Pansy Into The Bargain?

Chapter XXII

Gilbert Osmond sat on a stool placed before his altarpiece, in a ruminative mood, with many disparate thoughts in mind. Yesterday Prince Viticonti demanded an answer to his proposal for Pansy’s hand. “Will you, Signore Osmond, give me permission to speak to Miss Pansy? My aunt says it is time for our arrangements to be finalized. I would very much like to walk with Miss Pansy on Sunday. We will attend Mass together, my aunt says this is appropriate as she will attend with us. I will make my proposal to her afterward. Do you find this acceptable?”
“I have not yet spoken of our arrangement, as you say, to my wife. She will need to be informed of your intentions. I will speak to her as soon as possible; she will have a part in the proceedings, naturally.”
“Naturally. I’m surprised you have not presented my proposal to her. It is not everyday that a prince makes such a request.”

The prince took a pinch of snuff and regally put it to his nostril. Osmond for a moment wanted to slap it out of his hand but was not sure if it was the impudence of his remark or the disdain for the ornately enameled snuffbox the prince held in his left hand. There was something about the color combination that did not sit with Osmond’s taste. It was an insipid green, with a pink border amidst a curling of overwrought gold laticework, the likes of which Osmond had never before encountered in enameling and he had encountered much.

Perhaps I am under the weather, he said to himself. The rain had been pouring without letup for several days and he was restless. His wife and daughter returned from England but neither was able to shake him from the lethargy; Pansy seemed lost in a dream and Isabel seemed to have developed more opinions, added ideas of which Osmond could only hope to ignore. He did not want to quarrel, especially over things that did not concern him, but he did have a premonition that his wife was more engaged with life in London than in Rome and this did concern him. For the present, he needed her to be engaged in the doings at the Palazzo Roccanera. A wedding might do just that although he could not take an immediate interest in it himself. He was tired of the prince and although he enjoyed the Marchesa and some of her more eccentric relatives, even she was beginning to pall. Osmond thought the prince might begin to work on his nerves but once Pansy was settled he could move on to the negotiations for the Correggio. Yes, he was impatient, that’s all. Things were not moving quickly enough. Osmond had once been adept at waiting, considered his life was nothing more than a waiting game. Now that he’d won the game, he was put out at having to loiter in the wings of his own imagination, unable to move forward at a pace that suited his temperament.

He put his gaze on his altarpiece, in its brilliance, ready to refurbish his tired mind, a joy to contemplate. He remembered his first glimpse of it. He thought of a wedding in the little church ten years before when his keen eye with nothing more stimulating to observe than some discolored stained-glass, studied the panels set upon the altar, darkened with age, and came to the opinion while waiting for the bride to march down the aisle, that it might possibly have been painted by none other than Giotto de Bondone. He wasn’t at all certain but it gave him something to consider while suffering an impatience he was unable to prevent in the most convivial of occasions.

He hadn’t wanted to attend this wedding, of the daughter of old friends of his parents when they were alive, but his sister, the Countess Gemini, insisted they make an appearance. Osmond could find no real enthusiasm for the prospect but agreed to escort his sister to the largely unknown church on the outskirts of Rome. He barely remembered the family and had become irritated with the long drive over muddy roads and the subsequent delay. It was only the altarpiece that gave him pause: despite its darkened surface, something told him it was more important than its setting would indicate. But if it was a Giotto, why was no mention ever made of it? The collectors and curators were rabid for works from the Renaissance and the period proceeding. Surely someone knew of it? These musings kept Osmond occupied while his sister fluttered and fanned herself, issuing universal banalities he took no interest in, reminding him once again what a tiresome companion she could be.

When the church was flooded, he paid a visit to gauge the damage. When it was flooded a second time and began its descent into a ravine, he knew it was just a matter of time and discretion. Osmond then haggled for months, appealing to patriotic pride, the obligation to salvage Italy’s glorious art history and when he got little response from the church elders, reduced his bargaining to hard cash, something the men could understand. After three months, Osmond placed a cache of bills into the out-stretched hands of the church elders and the altarpiece was carted to the Palazzo Roccanera where a special studio he had set up for its restoration. The price was more than Osmond had ever paid for a work of art but if it proved to be authentic, it would be a paltry sum.

Now restored, Osmond was delighted at how little invasive refurbishment was required considering it resided in perishable surroundings since the early fourteenth century. By some miracle, the panels had not been warped though mildew had set into the bottom left corner, the paint badly flaked. Signore Cellini said it was not dire considering the water damage it could have suffered. He made the repairs, diligently removing centuries of grime, wax and old varnish. He told Osmond to be thankful, many old works on panel required extensive renovation including the repainting of large areas.

The altarpiece, a triptych, with the Madonna and child in the center surrounded by birds and animals, God’s creatures, was a thing of rare beauty and in Osmond’s estimation, could only have been created by the hand of Giotto. He had diligently studied every work by the artist in Italy and his eye had never failed him yet. He could discern the slightest line variation as a handwriting expert could. Osmond had the astute eye of a connoisseur, and with a hunger for all that was desirable, decorative and evocative, he had unearthed works of great value by Italy’s artistic masters by trusting completely his own instincts.

And that is what was on his mind as he contemplated his panels. He had been disappointed that Signore Cellini had not confirmed officially that it was indeed a Giotto. Osmond had transported Signore Cellini from Bologna to work on his altarpiece at great expense. He and his assistant had lived at the Palazzo Roccanera for five months. When the work was completed, he would not give his seal of approval - he hesitated. This made Osmond furious and the two men had violent arguments. This went on for a week and Signore Cellini left unable to bear Mr. Osmond’s temper any longer. Now Osmond sat with his beautiful altarpiece, awash in glorious color, stunning lines and moving sentiment. It could only be by the master, he thought not for the first time, but for possibly the hundredth. He had hoped to have it grace the first floor salon, ready for viewing, exclusive only, for the Christmas season. All he was missing was the authentication that was essential, at least to Osmond.

There was a knock on the cavernous studio door that had been set up for the restoration. The tools had been put away and the room was now barren except for the altarpiece. “Enter,” Osmond feebly said, expecting Higgins with a telegram he was waiting for. Instead he was surprised to see his wife enter the room.
“Hello Gilbert. I thought I’d find you here. Her eyes immediately traveled to the Giotto. “Oh my, your altarpiece is glorious. It will be splendid in the front drawing room. Are you pleased?” She was always ready to praise her husband’s acumen when it came to artworks. The couple disagreed on many topics but Mrs. Osmond knew Osmond had the gift of recognizing artistic greatness my the subtlest means.
“Yes, he mumbled. So it is.” He was pacing before it. “What brings you into alien territory?”
“I want to discuss something with you…it concerns Pansy.”
“Yes, well, I wish to talk to you of Pansy also. I was just coming to find you.”
“Gilbert, Pansy should marry. I’ve had many enjoyable hours talking with her. You know I said I would find out what’s in her heart and if possible, help her act on it. I thought maybe after...well, certain disillusionments, she would not be interested in marriage. But that is not the case. She wishes to marry and very much desires children.”
“Well, if that’s what she wants, she shall have it. A proposal has, in fact, been made. That is what we need to discuss.”

Isabel stiffened. She could not be sure if he was aware of her nephew; it would not be outside the realm of possibility that Harold had written to Osmond with his request. The boy was impetuous and acted quickly when an enthusiasm took hold of him. And it was not entirely out of the question that Pansy herself broached the subject. But she had Pansy’s full confidence and her stepdaughter promised to let Isabel speak to Osmond first. She was put off her guard for a moment but then reassured herself that Osmond had a way of summoning up the exact words that would unsettled her. He was clairvoyant at times.

“Yes, there has been a proposal of sorts,” she said. “I was not aware that you knew about it.”
“Knew about it? How could I not know? A suitor comes through the father, or am I behind the times? Is it now through the stepmother a proposal is made? If that is the case, I must thoroughly object.”
Once again Isabel hesitated, unsure of the ground she was standing upon. “I just thought, since it is my nephew…well, since we were in England…tell me of this proposal that’s been offered, Gilbert, I’m quite in the dark.”
“The Prince Viticonti has requested my daughter’s hand, what is it you are you referring to? What about your nephew? I know nothing of a nephew. What has he to do with Pansy?”
“You have not met my nephew, Harold Ludlow, Lily’s son. You were in Florence when he visited Rome at summer’s end. He is at Oxford studying medicine.”
“And? Go on. Are you telling me a medical student also has set his sights on my daughter? I hope you discouraged him. Good God, where do they keep coming from, these inconsequential Americans?”
Isabel, her old temper flaring once again, said, “He is not insignificant to me or to Pansy. He is a fine, intelligent boy with character and a future.”
“As a doctor? Please, Isabel. Does he wish my daughter to assist with his blood-letting?” Osmond snickered though no real expression of humor could be attributed to him. His face quickly restored itself to a dry grimace, its habitual display for the several days previous.

Isabel was now completely on her guard and knew not where to take the conversation. Her mind flailed, hoping for the right words to fall from her lips. She suspected Osmond was up to something with the Viticontis but had not thought it had gone this far. Pansy would be horrified. She’d only the day before mentioned that she wished her father would entertain the prince without need of her company. She said the prince made her uncomfortable, that for a short time she thought he was pleasant to look at but that she could not see him as anything but a child now. She was hoping her stepmother could relieve her of the duty of conversing with the prince so much, as he seemed to persistently seek her out. It was on hearing this from Pansy, not one for personal conceit, that Isabel had an idea of where her husband was going with the cultivation of the noble family. But what was he to gain?

“A proposal from the prince? Why would a worldly prince be interested in our girl?” Isabel asked.
“Why should he not be? She is charming, she is pure and uncorrupted.”
“And comes with a large dowry? Was that discussed, Gilbert?”
“It was not, per se. Of course, there will be a dowry, you offered it last spring, if you recall. But I don’t believe it was discussed, no…of course, they will assume…”
“Ah yes. They will assume. And does this idea of marriage to Pansy come directly from the prince or is his aunt behind it?”
“You’re cynical. Do you think they haven’t other options?”
“I have no idea what their options are. I just wonder why they would court an inconsequential American, as you put it.”
“Pansy is Italian by birth.”
“Without a drop of royalty.”
“Yes, well, royalty has come down. Nevertheless, he has made his proposal through the proper channels.”
“Tell me you haven’t given him an answer without telling Pansy?”
“No, I have not. That is why I agreed to Pansy’s trip to England. It would give me time to mull it over. I have not yet given an answer but the prince is anxious to speak to Pansy. He would like to make his offer to her on Sunday after Mass. I have given consent to that. Pansy needs to know of the intentions of the prince. It is in her favor. And as you say, she wishes to marry. So you see, Papa comes up with a suitor. It all works out.”
“Gilbert, there is more to Pansy’s wish…”
“Such as? Tell me what have you been hatching with my daughter?”
“I have not been hatching, as you say. Your daughter has found a suitor on her own.”
“Do you mean your nephew, the medical student?”
“Exactly.”
“And I suppose you let this go on behind my back in England, in your cousin’s home, where I let you take my daughter in all confidence she would be protected?”
“Pansy and Harold met here in Rome in our courtyard when he paid a call to me out of courtesy. You were in Florence, as I said, and Harold was in Rome for ten days. He dined here several times and we once met with his student group to visit the Pantheon and a few other sites of interest. Signore Cellini was with us, acting as our guide. He gave the American students quite a valuable lesson in the Renaissance. It was when the Bantlings were here. We formed a large group. We then had a picnic in the Borghese gardens. Pansy and Harold formed a friendship during that week. And it evolved into a more serious attachment in London. My sister and Harold were with us at Gardencourt. That is all I know except that Pansy told me she had made a ‘promise.’ I believe she intends to keep it.”
“And this promise…?”
“To marry when Harold has his medical degree.”
“Without a word to me! Isabel, what do you take me for?”
“I don’t take you for anything. I informed them both they would have to go through you. They understand that. But Harold has two years at Oxford before he returns to America. There is time.”
“Time for your nephew perhaps but the prince is waiting for an answer and I’ll thank you to stay out of it, Isabel. I warn you, do not trifle with me.” His voice lost all pretense of the mild manner he was assiduously aiming for. He was trembling and smoking one cigarette after another. Isabel could see he was not just in a mood, but had a sharp cough that punctuated his remonstrances.
“Gilbert, are you feeling well enough? You look pale. You have a bad cough. Should you see a doctor?”
“I am fine. You continue to add injury to my days. How is it that you have the uncanny knack of upsetting my plans without even knowing of them? Are you to remain by my side as a thorn I continually have to remove at my own peril?”
“You are dramatizing, Gilbert, as you so often accuse me of.”
“You have let my daughter carry on with a medical student after I placed her in your care. I went against my own wishes and permitted you take her to England. And this is the result? When will your interfering end, Isabel? Can we set a date? A date when you will leave well enough alone; a date when you will keep your infernal friends and family from disrupting my life? Is it conceivably possible?”

He was beginning to bark and Isabel shrunk into the corner of the studio once again bewildered and confused. She had no idea where she could go with this altercation that took on an ominous quality, a fearful trajectory that she had forgotten was a part of her marriage. It had been some times since their arguments reached a pitched hysteria and she was frightened anew. “I think we had better postpone this conversation for another day, Gilbert. You aren’t feeling well and I do not know what to say about the prince. I do not know him well, I assume you have learned something of him?”

Osmond was taken up short. He would not admit to a sketchy knowledge. He planned to look further into it once the engagement was set. Then he would have time, with access to more information. He planned for a long engagement, long enough to ascertain the character of the prince. If necessary he would consult his sister though he would prefer not to involve her. Mrs. Halpern may not be enough help but he was still counting on her connections and what maternal instincts she possessed. “Be assured, I will know all I need to know before a wedding takes place,” he said calmly. In the meantime, there is nothing to dissuade me from considering the prince a suitable candidate for my daughter’s hand. He has been nothing but chivalrous. I cannot say the same about your nephew, the first-year medical student.”
“I do not wish to discuss my nephew with you in this mood.”

Isabel, to regain her composure, changed the subject to the altarpiece. She strode briskly to the front of it, taking a measured look at the surface. “I know you’ve been greatly disappointed by Signore Cellini’s verdict, or lack of verdict. I was hoping for your sake a good outcome - that the provenance be confirmed. It is unfortunate but a more renowned scholar could be brought here. I know you have been considering this. I think you should go ahead and hang it in the first floor drawing room and let the public view it. Word will get out and others will want to weigh in. Someone else will recognize its authenticity. I think you should proceed as if it were by Giotto. In time opinion will bear you out, Gilbert. I have no doubts about your facility to judge.”

She changed tactic abruptly, wanting to assuage her husband and he took note. He still had the power to reduce her will to pulp. He had no longer a taste for these games of command but was not adverse to using what marital power he still possessed. His daughter was his one high card and he was not adverse to using her either. He just hoped it would all be worth it in the end. In a much calmer voice he said, “I proceed not as if it were by Giotto, but with the assurance that it is by Giotto, but thank you for your unsolicited advice.”

Isabel left the studio the worse for wear and avoided Pansy for the rest of the day. Pansy would know she was rattled; Isabel wanted to keep the news she’d learned from her. She would be bewildered and shaken to her core to know the prince planned on offering her marriage and her father gave a tentative consent. How would such a timid, obedient girl be able to withstand her father’s aspiration? Isabel could not imagine her little face when the prince spoke his words. She would not be able to articulate a proper response. She would blush and seek a way to escape his attentions. She was not sophisticated nor adept at contrariness. She aimed to please, always. She would crumble when she saw her father’s disapproving gaze. Would her desire to please her father behoove her into accepting the prince?

No, Isabel knew that for Pansy a promise was sacred. She would be there to stand with her stepdaughter Sunday after Mass. For now she would keep quiet - she must. Osmond would not truck any interference beforehand. What she had to discover was what he was to gain by this. Surely there was something. An Italian title did not hold sway as it once might have although Prince Viticonti would be considered a fine match for a girl without a heritage. She would have to bluntly ask her husband what was in it for him - another odious task for the week ahead. He might level with her and again, he may obfuscate. In any case, finding out the nature of the bargain would be her duty, she would not shrink from this no matter how hateful her husband’s response. Oh, poor Pansy!