Pansy’s Growing Impatience

Chapter XX

Pansy Osmond, after warmly and sincerely greeting her father on her return from England, spent the weeks after subjected to an agitation she heretofore had not felt before her trip to England. She was not without feelings previously nor was she without annoyances. She had felt all that and more being sent back to the convent after her father forbid her engagement to Mr. Rosier. But looking back on that lackluster period - two weeks and three days - the feelings experienced were those of a different person. She scarcely remembered that forlorn girl. She did not express it but she was angry at her Papa and conversely, grateful when he sent for her - requested she be returned to the Palazzo Roccanera. So grateful was her heart she vowed to never give her father reason to be dissatisfied with her presence or her preferences. She kept a low profile except when he requested her company and at those times, she did all she might to please him. She practiced the piano with diligence, several hours a day, if he might like to have her play for him. She drew tepid landscapes from her bedroom window and in the courtyard with the fountain, never so charming since the gnarled oak tree was taken down by forceful gales. She made sure to put the tree in her compositions - she knew her father had been upset over the loss of the shade that had made the courtyard so pleasant in the summer months. Pansy tried in all ways to please her father; she had learned what happens if he were not so. She was a simple girl who did not, indeed could not, hold onto a grudge. She had not been raised to find dissatisfaction, demand her own way or look to others for cause of any discomfort she might feel.

When her stepmother returned to Rome and their home, Pansy could breathe once again. She did not know she had not been breathing but her relief at her stepmother’s appearance was palpable. Her stepmother put all her attention on Pansy and for that she was more than grateful. The two women became friends as they’d never been and with this friendship came a renewal of spirit for both of them. Pansy’s father was increasingly in the background, busy with is art collection. At one time all Pansy wanted was time spent in his company, she now relied less on his reassurance as her stepmother took her in hand and helped navigate her days that became increasingly troublesome to the young woman as she had no occupations whatsoever or at least any that fulfilled. She could practice the piano for hours on end but it would never mean anything to her. She just did not care about it, nor did she wish to emulate Madame Merle and play for guests. She shriveled at the prospect and in time, her father let it go, at least publicly.

What she did find to occupy herself when her stepmother was not available was in the kitchen where she enjoyed the art of baking, taught to her by their English cook, Mrs. Trotter, who had a magical way with the simple use of flour, eggs, butter and salt. With the addition of fruit or nuts, readily available, innumerable recipes could be concocted and Pansy never grew tired of watching Mrs. Trotter create confabulations with a few ingredients and practiced skill. She sat wistfully in the corner watching for many weeks before she was invited to assist on a day when Mary Prine, the scullery maid, was sick and more importantly her father was away. From that day, Pansy would not be put off and used any excuse to spend her afternoons beside Mrs. Trotter and as time went on, she became quite adept at rolling out pastry dough, conceiving of unusual combinations and ways to use the fruit, vegetables and herbs grown in the patch of garden outside the kitchen door or in the small greenhouse off the pantry.

“She’s a right little baker, that one,” said Mrs. Trotter to Mr. Higgins. “Not that she will ever have need for it. As it is, her Pa ain’t too thrilled findin’ her over the stove top. Poor girl needs a husband is what I say. Needs her own house to tend to. What are Mr. and Mrs. Osmond thinking of? She’ll soon be too old though she’s young for twenty. Gracious me own daughter was married with three babes at twenty.”
“Her parents are cautious,” said Higgins. She’s been sheltered and her father wants a good marriage for her. Not willing to settle his girl for less than her due.”
“If he’s not careful, she’ll end up by herself and that would be a shame. Such a fine healthy lass, so gentle. Why, when the baby was with us, God bless his soul, she was the perfect little mother, she was. No, it’s time to settle that one.”
“I believe Mr. Osmond is working to that end.”
“Someone’s got to do something for her. I always thought her aunt, the countess, would be the one to jigger up a suitable match but she’s been sidelined, I reckon. Ain’t seen her likes about for a good many months. Quiet around her without ‘er. Wonder what ‘appened there?”

Higgins was privy to more information than he was willing to impart, he did not traffic in gossip or at least not much. What he did know for a fact was without credibility. But what he suspected was that Osmond had his sights on a prince. That much was apparent. What wasn’t apparent was how the young miss would take to the prince. From what Higgins could ascertain, she had no special attraction for the boy, handsome and rigged-out as he was. The young miss showed no special regard to his presence nor did she seek out his attention with her conversation or the more subtle powers of her sex. The prince was not likely to note she, with her own hands, produced the plum tart he seemed to enjoy. Where Mr. Osmond had his eye, kitchen matters had no place; he was more likely to forbid the kitchen play. Higgins had heard him make remarks to that end - he heard Mrs. Osmond tell him it was a harmless occupation and gave the girl something to do. Mrs. Trotter was right; everyone sensed it was past due to find the young lady a proper husband. No one seemed to guess that the young lady had found the proper husband on her own. No one thought she could accomplish anything on her own. She was just seen as a lovely maiden, waiting for her prince to rescue her.

It is true, the maiden was waiting; but it was not for a prince. Isabel noted how expectant her stepdaughter was and she understood perfectly the reason. She had developed a deep affection for her nephew, Harold. Though Pansy tried to deflect from her absorption, Isabel had seen and registered the adoration between the couple. Harold had told her as much: he was not at all reticent on the subject and informed Isabel that he would marry her stepdaughter as soon as he had his medical degree. “You will have to speak to her father and that will be no simple matter,” she said. Harold, being an American and much like his aunt, did not doubt he would win the hand he sought. Isabel explained to her nephew this was not a certainty but said nothing more to diminish his dream. She would have to broach the subject with Osmond herself, planned to do this as soon as an opportunity arose and if possible take Pansy to Gardencourt in the spring.

Isabel had not expected this to be as contentious as the experience with Mr. Rosier until she returned to Rome and realized her husband had been making plans for his daughter that did not include a medical student at Oxford. In his wife’s absence, had been with the Prince Viticonti and his family regularly. She had no firm information to go on; nothing was said but that there was an interest was a certainty - Osmond did not give his time for nothing. Isabel was sure the Marchesa Viticonti did not suffer Americans of no rank if there was not something to gain. She sighed and wondered again if having money was to bring her nothing but trickery and skepticism. She would not want to be without it but...as her Aunt Lydia once said, money has its own price.

If Isabel had looked closely, she might have figured out the game but once again, she let the details reside in the dark corners, hesitating to look into those corners lest she come across things that did not sit well with her. Mrs. Osmond had changed in a good many respects since her marriage but in one respect she had not: she retained the desire not to probe or look into the motives of others. She was, again, sure of her own motives, willing to keep an open heart. Again, she put her trust in her husband, thinking the truce had set her free to make her plans, that included Pansy’s future. Italy and its customs still eluded her. She did not quite accept that her American values, her way of looking at a thing did not necessarily translate into Italian. If her sister-in-law were at hand, Isabel would be less likely to trust outright; that lady would have more than a few conjectures and speculations on her brother's aims and ambitions. Isabel was guilty once again of an obstinate faith.

Pansy, having learned the most exquisite manners from birth, while keeping her mind firmly fixed on Harold Ludlow, was seen as acquiescence itself though it was in fact, a dodge, the little lady’s first attempt at maneuvering. She had scant interest in the prince or his talk of horses, wine and the fashions of the day. Pansy had scarce exposure to anything of the sort and found it difficult to place any curiosity in his talk. That is where her manners stood her in good stead: she poured the tea with gracious form, served small cakes and savories that pleased the old Marchesa who had no idea the daughter of the house had baked them herself. This Osmond failed to mention, not particularly delighted to have his daughter working in the kitchen with the servants. Her stepmother did not dissuade her in this pursuit and Osmond gave way hoping it would be a passing fancy. “Why would one be in the kitchen when there was a staff of servants to do all the necessary work?” he asked his wife.

When Pansy one day admitted that the small walnut biscuits the Marchesa was enjoying had been produced by her own hand, the Marchesa looked at her and thought she must have heard wrong and did not mention them again. Osmond laughed and said, “Yes, my daughter has taken up a fascination with culinary labors but of course, our wonderful English cook makes our delicacies.” Pansy felt a momentary slight, such as an artist who has had his work diminished by the master as no more than a diminutive effort would feel. The prince ate his little cake and gave no thought to anything regarding its production; the prince rarely thought of household matters at all and vaguely wondered why the talk had turned to the kitchen. Wine of course, he could discuss and thoughtfully swallowed his glass of Madeira wondering what origin produced such an engaging vintage and where he could get more for his own table.

By contrast, when Harold Ludlow spooned into an apricot pudding Pansy had made at Gardencourt he could hardly contain his pleasure. “She cooks, Ma,” he shouted to Mrs. Ludlow. “By gosh I’ve found one swell girl here. Do you think she’ll marry me?” He chortled, Mrs. Ludlow chuckled, Isabel brushed his exuberance off lightly, feeling momentarily fearful while Pansy glistened. This is what Pansy was thinking of while the prince continued on about a wine he’d had at the home of a duke in France, a varietal he hoped to plant himself.

Pansy was growing impatient with the prince and his visits and hoped her stepmother would be able to glean her attitude and find a way to let her off - to realize that she was not quite able to entertain the old nobility the way her stepmother could. She did not mention her father’s inducement to pay attention to the prince; she would be embarrassed at such a state of affairs for herself and was not exactly sure what her father had in mind. He mostly talked of art and when they visited the castle of the Marchesa, he spent the time admiring the paintings, frescoes and tapestries on the walls while Pansy was left to sit with the prince. Having used up what little conversation she had, she resorted to bowing her head in a show of bashfulness, a show of ignorance of the topics discussed but was instead thinking of a medical student in England for whom she never tired of listening to or availing herself of his conversation. When he talked of setting limbs, routing out infection, making plaster adhesives or lancing a boil, she never strayed from the most ardent attention. She found these topics fascinating, more so than the art of the Renaissance or the breed of a horse if she were asked, though she was never asked.

Pansy longed to be needed. She questioned as she often had, how a woman could be useful. When Harold talked of volunteering in a children’s hospital, of helping to deliver babies, Pansy was rapturous. Harold took her to a hospital when they were in London. Never had she been more enthralled, never had she felt more at home. She wanted desperately to volunteer but of course, she would be leaving London soon. How she wished she could solicit her stepmother to help her become a nurses aid. That was something she could do while waiting. But she sensed her stepmother had her own agenda and she had to wait and watch, and wait…Pansy thought she might be waiting forever, drinking tea with people whose laughter made her uncomfortable, whose idea of fun was not within her realm and whose company made her restless with boredom. If only her aunt would come and stay - she would help her with the correct form she was to take but what she mostly wanted was for time to pass quickly.

Seated in her room after the guests had left, she quietly and meticulously transcribed recipes from a French cookbook to try her hand on the cook’s next baking day. She wrote another letter to her beloved telling him what little news she had, thankful that he was out there in the world, waiting like she was, for time to pass, the future to begin.

Isabel, watching the proceedings of the day with their noble guests and her husband, decided she would speak to Osmond the next day. Things with Prince Viticonti should go no further, in her view. She would have to find out what her husband was planning and to intervene if necessary and that was no task she looked forward to. Keeping out of Osmond's business was her modus operandi. But keeping out of Pansy's business was not possible. She had a goal in regards her stepdaughter as well as a promise made. Tomorrow I will have to buck up, as they say,and forge onward, she said to herself as she drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow it will have to be.

Isabel And Pansy Optimistic

Chapter IXX

Isabel Osmond walking up St. Regents Street at a brisk pace with a mere three days left in England was wondering if she were doing the right thing. She was planning to enter a gallery and make a purchase of three paintings by artists calling themselves Impressionists. She had been in the gallery on four separate visits analyzing the works but more so probing her own insight and sensibilities. When one’s husband was an important collector of Old Masters, it would not enhance Isabel’s self-confidence to be proved a neophyte who made expensive mistakes.

Impressionism was a new fashion in painting and the opinions varied on its validity and lasting value. Some thought it pure insanity; an outrageous joke, in fact many did, but Americans were purchasing these paintings, so much so the prices were rising and Isabel felt if she didn’t act now, they would soon be beyond her ability to refurbish the gallery at Gardencourt. Her cousin’s art collection had been moved to Lockleigh and Lord Warburton's gallery. Isabel wanted very much to reassemble the rectangular room that had once been the joy of that house. Her cousin’s collection had made a deep impression on her when she first arrived in Europe and she did not like to see the space emptied; it struck her as a missing tooth in a beautiful woman. There were still ghostly squares and rectangles where the paintings had once been in place.

How sad the room now looked, she thought. It was Isabel’s idea to bring it back to its original splendor with a collection of Impressionist paintings. She had thought long into many nights about this idea. It had been a month since she and the Bantlings visited the London gallery and she had been back twice on her own and once with Miss Mary Cassatt, the only American artist of the group calling themselves Impressionists unless you want to call Mr. Whistler American, which he certainly was, but had made London his artistic home for many years. He was also ambivalent about calling himself an Impressionist, a true iconoclast was this artist that joining any group did not quite suit his natural instincts.

Isabel had been introduced to Mary Cassatt and her mother by Henrietta and Miss Cassatt was giving Isabel lessons in what the movement was about, who were its favored practitioners and why. Miss Cassatt journeyed to Gardencourt and Isabel was able to impress the artist with her zeal to fill the empty gallery and since the artist’s paintings in the London gallery had all been sold, she donated a pastel drawing to Isabel’s effort, a gift she wanted to bestow on the spirited lady who made her home in Italy but had a charming Tudor house in the English countryside. It was not altogether a gift - the artist knew it would be the beginning - that Mrs. Osmond would become a collector. The American artist was helping the affluent American lady who appeared to Miss Cassatt to be a little lost, while helping her fellow artists, a winning situation all around.

“I had expected Mr. Whistler to join our little party this weekend but he had to cancel. I was disappointed but he promises to be in Rome in a month.”
“Yes, we are to exhibit in Rome. It will not be the expansive exhibit that is on display here in London, but it will be quite a good showing nevertheless. Monsieur Degas is participating and also expects to be in Italy. I hope you will get a chance to meet him.”
“Is he a good friend of yours?”
“Well yes, as much as one can call oneself a friend of such an intricate personality.”
“Is he like Mr. Whistler; all chimera and reverberation?”
Miss Cassatt laughed, the first full laugh Isabel had the pleasure to note in the lady artist. “My dear, he is not nearly so buoyant, he is subdued, the opposite of Mr. Whistler. He is I think, the best of the Impressionists. He has a classical training. Indeed, he is often annoyed with the term which he feels has nothing to do with his own style but he has thrown in his lot with us - begrudgingly perhaps.”
“I admired his painting of the horses - I’m afraid I can’t recall the title.”
“Yes, he has a lovely feel for horses and the figure.”
“Will you be in Italy also, Miss Cassatt?”
“No. I’m afraid I am setting off for the States next week. I expect to spend the winter there and return to France in the spring.”
“I’m sorry you are leaving so soon. I will look forward to our next meeting whenever that may be.” Miss Cassatt was taking leave and Isabel wanted to say something that would cement their friendship - she wanted American friends but more than that, she wanted other women to consult, to feel at ease with.
“Trust your instincts, my dear,” said Miss Cassatt as she entered her carriage. “You have them. You will put together a fine collection and I look forward to seeing this lovely room when next I am in London. You are not making a mistake in collecting the Impressionists; it is most definitely not a fad. It is the future.”

That evening, Isabel sat alone in the small parlor where she entertained afternoon guests, examining the drawing, letting the mood and the dappled light sink into her core. It was of a mother and child that at first Isabel couldn’t quite look at so poignantly did it strike her. Having lost her own child at six months, she had not really consigned her grief to history yet; she thought she had, she was long out of mourning but was she really? When Miss Cassatt presented the pastel, Isabel drew back for a moment so sharp did the imagery jab her heart. Miss Cassatt had no way of knowing of her loss and Isabel chastised herself for her childish reaction that did not go unnoticed by the artist who was too polite to ask Mrs. Osmond if she did not care for the drawing. Isabel noted that she had affected Miss Cassatt and neither woman said anything for a moment, both at a loss as to the meaning of this gift offered in all sincerity.
“My dear Miss Cassatt, I am quite beside myself, it is the finest thing anyone has ever given me. I do not mean to give any other impression. It is splendid. I cannot begin to thank you. It fills my heart.”
“You are most welcome, my dear. Consider it the beginning of your collection.”
Isabel regained her composure and with many more thanks to the artist, saw her and her maid into a carriage for the train station.

Isabel was hard on herself afterward. After all, Rome was full of Madonnas with child, this motif could be seen everywhere including the Palazzo Roccanera where her husband’s growing collection contained more than a few of this solid Catholic motif. But they were not real to Isabel. Most of them she looked on as iconic, lacking realistic interpretation with the exception of Raphael. Most were wooden and did not speak of reality to Isabel.

But this simple drawing spoke of life, of movement, the mother’s caress brought back vividly Isabel’s own arms holding her boy, playing with him. She wept that night for her lost boy. She really hadn’t much before; not from callousness nor unfeeling, but a cold disdain for her husband ruled her emotional state after the death of their son. Osmond managed to take precedence even then. She felt ashamed. She would not in all likelihood experience motherhood again. She gave way to her emotions for the remainder of the night. Miss Cassatt’s picture of a mother and her child had awoken in Isabel a stream of grief she hardly knew she was carrying within. She let it roll over her, it had been long in coming and she welcomed its presence. She thought she might like to cry until the end of time but she also knew she would not. Her volatility, her excess of temperament were attributes of the past. Charged sensations she learned, were not at all helpful if you wanted to view the world with clarity and Isabel most certainly did want clarity. She sought it desperately at times. She longed to have someone tell her how to live her life; the results of clouded vision. She thought at one time she might die of it.

But she had not. The next morning, dry-eyed, she was able to lose herself in the drawing’s attributes in and of themselves - she thoroughly grasped the power in the Impressionist style. She would champion the cause of these artists who could make her feel more deeply than all of Italy’s treasures. Isabel took an early train to London the next day, entered the gallery and purchased a Renoir still life, a Pissarro landscape and a Monet cityscape and asked to have a Degas drawing put on hold until she talked to her banker. She coveted a Manet flower painting that had been sold. She was told that Manet was ill and therefore his works in the Impressionist style would be rare and very valuable. “Please inform me when you acquire other works by Monsieur Manet,” she said. “Consider me a good customer, I am refurbishing a gallery in my home. I shall look to you for assistance.”

With that, she made her way into the beckoning sun that had just made an appearance after a week without its warming presence. The gallery owner could only smile the smile of one who had just sold a number of paintings before the clock had struck noon. He considered closing up for a leisurely lunch but had an appointment with an English artist whose work he didn’t care for but was the nephew of an important collector. Instead, he stood in the window and watched the American lady let the hansom go as she walked, quite alone and independent, down St. Regent Street, not at all in a hurry to be anywhere.

When word got out that a new adherent joined the ranks of collectors of Impressionist works, she found a new coterie of friends starting with Mr. Whistler whose invitation to dine she had readily accepted. The following day she went to Mr. Whistler’s studio and purchased a small oil of the Thames at dusk. Ralph she knew, would approve. It was a subject he always came back to in his own collecting.

And so Ralph’s gallery would be brought back to life. Seven weeks in England had wrought much. She and Miss Cassatt were friends, Mr. Whistler would visit Rome when the Impressionists were having an exhibition at the Roberto Durelli Gallery and both he and Mrs. Osmond were expressive in their enthusiasm for this visit, the opening of the first Impressionist exhibit in Rome. Mrs. Osmond would be a patron and friend.

With the start of her collection in place, Isabel too was ready to leave for Rome. Pansy was prepared to leave now that Harold Ludlow was back at Oxford. She had seen and instantly loved Gardencourt and quite a bit of the city of London. She had a fresh complexion and a new energy that had been lacking but was now fully apparent in the shy convent-raised girl. She no longer looked like a girl nor spoke like one. She had several new dresses that were not those of a girl but they could not be described as gowns for one who was planning seduction. She knew where she was going and it was not into the world of fashion or frivolity. They were beautifully practical. Gardencourt had transformed her into a quite different specimen altogether. Isabel did not know what Osmond would make of her, she hoped he would be pleased with his daughter, that she would be marrying soon. Isabel had no doubt that Pansy would marry her nephew. Osmond would have to consider the possibility that his daughter would live in America. But that was some years off yet. Until then, they would wait, as the young woman so adroitly put it.

They did not know how Osmond was losing patience waiting for their return. They were innocently unaware what forces were being put in place. The two women, arm in arm, boarded the train in the happiest frame of mind, certain that life could only offer more of the same.

Madame Merle’s Visit

Chapter XVIII

Gilbert Osmond was not particularly keen on the fact that his wife and daughter remained in England for six weeks but there was a certain lifting of the atmosphere without her presence at the Palazzo Roccanera, her company that Osmond stoically tolerated, with no subtleties regarding his attitude to her ideas, her activities or her state of mind but no outright antagonisms. For the most part he ignored her, it was that simple, other than what was expected for sociable intercourse.

His wife, he thought, detested him, but this he did not take seriously. He was used to her petulance and gave as good as he got. He did not hate her though she often said he did. That she had a penchant for martyrdom, was another opinion he’d formed about his wife, not without a certain scorn. He wished she would grow out of it. He did not hate her but she was a yoke around his neck with her weary round of duties, none of which she seemed to enjoy. Osmond believed in enjoyment even if there was little to be found in society these days. He could enjoy quite well on his own and wondered why his wife did not cultivate interests that would give pleasure. She was rich; what was the point of being unhappily engaged? Osmond thought it was not for him to entertain his wife. He failed to interest her in any way even though he made an effort when she returned home after their rupture. Now he let her be. She spent a great deal of time with Pansy - made Pansy happy and for that he was appreciative. He did not always approve of the places they went, but he had to admit his daughter needed to be treated in a manner that differed from a child or even a jeune fille. He also knew she needed to be married soon. She was almost twenty-one though young for her age. Osmond had this on his mind in her absence; he waited patiently, too patiently, he thought, for the return of his wife and daughter. He did not at all appreciate that they were away longer than he was given assurances of. His wife would answer to it, but he needed her good humor in the coming months and would not intentionally make waves. Isabel could fold up; become inaccessible to him. He had to keep her in a certain line, using a determined line.

Osmond was seeing much of Prince Viticonti since his request for Pansy’s hand. He could see his plan gliding smoothly to an eventual finish; to court the old Marchesa Viticonti who without knowing it, possessed a lost Correggio that she, as far as Osmond could ascertain, was unaware of. The prince could not be expected to know of its province and seemed indifferent to the artworks on the walls of the family castle. Osmond could not figure out what the prince did have an interest in besides horses or the most ornate, though tasteless snuffboxes. The prince did not seem interested in the history or the art of his country which Osmond thought somewhat appalling but typical. Though he seemed knowledgeable on Italy’s wine production and varietals and enjoyed a Vivaldi String Quartet when it was presented at the Palazzo Roccanera, he had both a wandering attention span and eye. Osmond had not as of yet found anything to reproach the prince for other than a lack of intellectual weight, not uncommon with the nobility or any milieu for that matter, having long ago taken the measure of his fellowman and found it wanting in almost all respects. He was glad he enjoyed his own company - there wasn’t much to most people encountered and he had long ago quit expecting any enlightenment from them. Occasionally he met a specimen such as the American Caspar Goodwood who amused him with his stiff back and utter lack of curiosity that nevertheless earned him a great fortune, but the man’s interest in Isabel put Osmond on his guard after noting the hangdog look her presence produced on Goodwood. Another of her conquests, he mused. Osmond couldn’t imagine that the American thought someone as imaginative as his wife would ever have given this genus a second thought but he suspected there had been something between them once. It was no matter now, the man had been killed in a fire in his cotton mill earlier in the year. Isabel received a telegram from Mrs. Bantling and relayed the news to Osmond with little emotional effect but who knew what was in the heart of Mrs. Osmond? Certainly not her husband who had given up that pursuit of knowledge.
“I trust you are not going to rush to Boston to grieve over him, are you?” he had said to her.
“No Gilbert. I have no aptitude for grieving these days. You’ve turned me as cold as yourself.”

Isabel somehow could not unbend but instead met his sarcasm with a gritty determined need to rebut forcefully when a light rejoinder would have served. It wasn’t true about her aptitude for coldness but her reply, given before temporizing, resonated with churlishness in the dull air between them. Whenever her husband made a remark that carried a lethal sarcasm she could still rise to the attack but otherwise she kept her own council and they did not, as a rule, trade barbs. It could be said that Mrs. Osmond was the one to lack a sense of humor as she once accused her husband of. If she had been told this, she would feel it was another way in which her marriage had changed her, and not for the better. Then she would vow to remedy this aspect of herself wanting no attribute of her husband to rub off on herself.

Osmond knew that his particular brand of sarcasm scratched his wife’s surface and in all fairness, he used in sparingly. In truth, he hoped to cajole her out of her perennial cheerless deportment that was a holdover from the first years of their marriage and subsequent adjustments. He had quite gotten over his own disappointment in their merger. He thought his wife clever when he met her but her charms had long vanished in his appraisal and her cleverness was overshadowed by her stubborn need to prevail, coupled with a streak of American rigidity that did not sit well in Italy nor anywhere on the Continent. He understood why she spent so much time with the Bantlings - simpletons without nuance, he said after the first dinner with them though when he noticed his wife’s immediate ire, relaxed his stance with a humorous take on both. I’m mellowing, he said to himself after she went to bed. He’s thoroughly odious, she thought to herself as she entered her rooms. And so the divide remained and the couple lived in a palazzo with plenty of space to separate them, the husband indifferent, the wife with a rigidity that her friends noted but Roman society took as only natural for someone with a fortune.

Osmond, it could be said looked forward to his wife’s return. He did not care to have Pansy away much longer while the prince so obviously vied for her company. A prince could forget the charms of his daughter if her absence was prolonged. She was a remarkable, untainted girl, he knew it best but what the prince actually thought was another matter though he spoke the correct words, expressed the proper form with regard to Pansy. As long as the prince felt he had a chance with his daughter, Osmond would be the recipient of frequent invitations from the old Marchesa and the continued observation of the lost Madonna of Albinea he hoped to make his own. He was maneuvering his way slowly to a possible opening for the negotiations to begin. His daughter’s presence was a necessity. The prince placed his eye on Pansy in the same way he himself had his on the lost Madonna and what Osmond knew to be absolute was that Pansy was the more valuable of the two - Isabel would settle a generous sum on her stepdaughter when she married and this, Osmond by subterranean method, had let be known. He could not fail to note and take pleasure in the effect this information had on the prince and his aunt.

During his daughter’s absence, he spent his time making inquiries into the character and prospects of the prince. Yes, he held a title, but the nobility did not have the cachet since the overthrow. He had asked Madame Merle, the new Mrs. Halpern, for help with his investigation but had not heard further from the lady. His impatience spread to include his former mistress; he was not used to being put off by her, he believed she would not let him down but he had not, as of yet, come to realize that his old friend was not the same friend he could once count on.

He sent a message to her hotel but had received no reply. This exasperated him and he was on the point of going to her in person when Higgins announced the lady’s presence in his own drawing room. She was shown into Osmond’s study immediately and there found a man agitated, wound up, smoking American cigarettes, pacing the length of the room. He was pale and slightly unkempt. This was the first thing Mrs. Halpern noticed. Osmond had always been scrupulously groomed, a point of honor in a mind that shunned the unclean, the slovenly, as a disease of contagion.

“Well, you have remembered the Palazzo Roccanera at last,” Osmond summarily greeted the grand lady.
“I told you I would be occupied. I am not at your service as I may have once been. I did not make promises.”
“You do not care about your daughter’s welfare then?”
“You keep referring to Pansy as my daughter but it was not so long ago that I was forbidden to regard her as such. You must be consistent if you wish my help.”
“Do not be obtuse, Serena. What have you learned?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. But you are right to question. The family is not destitute but they will not be able to keep up appearances forever. There have been family meetings to discuss how to proceed. They do own a vast tract of land in Tuscany as well as a large decrepit palazzo in Florence in dire need of refurbishment. They have borrowed money against it; they are hoping to produce wine and olive oil in the future but are not certain what it entails as the previous tenants on the land have let things slide. They have very little business acumen and are depending upon the prince to guide them. Meanwhile, it seems the prince owes quite a sum himself, lost in a Moroccan casino while shopping for a horse. The family is keeping that under wraps and billing him as a modern entrepreneurial prince, a new term and idea they picked up from relatives in France.”
“Are you implying he has a gambling problem?”
“I have no idea what problems the prince might or might not have. I only know what I was told privately from a fairly reliable source but you cannot believe everything you hear. Since the aristocracy has fallen from grace, there are those who wish nothing more than a complete collapse and are working toward it.”
“What is your opinion?”
“I have no opinion. I only met the prince briefly when you were present little over two months ago. Of course I have met his aunt on numerous occasions but she is as tightly secured as a vault. What does she tell you?”
“She tells me very little. She is maddening. At times she is shrewdly astute, at others like a dull old woman losing her bearings. She refuses to discuss her artworks, plays dumb on the subject but I’m quite certain she’s playing me.”
“Why don’t you just make an offer and see what she says? Why drag poor Pansy into it? She surely will respond to a sum of cash; no one is that proud these days.”
“Ah, the Viticontis are that exactly.”
“Well, they won’t be for much longer I suspect.”
“So you think it is bad for them?”
“I think they would take whatever cash they could lay hands on and yours is as good as any.”
“What I worry about is that they will call in a curator for appraisals if I show my hand.”
“You can’t predict what they will do.”
“I’m waiting for Pansy’s return. The prince has not spoken to her yet. It will make all the difference.”
“So you say. I’m not sure how or if that’s true.”
“I will be family, of sorts. I can proceed on a firmer footing.”
“What is the return date?”
“They are leaving England in two days.”
“Do you plan to go on with your scheme knowing that the prince may not be the innocent you thought?”
“I intend to learn exactly what it will take to obtain what I want.”
“Will you sacrifice our daughter?”
“Please, Serena. I’ve waited this long to relinquish her, it will not be to an impoverished man, even a prince.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that lest I must leap in to save my daughter.”
“And would you?”
“Leap in?”
“Save her?”

Mrs. Halpern did not answer but let the conversation slide as she took in the contents of the room, filled with artworks and objects de art, all recent acquisitions, collected since his move to Rome as the husband of a rich American. She did not comment on this but let her eye rest on a watercolour of Roman ruins with a row of cypress trees in the foreground placed on a small easel in the corner. “I see you still find time for sketching?”
“My time is my own and yes, on occasion. Yourself? Do you have time for the arts with a husband and I suspect a wider sociability?”
“I have not had much time for it. It seems like something from the past.”
“Of course you still play?”
“On occasion. Mostly for my husband. Classical music is something new for him, in fact, it is what attracted him to me. For that, my fingers will stay limber and my scales agile.”
“Lucky for him.”
“Yes, lucky for him.”
“And for yourself? Do you feel lucky?”
“Very much so. But I am not without my charms you know.”
“I know very well.”
“Yes, you know and yet do not know.”
“Always one for conundrums.”
“Yes, we did once go in for those. Some things do not change.”

The light was growing dim and Osmond ordered tea to be served as Mrs. Halpern showed no sign of taking her leave. She sat on a gilded chair in her fashionable costume, noting the teacups that had once been in a very fine collection of porcelain in a home she’d often visited. She had sipped from these very same cups but did not comment on it. The aristocracy had to sell and Mr. Osmond was now able to buy. The world changes. She found the things that they might have once talked about had ceased to interest her. She thought her former lover rather pitiable despite a more opulent lifestyle. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong with him but the word redundant came to mind. How he was redundant she would have to think about later in her suite.

Her husband was once again traveling for business and she was alone with her thoughts and memories though she did not dwell on those. She was a woman with a future to contemplate. Tonight she would have plenty to think about, not least of which would be her daughter who could be bartered…no, she would not look upon it that way. She was being cynical. It was possible the prince would make a fine husband for Pansy. He was a beautiful young man, well-mannered, not at all redundant. This she told herself but then she remembered seeing Pansy in the hotel lobby and the look of rapture on her little face as she gazed into the eyes of Isabel’s nephew. Yes, she thought, Osmond might have more than a few barriers to obtaining his Correggio. Well, that was not her business. But was Pansy her business? That is what she would have to think about in the quiet of her rooms…she had much to think about these days, not the least of which was how much should or could be revealed.

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…”