Osmond Philosophical

Chapter XXV

Gilbert Osmond had shaken the virus that had him bedridden for a fortnight but had not been able to shake the feeling of defeat that had as of late rendered him lethargic and prone to a trepidacious mood. He had not countenanced his daughter’s steadfast resistance to Prince Viticonti’s proposal of marriage. In his wife, he had become accustomed to a formidable willfulness - she was after all, from a country that encouraged women to assert themselves, to demand equal standing in affairs of life previously left in the care of the male of the species. Osmond had not set foot in American after his first year when his parents moved permanently to Europe in search of just that equality it was presumed in abundance in the New World. He looked upon his own wife as the irrefutable product of such a culture. Osmond was now accustomed to the obstinacy of women but he had yet to become complacent at their victory. Now his daughter, the most lovingly benign girl, docile by nature and by virtue, had been corrupted quite complicitly - with that most disagreeable trait - the need to have her own way. She went about it in a subtle fashion but as a father who has reared her alone, he was all too aware of the change.

Osmond had not heard from the prince or his aunt since the day a proposal was made and rejected. Osmond had been woefully unavailable to visitors. He was aware of the presence of his sister, the Countess Gemini; having somehow slid past his restrictions. Her fluttering nervous facade could be felt - Osmond highly sensitive to the reverberations, the aberrations in his own domain.

That his sister was an aberration was in his mind and when Isabel suggested he grant her an audience as soon as he regained his strength. He hadn’t the will to refuse, nor did he have access to the anger necessary. “Bring her on,” he said. “I feel the need to be contrary, she’ll do fine for that purpose.”

He was recovered sufficiently to spend the afternoon in his study where he was awaiting the countess with a formal ennui, a resolute boredom from having been too much alone with his thoughts in the past weeks. His illness had tempered his edge and he was ready to greet his relative with neither bitterness nor animosity. Tolerance would be another test - she was not for him, the most satisfying conversationalist. She dealt in the material, whether fine or coarse, she seemed not to know the difference.

The countess entered the rather warm study of her brother whose appearance, she noted, had little resemblance to the often fierce personage of yore. “Dear brother, I have come on a mission. Your pallor tells me I was right not to hesitate…judging by your doleful eyes. Are you brooding, Gilbert? Or are you really ill?”
“Countess,” mumbled Osmond. He gave a slight bow of his head in deference to her title and would simultaneously allow him to dismiss her. He did not get up to greet her - his welcome was tempered but not without civility. He was not unhappy to see her - he had been indoors, and during that time society melted off him. He never cared one way or the other what any mortal thought, though he listened to the pope. He had become a Catholic when he was nineteen, he entered the church by the backdoor; through his school. He did not necessarily believe but he did belong. Furthermore, he felt the Catholics understood the inner depths of humanity - they went for the heart. Osmond kept his heart to himself but found comfort in knowing he was part of something - that which reigned largest in Italy, the Vatican.

The countess took off an umber wool cape with a flourish and set it on a chair until a maid claimed it for removal to a rack in the entry. She kept her hat on. She was wearing a simple day dress that managed to flounce a degree more than those of other women. Men noticed it; some were repelled, others dove headfirst into an alliance, intent on going as far as necessary.
“Well…after all this time,” she said. “Give me the news, I don’t like to rely on gossip and rumor. Lord knows I get enough of it.”
“Yes, well, maybe it’s the company you keep.”
“Yes. Company. Well one makes due when one’s family can’t be counted on for simple sustenance.”
Osmond ignored this dig. He was immune to admonishment of any kind. “How are things in Florence? I’ve been ill, though I am still breathing - should you wonder.”
“The city of Florence is nearly bankrupt and the government about to be hung out to dry.”
“So what else can be expected in times like this?”
“This time there is a public outcry, fostered by the press. They are naming names, including mistresses. It seems freedom of the press so recently touted by the politicales as progress has come back to bite.”
“The press?”
“Yes, they have taken the American philosophy and want to push democratic reform, whatever that is. We have abolished the king, what more do they want?”
“They want your head, my dear.”
“My head! My head is worth little, I’m afraid.”
“Then perhaps your husband’s.”
“Oh, his is too little, less than mine. The count is an imbecile. Why would anyone trouble themselves over his empty head?”
“Ah, you see, his head may be empty, but his coffers are not. And it for that they take the trouble.”
“You are scaring me.”
“You, in your relation to the count, represent the seedy side of the Old World.”
“Pshh. He represents nothing of importance, not even the seedy.”
“My dear, they do not know that. You do not get it. He represents all that has gone wrong, continues to go wrong, according to certain precepts.”
“What have we done that is so wrong?”
“You enhance yourself at the expense of the masses.”
“I do not understand these things. I don’t want to. It’s odious.”
“Nevertheless, your time may be running out.”
“Gilbert? What do you know? Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes. That’s it. Forget what I said. I know nothing of your class warfare, I disregard reformers. They never really know what they are doing but make a lot of noise, stir up dust and disturb our peace.”
“Vulgar opportunists, the count calls them.”
“That is just how they see your husband, Countess, and his allies. But they can’t win.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Let’s talk about something more interesting, shall we?”
“What would that be?”
“Tell me everything about the marriage proposal from Prince Viticonti. How was it arranged?”
“There is nothing to tell because there will be no wedding.”
“Is it so definite then?”

The countess having ascertained from her sister-in-law that it was, as a subject, closed - took this false line with her brother for a reaction. Was he as calm as he appeared? His wife and his daughter were exasperatingly calm - but Osmond she suspected was carrying a zealously guarded motivation - the likes of which she could not guess. Her mind did not move toward endgames. She took things as they came and did not worry…she was fortunate in some ways but this superficial stance was vapid, she, an empty cage. Her brother was her opposite in every way. He bristled with latent Catholicism and artful intent.

The countess did have a few insights gleaned but she was holding close, unwilling to offend her relative at this juncture.
“My daughter seems to have made her stand - where the logic in it resides, I can’t behold," said Osmond. "Conjoined with my wife as she is, I can expect rebellion from here on in. That is to be my lot for…” He paused, unwilling to go on in this vain for his sister’s benefit.
“…for what brother dear? Thinking you would always maintain the upper hand? Punished are you? Are you so shocked to find your wife not in accord? You were not so nice to her in the past. Did you think it wouldn’t matter to her? She is not like European women. She doesn’t play her hand in the same manner. She shows too much. She is not subtle.”
“You mean devious, don’t you?”
“Ah Osmond, how it rankles you. You need to come to terms with the bargain you wrought.”
“Don’t speak to me of bargains. Why are you here, to burden me, to dig it in?”
“You dramatize, Gilbert. I’m not your enemy. I am here because I spent a good portion of the autumn in Rome and have yet to lay eyes on my closest relative. It doesn’t look good. I made amends with your wife. She has forgiven me. We are to be friends. She bears me no grudge.”
“But I do, sister. I do.”
“My little indiscretion hasn’t hurt you. You are well-fitted. By the way, I saw your altarpiece. Quite a coup. I remember it from the De’Loro wedding we attended many years ago. You think I don’t pay attention but I saw you sizing it up that day. I’m not as thick as you think. Have you any idea what is it worth?”
“It is worth the world. It’s priceless.”
“As you say. Art is not my realm. But it is very beautiful, I understand that much. And very old. You are fortunate, Gilbert. I hope you realize it.”

Osmond had remained seated for this discourse but suddenly felt restless. His sister could put him on edge after a half hour. He bore her residency with agreeable fortitude but did not pretend to any solidarity. She could bore him but then many are guilty of that. She was no worse or better in that regard. He rose from the deep armchair he had been firmly situated in and paced for a bit and settled in front of a tall window, watching the clouds’ rapidly increasing threat of rain. A bleak sparrow pecked about the deserted fountain that had little to offer on any level. It was dry, filled with dead leaves and a stray branch leftover from the old felled oak tree that had been his comfort in all weather. Gone.

Osmond was subject to a brooding. He thought there was not much to recommend for the last two months of the year. He always looked forward to starting a new year but suffered through holiday festivities, begged off but then hosted a rather large Christmas dinner and spent money on his table. He would have to shop for gifts soon but even that left him desolate. The gift he wanted, The Madonna of Albinea could be lost to him now. He mourned her. He did not have the will to seek out the company of the Marchesa. It would wait now, something for the future. With the nobility, you couldn’t wave around cash as he could with church aldermen for his Giotto, pride, the pride before the fall, could not be swept away completely; the nobles would soon learn their lesson of Democratic reform. The Marchesa would never forgive the slight to her nephew. The Italians held a grudge, indefinitely.

“How do you find Rome, Countess? Has it lived up to your expectations? My wife has been much in society lately.”
“But not yourself?”
“I’ve been ill. And taken up with the Viticontis before that.”
“Ah yes, the Viticontis. How is it that a proud noble family found it in their hearts to notice our little Pansy?”
“It doesn’t matter, I tell you. I have no desire to talk about it. How long are you in Rome?”
“I’m due back in Florence in a fortnight. I’d rather not talk of that.”
“Is there anything we might want to talk of? I’m bored enough. Give me some gossip. Tell me all of it. Everything you know or think you know.”

“I saw your old friend this week. The grand Serena Merle has elevated her position by marrying a sizable fortune. It happened for her after all. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her. She has done up quite an elaborate setting for herself on the Via Venetti I’m told. America is truly the land of either miracles or opportunity.”
“Have you met the husband?”
“Her husband? As a matter of fact, I have.”
“And what do you make of him?”
“Not at all what I was expecting. Not nearly as dull as many Americans you meet.”
“Is he a man of some culture then?”
“Not overtly on display.”
“What makes you say he is not dull then?”
“He may be dull but not without a particle of charm. Not as old as I expected. Not as staid.”
“Surely not younger than Serena?”
“About the same age. But somehow he seems younger. He has a childlike quality. And he keeps himself well. Not at all jaded like…”
“Us, do you mean?”
“You said it, I won’t.”
“And this childlike husband, does he seem to get on with his wife, who is decidedly unchildlike?”
“You mean, does she get on with him?”
“The same conclusion, then?”
“They seem simpatico. He caters to her. She appreciates the sentiment.”
“You mean she tolerates his ardor?”
“More than tolerates, she ministers to his affection with a great deal of finesse. She plays her part beautifully.”
“We could expect nothing less.”
“She is not stupid. She knows what bounty arrived at her feet and does not take it lightly. She works for her elevation.”
“Well, I’m happy she has found employment.”
“Should you like to see her? I can arrange it.”
“My dear sister, if I wished to see my old friend, I have only to do so on my own volition.”
“Then you don’t wish to?”
“How do you know I haven’t?
“Exactly. One never knows with you and your former accomplice, now does one?” The countess made ready to leave, bustling about, checking her hair in the mirror while fitting her gloves on her ten fingers. Osmond marveled at the strange brew his sister had become. When they were children, she was the innocent one. Always looking to do good for others. To be her best. The big sister who taught him manners and penmanship. How had she acquired a reputation? He thought of her as a teenager. She was lovely, vivacious. A catch. Her husband wore her down. Her march toward the nervous subliminal aristocracy in a county thoroughly corrupted has forced her hand. She changed tactics, or developed them - for this she had to alter her definition of Acceptable. She was slowly downgraded but was only half aware of her fall. Ah, for lost innocence, Osmond said to himself.

He walked her to the door and put an arm on her hers, affectionately.
“I’m happy to see you again. I’ve missed you, Gilbert. I am your sister. We may not be alike but we are siblings. It’s not good to be estranged. It doesn’t look good. And it has no purpose.”
“You said that already. What do I care for looks? And what purpose are we hoping to fulfill?”
“You used to very much care, enough to make out some sort of purpose. Our purpose was in our survival and then our satisfaction.”
“I’m past that.”
“Yes, money does help with the passage of time.”
“You are very cynical, sister.”
“Not as much so as you think…Gilbert, about this marriage proposal: Was it about anything more than an innocent arrangement? Did Pansy show encouragement, what does she say? Was there a hope? I was told you and the Marchesa were conjoined quite yourselves, to use your term. What was in it for us?”
“For us? Nothing for us, as you said, a suitable match for Pansy.”
“I came right out and asked your wife. She, as usual was taken aback. Obtuse. But then later I thought she might be in the dark. What was the gain? Surely you wanted something more than a watered-down noble for Pansy. They have no money, you know. It’s all out in the open. So their gain is on view. And there are a few innuendos going around that wouldn’t sit well with Isabel. She would not want to hand over a large dowry in the circumstances - if she knew all. She’s getting easier, but she is still pragmatic and as you say, democratic. But of course, she would in the end if it was what Pansy wanted. You’ve still got that anyway. There is a soft side to her that we have all witnessed. I repeat, you were not so nice to her. Your wife is generous to you, you are free. But I didn’t I want to get into all that today. I came here to talk of Pansy. A few years ago your prince would have been a catch, but not today. We are in reform mode, you know. The count says we are being robbed.”
“Yes. I suppose it was not a match to get excited about. Perhaps my daughter has more to her than I suspect.”
“She’s become lovely. And so poised. I would not be surprised if she made a good match yet.”
“No, I think she will stay at home with her papa. There won’t be another offer.”

The countess leaving the grand entrance of the Palazzo Roccanera was traveling with a light spirit. She was welcomed back. It was a good visit. She didn’t learn much, but then, her brother was always tightly wrought. She had to work to get anything out of him, using a subtle manipulation, thought out beforehand. She had it in her to improvise but found her brother’s weak deportment and listless eyes touching. She had taken care of him as a child. Their parents were flakes but sister and brother had each other. Well, she would find out what she could. Obviously Pansy and Isabel had plans that Osmond was not yet apprised of. His daughter would in all likelihood, not be staying at home with Papa much longer.

But what are they always waiting for? she mused. Their ability to sit still, to wait and see, their little maneuvers to get what they each wanted…they gain no momentum. They are always stuck. The Countess Gemini liked each day to have a plan and work on its progress, even those that could be qualified as trivial. She did not like the studious closed atmosphere at the Palazzo Roccanera, she found she really liked staying in a nice hotel and had already decided to move into one right after the new year. Preferably in Rome but if Florence, she would make the best of it.

Osmond’s mind was in a stimulated frame, although he did not gain much from his sister’s visit. She knew a few odd facts and rumors of Roman society. Of course he knew Serena Merle was in Rome. He had seen her, thrice. Each time he wished for more of her. He knew she could help him devise what would be a prudent strategy - he still wanted very much to purchase the missing Correggio, The Madonna of Albinea. And he had formulated a plan. He was to consult an American dealer who would be a front for Osmond and contrive a way into the Machesa’s parlor. He would play the role of a crass American fulfilling all their prejudices - he would put cash on the table, or somewhere central in the room. He would offer to take a mere three or four things from their very large collection, reason with them that they had plenty more; they would never lack for pictures, tapestries or statues. The artworks would stay in Italy, he would assure them. One day they could buy them back when things settled…

The faux dealer would offer assurances that what they were doing was within proprietary boundaries. He would, after the initial aggressive show of gold, talk to them like children who had to be convinced to eat their vegetables. He would remind them that the world was changing, and as unpleasant as it is, some of it they would have to accept. Osmond was scheming, he had no choice. It was only a game. There is no moral to it - Osmond wanted a painting - he wanted to preserve it, show it to the world, give it its glory. He was the hero of the Madonna of Albinea. He dreamed of her at night. She was in his higher conscious and he could not do anything but take possession of her, protect her from further debasement.

From a rotting pile of decrepit moldings and complete lack of comfort or protection from weather conditions, windows that were cracked without replacement. Thieves would eventually get in. From the roof to the foundation, it could easily flood. It could catch fire from faulty chimney maintenance. An unscrupulous dealer could lay eyes on her and she would be carted away for a song to God only knew where. This would not do. He would not rest easily until the Madonna was hanging on his most pivotal wall. This was his goal and his gift to Italian heritage. It took no trouble to justify his avarice in a more congenial frame; we can always justify most desires if we are with an imagination. If we have a point, we are in particularly good stead. Osmond was of the assured mind - that he had the right intentions.