#89 FAMILY LOSS

A short story written as a sequel to Henry James's "The Portrait of a Lady."

Miss Pansy Osmond, sheltered in her father’s embraces, was growing restless, touchy. She knew these personal proclivities did not correspond with the teachings she had received in the convent where she spent he formative years until coming of age. What she missed was activity. In the convent she did not sit around waiting for things to happen. She had chores assigned to her. Prayers to offer, Mass to attend, children to oversee. Convent life was far from idle. Life in the Palazzo Roccanera often was. Her stepmother would take her on outings; they visited many people, they brought food and medicine to the impoverished, they occasionally went to the new tearoom recently opened by two English ladies catering to the expatriate community, a growing assemblage in Rome. Still, her life was without meaning, as she dared say to herself one particularly dull afternoon at home.

She could not put her mind on how exactly she was lacking or the cause of her pent up energy that seemed to have no proper outlet. She no longer found it restful to sit with her father in his studio while he drew or studied. How she savored those moments when she was a girl, home from school, happy to be in his presence. Her aunt would bring around visitors. Madame Merle would be ever on hand though Pansy did not enjoy her visits as much as she did her aunt’s. Her aunt was difficult for a sedate nature such as her own, but Pansy would listen to her, understanding little enough, but fascinated by her confabulations, her fluttering extravagant apparel. She lived in a world Pansy would never traverse, her father would never allow her to penetrate, but she provided a coloring to the emaciated days spent with only her father’s company.

When her father married Miss Archer, Pansy was filled with joy. She would have a friend near at hand. She could talk to Miss Archer. And she seemed to make her father smile rather more. When her stepmother was to give birth, when a son was born, a brother, Pansy’s heart wept with gratitude. She could not imagine anything more lovely in the world than to have a baby brother. How happy her father was. He vibrated with well-being such as Pansy had never before witnessed in him. There was no piece of art in his collection that pleased him as much as his son. Isabel too was in an exalted state. She and her stepmother spent hours together playing with the baby. Pansy became a little mother, dressing her brother, taking care of him. The nurse Osmond hired found she was scarcely needed, so complete were Pansy’s ministrations. When the baby was nearing six months old, he was taken outdoors for the first time. For one week Pansy and Isabel took him for a daily walk, just a short distance, to get him used to the air of Rome. How Pansy loved pushing his perambulator through the park. Perhaps people thought she was the mother - this thought was delightful to her intrinsic being. But she always referred to him as her brother, eager to never permit a misinformed notion.

The baby was soon to be baptized; Isabel wanted it to be in the Protestant Church, the first bone of contention between her father and her stepmother. Osmond wished for all the pomp of a Catholic ceremony and what accompanied a Catholic baptismal. Osmond felt that since Pansy was baptized in St. Peter’s and was raised Catholic, his son should be also. He and Isabel, heretofore a couple who could be described as synchronized, began to show the first sign of a rivalry. Isabel wanted a Protestant baptism and Osmond wanted something else. He wanted his son to belong to the great church of Rome, not a secondary, small church of loosely affiliated transients.

As it was since the beginning of this marriage, Osmond’s wishes dictated. Not wanting discord in her home or marriage, Isabel agreed to the Catholic baptism scheduled for one week after the child reached six months. Osmond was in a flurry of preparations; it was to be a grand ceremony with a festive luncheon at the Palazzo Roccanera afterwards. Everyone who was worth knowing would attend. Isabel’s sister, Mrs. Lilian Ludlow, would be the child’s godmother. She, at great expense arrived in Rome, prepared to do her duty by Isabel and her new nephew, only mildly uncomfortable with the Catholic ritual that seemed to her American sensibilities as vaguely overwrought, obviously pompous. She put her alarms aside for this was to be an Italian child who would no doubt be raised with different values than her own American children. She also did not care for Osmond’s authority. That he ruled the home was evident from the first - but more to the point, Mrs. Ludlow could not quite digest the change in her sister. Isabel had always been the opposite of the persona she now presented. In America, she was considered “intimidating” to the young men in their circle. A fellow had to know something to be able to talk to her, said a school friend. She had been sought out especially by the shrewd Caspar Goodwood but had not felt ready to capitulate to a stronger will than her own. Now here she was bowing to the slightly insignificant Gilbert Osmond, a man she married to support, a man who should by all rights be deferential to her. Oh, not that Mrs. Ludlow thought marriage should be a power struggle, quite the opposite. It’s just that in America, men often listened to their wives, especially on matters of the home and family. That was the woman’s domain and it was here she was able to express herself. The Palazzo Roccanera presented a tableau of a dissimilar tenor.

What Mrs. Ludlow found, to her dismay, was the willful Isabel bending over to placate her husband, seemingly afraid of him. Afraid of one’s husband was a notion so foreign to Mrs. Ludlow it took her some time to quite figure out a response to her brother-in-law. She noted the air of authority with which he conducted the household matters, leaving Isabel prostrate before his administrations. “How odd,” was what Mrs. Ludlow wrote to their sister Edith in New York and was heard muttering under her breath the first week in Rome. She longed to ask Isabel how it was she had been brought to this state of subservience but Isabel seemed to have a shroud of protective covering that made even a close sister desist. The couple seemed to have forged a rigorous bond and Mrs. Ludlow decided to leave well enough alone. Isabel had settled in a foreign land. She was bound to change, each society having its own morays and manners.

Mrs. Ludlow was also willing to overlook her brother-in-law’s arrogance when she met his daughter. Pansy, to her, was all that a young woman should be. Mrs. Ludlow approved entirely of Pansy and thought if this were the result of a Catholic upbringing, she had no fault to find. The girl was as docile, as pleasing as an angel. Her demeanor, her dress, her articulations were perfection. She hoped her own sons in time would find such a lovely girl. Mrs. Ludlow each day took Pansy out in a carriage while Isabel attended to her own affairs. She bought her a dress for the ceremony, a small strand of pearls and a hat. The two visited the tearoom each day, walked in the campagna and visited the sites Rome is famous for. Mrs. Ludlow could not recall ever enjoying the city before, or at least as much. She had always wanted a daughter but had instead, three sons, truly wonderful boys in her opinion but still she missed something by not producing a girl to spoil. Pansy flourished in the glow of attention and activity. Not more so than when Mrs. Ludlow, braving the fully-staffed kitchen, instructed Pansy on how to make a Boston Cream Pie, an American favorite of the Archer/Ludlow family.

On the afternoon before the baptismal ceremony, Isabel and her sister were in the courtyard drinking tea and fanning themselves. Madame Merle had called earlier and they talked of her. Isabel did not like to gossip but told her sister that her friend had been in Rome for a fortnight having come from visiting a royal home in Denmark. They talked of the Count and Countess Gemini who were due to arrive in time for dinner. It was an unusually hot day for early summer and no one wanted to venture outside, content to eat fruit and rest in the shade of the old oak tree that spread its branches generously over the courtyard in the late afternoon. The fountain trickled lazily as if too restrained to venture a splash. The moss on the side of the building lent an air of composure and a softening effect to the scene. A lemon tree drooped, heavy with fruit and a patch of jasmine, its sweet aroma mingled with the smell of the fruit, the moss, the desultory breeze. Our two ladies happy in each other’s company for the few hours that remained of the afternoon, spoke quietly, in a leisurely mode that complemented the air.

“What do you plan to do for the girl, Isabel?”
“Why, whatever she chooses, sister. Why do you ask?”
“Well, she needs a place. If you ask me, she needs a husband.”
“Oh Lily, you always think a husband is the answer to a woman’s life.”
“Of course I do. Usually it is. I know there are exceptions these days but Pansy is not one of that ilk.”
“No she is not.”
“Bring her to America next year.”
“You want to find her an American husband?”
“It couldn't hurt. She’s innocent. I suspect that Europeans are not quite as much, in general.”
“You know this for certain?”
“Of course not. I'm only a tourist. It’s just intuition.”
“Are you thinking of any one in particular?”
“Well she’s just a year older than Harold, but so much younger than girls her age.”
“What does Harold have to say?”
“He doesn’t know anything about it. I’ve just met your stepdaughter myself. She’s lovely. So gracious, so helpful. And with such a boorish…" she paused uncertain of how to retract her partial sentence. "Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean…”
“Boorish father you mean?”
“Well a stickler let’s say. She hasn’t inherited his manner.”
“They are very close.”
“Yes. So it seems. Nevertheless, a girl of seventeen will need a husband or the prospect of a husband. There comes a time when a father, no matter how attentive, is not enough. Don’t smother the poor thing. She’s made for motherhood. Anyone can see that by her care for your baby.”
“I have every intention of helping Pansy in any way I can but her father will decide on her future.”
“Let me take her to America for a year.”
“Her father wouldn’t agree.”
“How is her father helping her?”
“It remains to be seen.”
“Don’t rule out America, Isabel. You were given your chance to travel to foreign parts. Don’t impede your stepdaughter. America is the future.”
“I don’t think Pansy is tough enough for America.”
“She isn’t being given a chance to learn who she is.”
“Her father thinks she is exactly who she is meant to be and awaits a prince to carry her off.”
“Nonsense. Are you speaking metaphorically or do you have a royal prince in mind?”
“No one I can point to. At this time. But he wants a great match for her. But for now, she is still a child.”
“Not for long. Think about America. You ought to visit yourself.”

With that the women went to their quarters to rest before dinner. Pansy was with her brother in his nursery, he was unusually fretful in the heat. As a rule such a good baby, he spent the afternoon crying, unable to be consoled. He was hot, and Pansy rubbed him with a cool cloth and rocked him to sleep. It was not a sound sleep and the nurse intervened at that point and alerted Mrs. Osmond to the boy’s condition. She did not think it more than the heat and had a brief misgiving that maybe Miss Osmond should not have taken him out that morning. But she was a no-nonsense nurse, not prone to misgivings, a German woman who had raised twelve children and had an authority that even Osmond was wont to come up against. She believed in exposing a baby to the elements, not to pamper him, to pamper was to weaken. She gave the girl permission to take him for a short walk but not more than ten minutes. When they returned she could see the baby was irritable, overheated. She bathed him and gave him a fruit juice mixture and he seemed to improve. Now here it was getting close to dinner and he was feverish. Pansy held him, crooned to him, songs she’d learned in the convent, she prayed and hoped that he would settle down for the night. He would be baptized in the morning and she was sure he would be fine after receiving God’s blessing and protection. She hoped it would cool off overnight.

The next day was more of the same - a torpid heat mixed with a forceful wind. Dirt blew around the streets and the sun played an obstinate game of hide and seek. It would blaze murderously for fifteen minutes only to disappear with a slash of moisture that could not be called rain exactly but a heavy mist of heat and grime. The streets were empty as the carriage containing the Osmonds made its way to St. Peter’s Cathedral. The baby who slept intermittently during the night was quietly inert, lovingly held and caressed by his sister. The boy’s countenance suggested a dull acceptance that it would be his lot to travel in the heat for an appointment he knew nothing of nor cared, draped in several layers of silk and ribbons that swaddled him in fiery sartorial irritation. The nurse was in attendance in a hansom following a procession consisting of the Gemini entourage and of course Madame Merle in her own rented carriage.

A fussy infant, a nervous mother, a father who was occupied with the lavish luncheon to be hosted by him afterwards, visiting relatives and the worst heatwave Rome had experienced in more than twelve years was the backdrop for the child’s first foray into the city of Rome proper, his arrival at the exalted Catholic institution that was to be his for life. Bandaged in a precious garment that could not but be a hindrance to a normal body temperature, crowded in a carriage with sweating, agitated bodies, themselves longing for it to be over so they might cool themselves behind stone walls and cold drinks, they arrived at the church and entered the illustrious premise - the child’s first brush with God Almighty who would supposedly protect him from hell and damnation though a few people in the congregation thought they might be experiencing hell on earth during the ride in the various carriages.

Only Osmond looked fresh. He spoke with authority to one and all, presented his son to the bishop and for all intents and purposes was in his glory. Isabel looked wilted beside him, her sister tried but couldn’t quite restore Mrs. Osmond nor could Pansy’s composure and loving assistance. The Countess Gemini was over dressed in a florid gown with a high collar, a mantle of beading and a tight bodice that was nearly strangling her breathing apparatus. Madame Merle, with her usual sanguine expression watched the proceedings without any undue disturbance of her own. She was lost in thought of another baptism, one where she was again in the background, an observer, not a participant. She thought of how proud Osmond was to have a son. He had always taken to the role of parenthood. She was happy for him; glad that his marriage seemed solid, he was coming into his own. A late bloomer, she thought. Isabel she noted, was not at all blooming on that day, but was flaccid by his side. The baby blatted when the water splash his head but only feebly. His Aunt Lily held him. He was blessed in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. He would henceforth be a child of God.

The baby's listlessness continued into the afternoon on the day he was baptized and Osmond was forced to cut short the luncheon. A doctor was called. Osmond paced outside the nursery, Isabel weakly hung onto her sister’s arm and the high temperatures continued in Rome with the newspapers reporting the number of deaths caused by this freakish weather for May. That was the scene as witnessed in the Palazzo Roccanera for three days after the ceremony. The aunts stood by ready to be of any use they could be, Pansy remained on her knees, never ceasing her prayers. The baby died on the fourth day at five o’clock in the afternoon. The heat subsided at about the same hour with a pelt of hail and a wind that ripped two branches off the oak tree in the courtyard. The rains came and never let up for two days. Pansy remained on her knees, Osmond disappeared and was not heard from, Isabel could not be comforted and the family members were stricken with grief. Malaria was the confirmed cause of death.

There was a funeral arranged by Mrs. Ludlow in the Protestant Church so recently rejected. The baby was buried in the little cemetery adjacent to the church. Osmond, who was not present up to that point, arrived, ignored his family's attempts at consolation and with an aged deportment, bowed his now gray head until it was over. He left abruptly offering no words of comfort to his wife or his daughter and wanted none in return. He sent a message to the Palazzo Roccanera later saying he would be gone for a fortnight, not to think about him. Isabel, distraught, in need of her husband, the only person suffering as much as she, had to make due with her sister and her stepdaughter. She never forgave her husband for leaving her, for not sharing the sorrow they both would live with until they died. The hurt feelings piled on top of her grief for her beloved son, later turned to rage, but that was not for some time yet. Rage requires strength for its proper expenditure.

She knew her sister Lily looked upon Osmond as an egotistical monster but she did not; she knew how great his suffering was. He wasn’t a monster, but he was not a husband either. When Madame Merle paid a visit of condolence to the Palazzo Roccanera, it was with an offering of gentle, exquisitely-worded comfort expressly for Isabel. When she proffered words to the effect that she knew also of Osmond’s pain, his withdrawal to his apartment in Florence, Isabel had her first obfuscated pang of jealousy. How did this woman know where her husband had gone but she did not? Madame Merle sensing she had committed a faux pas, unlike her, rushed in to say, Of course, I only know because a friend in Florence wired me… Even she could not quite put the correct tone on this slip and made a hasty retreat. Overheard by the Countess Gemini, and despite her own natural grief, she gleaned some small pleasure hearing the grand lady so at odds with her own careless words. Mrs. Ludlow was appalled when the countess relayed the story to her. But by this time, Mrs. Ludlow was appalled by many things she had witnessed.

Life does go on with or without our participation or approval. Isabel mourned for more time than society deemed necessary but in truth, she continued to mourn long after shedding the official black garb. Osmond came home as promised, Mrs. Ludlow reluctantly returned to America and Madame Merle made a point of visiting the Osmonds less frequently. Osmond called on her in her apartment near the Coliseum when he wished to converse with his old friend.

Mr. and Mrs. Osmond never spoke of their son - as if he never existed. Nor did they entirely regain their close affinity though they each made some effort. They could not seem to act in harmony as they once had and petty disagreements, inconsequential incidents began to accumulate. Secretly Isabel blamed Osmond for the death because he had been caught up in a showy unnecessary ritual with too many people involved; that her son had to be dressed up and driven in an overheated carriage and shown off as some sort of prize when he was ill. Mostly she blamed herself because she too was lax in her attention. Osmond blamed Isabel for taking him for outings the previous week. They both blamed the nurse but derived little comfort in that. They blamed each other for being unlucky, punished. There was plenty of blame and little consolation.

Only Pansy visited the little Protestant Cemetery each week, with her flowers that she picked herself in the summer and bought from a street vendor in the winter. She went alone, with only a housemaid, and stayed for approximately an hour. She swept and cleaned his grave and prayed for his salvation. She told him how much she missed him, how much his parents missed him. She talked of Jesus, she talked of what his life was like in the hands of God. Some of this she made up to keep a steady flow of conversation - she did not want to let him go and thought if she kept talking he would hear her and not be so far away. She too suffered guilt for the loss of the greatest gift bequeathed to the Osmond family. At the end of her prayers she whispered his name with rapt intention: Ivan. My darling brother, I will never forget you.

In "The Portrait of a Lady," Henry James mentions a son born to Isabel who died at six months. Babies often did not make it to their first birthday in the 19th century and James only mentioned it in passing. For myself, I have never understood fully how the Osmond's marriage disintegrated as there is a lapse of three years in the novel after their marriage takes place. I'm speculating on the baby's death, not willing to leave it. It had to have some effect but James leaves us in the dark. This is my take on the family loss.