminus to insult one of Mr. Whistler’s paintings in print for which the artist took offense. It was quite a ground-breaking suit. No one had ever sued a critic, art is after all, subjective. But leave it to Mr. Whistler to start something. It was quite a stir, I tell you, Mrs. Osmond. Henrietta knows all about it, more than I do. Pity she’s left. Well you can ask her at tea later.”
“Left? I didn’t know she had done so.”
“She had an urgent message to return home. Said for us to follow. You were so deep in thought she didn’t want to rouse you.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Bantling, I think I’d like to stay on and look at the paintings a little more. I can see myself back to the hotel.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Osmond? I’d be happy to see you in a cab.”
“Thank you, dear. I need some air and it’s not very far. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, if you think you can manage. I wouldn’t normally let a lady take leave on her own but Henrietta has me used to all sorts of modern ideas these days. She’s quite independent as you know. Not sure she’d like me leaving you in any case.”
“You can tell her I’m an independent woman and begged to be let alone. I’m sure she’ll understand.
“Very well, Mrs. Osmond. I bid you good-day and hope we see you tomorrow.” With that he placed his hat on his head and left the gallery certain he’d done all that could be expected. Mrs. Osmond could always get a cab. They would not hesitate to stop at her slightest gesture.

Isabel continued looking at the paintings long after her friends departed. She was disinclined to leave just yet, her mind was a whirl of color and light, gardens, seascapes and farmland. She would find her own way back to the hotel, something she more than ever found reason to do. She liked nothing better than to walk the streets of a city alone to amble at her own pace, look in windows and stop for tea wherever she happened to find herself though this was not encouraged by any one she knew - ladies still did not venture out unaccompanied, as a rule, but Isabel, as a rule, did not care for this rule, as she told Henrietta, who also felt a woman should be able to get around on her own without help; anything else was childish and both women said it hampered living a full life. Just now she was wondering what Mr. Whistler’s painting that caused such a stir was of and thought she might look into it.

The next day upon questioning, Henrietta did indeed know more about Mr. Whistler and his “frivolous” lawsuit and was not only able to relay the story to Isabel but produce newspaper articles and pictures published during the trial. "Oh it was quite the thing," she said with laughter. "It became a farce and the cartoonists had a field day. Mr. Whistler was, of course, enthralled with the attention; that is what he was striving for. Of course, he lost, and nearly put Mr. Ruskin in his grave. Quite a spectacle it was."

Isabel found herself visiting the gallery again, this time unaccompanied. She was hypnotized by a large canvas by Claude Monet of woman in a garden, so much so she ventured to ask the price. It was not exorbitant but it was more than Mrs. Osmond dared part with and left the gallery pocketbook intact. The gallery owner suggested there were smaller paintings by the artist that could be had for less if Madame was interested. Isabel had immediate doubt as to whether or not her taste could be trusted. Osmond seemed to think she lacked discernment and possibly she might. But when back at Gardencourt on the weekend, looking at its empty gallery walls, the paintings having been removed to Lord Warburton’s house, she began thinking that maybe Monsieurs Monet, Pissarro, Sisley and Seurat might replace them. She visualized how she might restore the gallery that had meant so much to her cousin Ralph. She knew Osmond would laugh at her; he would say it would be impossible to replace Old Masters and eighteenth-century genre pictures at a reasonable cost on the open market, but why not something new? Something modern in spirit? Ralph would surely approve. She could hardly sleep that night thinking of those mad swirls of color and light gracing a place called Gardencourt. She began to see the feasibility of such a project. It excited her and her imagination seemed to expand to a larger circumference than her room could hold.

The one decision she did make that night, restless and wound up, was that she would seek the acquaintance and advice of Mr. Whistler. How she was to do this, she was not certain, but the Bantlings were sure to know someone who knew someone.

It turned out not to be so difficult. Henrietta knew personally Miss Mary Cassatt, one of the featured artists in the gallery and the only American of the group. Isabel and Henrietta were invited to tea at the flat of Miss Cassatt and her mother and from there they procured an invitation for Isabel and the Bantlings to attend Mr. Whistler’s open Sunday brunch where he served his famous buckwheat pancakes and regaled his guests with stories; some possibly true, others of a dubious origin but entertaining nevertheless. He was a shameless self-promoter but did not pretend otherwise. He solicited commissions, practiced a multitude of word games; puns, colloquies and verbal sparing of all types on all subjects. He was in constant motion and seemed to be fond of the sound of his own voice. Even Henrietta had trouble making her point. Mr. Bantling dared not say a word but enjoyed the display of wit.

The artist’s dining room was of a linear Japanese-style decorated with graceful paintings of ephemeral women that reminded Isabel of nothing she had ever seen in Western art. She simply fell in love with the man and his art. That is not to say she was in love, he was not a young man, but that she fell for his charm and wanted his friendship more than that of anyone she’d met since arriving in Europe seven years previous, unless you count Gilbert Osmond and Madame Merle, two personages that Isabel no longer thought about as material for her friendship. She was looking to replace Ralph Touchett as a benefactor and friend if truth be told although she was not aware of this. Our lady was nothing less than beguiled by the irascible artist. She persuaded Henrietta to invite him to dine at their home before she returned to Rome.

“Nothing could be simpler or more to my liking,” said Henrietta. “I’ve not quite finished with Mr. Whistler and you will be as good a draw as anyone, my dear.”
“She’s only looking for an excuse to have him appear in her drawing room where she might gain some ground,” said the jovial Mr. Bantling.
“No, I haven’t finished with Mr. Whistler. I have not spoken seriously with him since the verdict and his exile to Venice to repair his reputation and economies. Since his return, he is once again “in society” his oeuvre of Venice highly regarded, all forgiven, though for some, not forgotten. No, I’m ready to take on Mr. Whistler, I think. What about you, Robert?”
“Oh you know me, dearest, I take only the sideline. You have full possession of Mr. Whistler. The House of Commons is all the wind my sails will handle.”

The dinner was scheduled for the following Saturday with a warm response from the artist who was just as beguiled by Mrs. Osmond and possibly her American dollars. Isabel and Pansy would return to Rome in eight days. She wanted Mr. Whistler’s advice - to know if her idea could stand up to Osmond’s scrutiny. Could her will? If it could, if she had the assurance that the Impressionists were important, a worthwhile investment and not the absurdity some newspapers were declaring, then she would stand her ground. She suspected Osmond would give her trouble on this. Osmond only believed his own opinion on art and considered himself a high authority. Even Signore Cellini and his verdict would be brushed aside eventually. Osmond was not the type to take to a radical departure. She had never heard him express an opinion on this new art but he was unlikely to be anything but disparaging to an approach that so thoroughly went against tradition.

The dinner with Mr. Whistler was one of the more lively parties Isabel had the pleasure of attending. Her own in Rome, to her mind, were somewhat stagnant in subject matter, less than enlightened in conversation with an undercurrent of avarice that left Isabel not just bored, but put out. She could never quite explain to Osmond why she took offense at so many of the remarks made by her guests and more especially, the indifference to the poor, who as far as Isabel could see, struggled to survive in a country that had not the slightest interest in helping them, in fact, left it to a God they felt viewed the world exactly as they themselves did: that it was for them the world revolved and anyone born into a lesser sphere had no right to complain much less hatch revolutionary incitements. Isabel, who did not follow current affairs and knew little of the deposed Italian nobility except that they had been deposed, could not offer an opinion on the subject that preoccupied many of her guests; regaining their position and standing.

Henrietta laughed when Isabel said this. “My dear, they are deluded. Their time is up. How can you endure such retrogressive conversation? I should have trouble keeping a straight face.”
"I'm afraid I have trouble seeing the humor. Their cold assumptions leave me colder," said Isabel with a shiver.

Isabel was seated next to Mr. Whistler at dinner and the artist accepted her invitation to spend the weekend at Gardencourt. She wanted him to see the gallery that had once been so full of life when it contained her cousin’s collection. She would use him as her guide to purchasing a new collection. He would advise her, be her backup when Osmond ridiculed her purchases for she would tell him about them. Eventually.

The opportunistic artist knew a golden goose when it was presented to him in the form of a lovely, agreeable patron. In addition, Mrs. Bantling, while not quite so agreeable with her nose for the untoward, wanted to put his words before the public and he agreed to an interview for the first edition of her magazine, Expatriate Living. This would take place the weekend following at Gardencourt. The two American women were getting on with the business of life in England and both were energized and at their most charming.

Isabel wondered if Rome would satisfy her after London. And there was Pansy to consider. Harold Ludlow had installed himself at Gardencourt during their month’s stay. He and Pansy had been together often. Her sister Lily arrived shortly after Isabel and Pansy and encouraged the relationship wholeheartedly. She retained her love of Pansy, and pressed Isabel again to bring her to America. Isabel had regular missives from Osmond demanding that she return with his daughter when they were not back in Rome in the month as promised. Isabel knew if she didn’t return soon, unnecessary strife would greet her. She could put off leaving no longer. Pansy’s countenance appeared to crumble each time her stepmother hinted at a departure date. “I’m not ready to leave, Mother. I have not seen all that I would like to see. Please let us stay longer. Never have I loved a place as much as Gardencourt. Can’t you convince Papa we are happy and must stay longer?”
“I promised your father I would have you home in a month and we are now going on the sixth week. I cannot put him off much more. He is alone. He wishes our return.”
“He wishes me to entertain the prince. I won’t. I can’t…I…am otherwise entertained.”
“Whatever do you mean, dear?”
“I mean, I have made a promise.”
“Surely you are not secretly engaged?”
“I am not engaged. But I am not available to the prince. I want Papa to know this.”
“I’m afraid you will have to return to tell him.”
“I’m afraid of returning. He will do something to prevent…”
“Prevent what, dear? Please tell me so I can help you.”
“I am not engaged, but I have promised to wait for Mr. Ludlow.”
“To wait? For what are you to wait for?”
“For him to finish his studies so we can be married.”
“So you are engaged?”
“It is not official. It is only a promise.”
“I see. Well, we will have to let your father know, don’t you think?”
“He will try to prevent it. He will do anything.”
“No dear. He will not do anything. He will listen to you, I’m sure. We must go home and tell him. Otherwise he will have hopes of a different nature. We must be honest with him.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I will be there for you. Don’t be afraid.”

Isabel said these words but was not quite sure how much she believed them. Osmond was capable of anything just as his daughter said. Isabel had never known her stepdaughter to be quite so forthright. Shy, demur Pansy was now a woman with a will of her own. How Osmond would take to that was anybody’s guess. Isabel suspected she would be blamed for his daughter’s defection; she was blamed for just about everything anyway so was not unduly concerned. Nevertheless, they would be leaving in a week. Pansy would have to say goodbye to the Ludlows and resume her duties at the Palazzo Roccanera. Her face looked bleak when Isabel told her the date of their departure.

Isabel was not happy about leaving England either. The time was so enjoyable, so peaceful. She and her sister walked through the fields and woods along the riverbank. They had guests from America and entertained in a casual style unlike her entertainments in the Palazzo Roccanera.

And she was going to rebuild the gallery. Her one consolation was that Mr. Whistler promised to be in Rome in a month’s time. The Impressionists were having a show; he would be there to “drum up business” and would be more than delighted to call on Mrs. Osmond. Mrs. Ludlow left for America and Harold back to Oxford. She and Pansy would have Gardencourt to themselves for another week. With sadness, Pansy and Isabel said goodbye to Mrs. Ludlow and Harold, the latter promising to visit Rome at the first break of the school term.

Pansy stood squarely in view as Harold waved from the train. She saw her future clearly; now she would have to make others recognize it. Resolutely, she took her stepmother’s arm as they left the station.
“I’m ready to go home, Mother. I am ready to wait…”