# 91 MRS. OSMOND RETURNS

Part I

Isabel Osmond, returning to Italy in the early morning dawn, the night's quietude holding as the darkness fades, an hour usually unlived by most, felt a chill upon leaving the train and wrapped her cloak tightly around her as the porter ever so respectful of the lady, held out a hand to guide her from the car as her maid was left to scurry for the scant baggage. Isabel had left Rome in a hurry, traveling light, though heavy in heart. There was a carriage waiting for her though it had not been sent by her husband who continued to ignore her return with less contempt than might be imagined. Gilbert Osmond was anxious for his wife's return for any number of reasons, but he would make sure she would not know that. She would be punished for her departure, that he knew, for sitting at another man's dying bed. He had given her fair warning. That the man was her cousin was not a concern to Osmond, disobedience was her sin and like his daughter, she would learn not to displease. He skulked about his room, nervous, preoccupied, rearranged a drawer, filed his personal correspondence and began to think of how he would conduct his marriage on his wife’s return. He wished he could be somewhere else and had considered going to Florence to avoid her but decided it would not look natural; the servants would talk, his daughter though too timid to question him would register his apathy. Lately she had looked at him in a way she never had before--with a serious confounded stare. This he could not bear in one he so lovingly reared, another thing Isabel must answer for, but he would nevertheless, be at home when she returned, a number of factors ruled it to be so.

With a light tap, his butler Higgins entered the room with a tray of coffee, a newspaper and a light breakfast.
“Sir, Mrs. Osmond returns this morning. Shall I send the carriage to await her arrival?“
“No, let Mrs. Osmond take care of herself,” he said. “We don’t know her exact hour of arrival. Better to leave it in her hands.”
Higgins did not think this was at all the way to greet Mrs. Osmond on her return and was tempted to go against his employer and send the carriage. She was a great lady after all. He sensed the discord between the couple, it was in fact discussed freely downstairs and there was speculation that Mrs. Osmond may not ever return from England. He was happy when she confirmed by telegram her impending arrival, the house had been dull without her especially with Miss Pansy away at the convent.

Osmond thought his wife incorrigible; if she wanted to play by her own rules, rules he found unsupportable then she would reap the consequences. He knew Higgins looked at his behavior as an aberration, he did not care what a hired hand thought of him. He, Gilbert Osmond, could hire and fire all the English servants on the continent. Insufferable the English, he thought as he sat down to his breakfast. So many problems his wife’s departure had made for him. Yes, she would have to pay, he thought, his jaw clenched, his hands in a fist, though he did his best to appear unruffled in Higgins's presence, not to betray himself over an impertinent remark. Higgins poured coffee from the silver tray and bowed out gracefully.

Isabel being driven through Rome in the early dawn had time to reflect on what she would say to her husband when again they met. Perhaps he would not be at home but then that would not look appropriate and Osmond never did anything without thinking of appearances. Osmond was the lead in his own drama and his role was to play the supportive husband to the regal wife. It galled him but he was enough of a realist to know he could not at this time do without her, more chagrin that, but he would not, at this time, let her know in so many words how insufferable this position had become to him.

Isabel went straight to her apartment upon arriving home and did not summon a servant to impart a message to her husband. She did not go to him. She did not go near his rooms. Overt impassiveness was the mode they each used to manage their marriage. They would meet again in the second sitting room on the first floor of the Palazzo Roccanera that Osmond often used as a study. In this large, sunny room with the faded fresco on the north-facing wall he did his watercolor painting, studied his folios and looked for imperfection in the variety of objects de art he had on loan, the light so effervescent from the eastern view in the morning. That is where his wife would find him when the time came for a meeting.

She would knock on his door and wait for admittance. She wanted no excess irritation on her husband's part, she wanted to placate him to a point but would not be demeaned; she had been on a journey for the past month, it was a journey of her soul when she finally learned things she might have learned before had she not been so gullible, so naive. She chastised herself for her ignorance; no one had more, she thought. Her blind arrogance had ruled the day and she cringed when she thought of it. Her beloved cousin Ralph was now gone. She had no more reason for concealment but neither was she eager to announce her folly to one and all. It was apparent to those who might take notice; all those who loved her, regarded her with pleasure for her fine spirit, whose warnings she dismissed, so casual in her disregard for what others knew or suspected. Her cousin, when she finally announced her engagement had been so very disappointed, had called Osmond "small." How astutely she had defended his smallness, his want of worldly pleasure, his reclusive life that seemed so much finer than that lived by her fellow Americans with their continuous striving noise. How she, with her new-found wealth would set aright a wrong; that a person so decent would be without adequate means to fulfill the proper destiny for himself and his lovely, unspoiled daughter, Pansy. Her blindness filled her with dismay as she paced around her room, suddenly weighed down with the prospect of meeting Osmond again.

Yes, she married, against the counsel of those most dear to her, what she had thought was a mild-mannered artiste, an intellectual, someone whose cut was so exact he could not, would not play the world's shabby games. Instead she learned quickly that she had married and rewarded considerably, a bully, a snob, someone who had nothing but contempt for his fellow-man, a boorish dilettante without a heart. Her cousin had been kind with his assessment. “Small” did not begin to describe Osmond. When Isabel came to this realization it was the darkest day of her life. Three days later her son was born, her son who lived for six months, the darling, leaving the world of Isabel and Osmond and taking with him all that had been between them as husband and wife and left in his wake a power struggle that absorbed Osmond completely and engulfed Isabel in shame though she was not quite ready to admit defeat.

Osmond, for his part, played his hand in a more subtle fashion. The defection of Lord Warburton, after paying his daughter attention only to dispense with it at the slightest flicker from Isabel’s eye had rankled. Osmond was forced to admit defeat but only to himself. Just another grievance against his wife, a debt that must, and would be squared in the future.

Osmond had been winning until his wretched sister, the Countess Gemini, exposed his hand for which Osmond would never exonerate her. It would be a cold day before she ever darkened his door or saw her niece again. Osmond had given instructions to bar her entrance to his home. She had crossed the line. Osmond only barely tolerated her as it was, with her illicit affairs, her tawdry reputation because she was his sister, his only remaining family. That would be no more. He had no sister, he had written to her. She arrived at his door within forty-eight hours and found her way to Osmond’s study without announcement. He pounced on her, a lethal cat, his nerves taut, his eyes molten flames but the countess had very little fear of her brother. He ordered her to leave his house.
“I will not have you here, I will not listen to your excuses,” he bellowed. “You have done me untold harm. For nothing. What do you get out of this?”
“Oh Osmond, spare me. You're overreacting. Secrets have a way of damning up the works. You married Isabel under a cloak of secrecy for her money, with a good deal of trickery performed by your former mistress.”
“Leave Madame Merle out of this. She at least has the dignity of refrain.”
“I’ve never liked her, you know that but I could never speak against her and I never have.”
"What makes you break with propriety now?" he hissed.
“I like Isabel even though she doesn’t like me. I was weary of keeping secrets from her, I have no patience with naivety after a certain age. It was unseemly,” said the Countess Gemini. “And you are not good to her, I felt sorry for her, so upright, so in need of your approval.” The Countess herself had to bear a heavy load with her husband and thought Isabel should not be absolved from the world’s harshness. “Besides, I was tired of her superiority, not to mention yours and that of Serena Merle. Now Isabel will be on our level. She’s young, perhaps she will find a lover.” She said this with a certain glee knowing it to cut deeply into her brother’s warped sense of morality.
“You dare to come here proffering such claptrap. My wife will never descend to your level. Leave, take your blight from my home, your inferiority astounds me,” he roared and then realized she was playing with him as she did when they were children and quickly regained control. He smoothed his brow, leveled his eyes and stopped pacing but stood before the fireplace with his back to her.
“Maybe not to my level, brother dear, but how long before she stoops to your level?”
“You are an outrage, Countess.” Osmond’s face was red, his placid demeanor destroyed. He was drained of energy from her presence in less than fifteen minutes. He should not let her get to him this way.

When she had made her point--and it was sharply rendered, the Countess left, feeling justified, taking with her Osmond’s good mood. He had just returned from a visit to an old church where he was certain a fourteenth-century altarpiece that would soon be sold was in fact a Giotto. To acquire it, he would need Isabel and her checkbook back in Italy, his sister banished forever, his daughter at home and Madame Merle far away. He thought he might be able to recover his equilibrium, regain his peace of mind if he kept minor blandishments from irritating him. He was going to need his wits to put all that was necessary in place, to obtain this miraculous altarpiece.

Isabel, rattling around in her rooms, nervous, strained from her journey and her cousin's funeral wondered if her stepdaughter had been brought home from the convent, if she might go to her. Her father had sent her back to the convent when she had shown a yearning for a marriage to the one she most regarded. That her father did not think much of her choice and put her back into the seclusion of convent life hurt Pansy badly. She begged Isabel not to forsake her and Isabel promised she would return to her. That promise was what brought her back to Italy: the forlorn tremor in Pansy's little voice haunted her in England. She made one sure decision while at Gardencourt, her cousin’s home, a place she loved, that represented her life before its defilement: she would not forsake Pansy. Isabel still honored her word; she had not strayed in principle. She would fight for her stepdaughter in whatever way she could.

She had many things to catch up on despite the ill-will from her husband she was sure to receive but she had an advantage now: she would no longer be sulking in the dark. She knew not how this would change her life, she only knew that for a long time she had been living in a shadow cast by her husband with his friend, Madame Merle, abetting its mysterious power. She would consent no more to it, this she knew for certain. She was going reestablish a life of meaning with or without Osmond. She may decide not to live with him but she would never divorce. He was her shield. They would have to speak a new language and she was determined Osmond would learn it. This time she would be the teacher and he would listen to her. His reign of authority was at an end. He had nothing on her now: The truth had set her free.

#90 NOT QUITE A LADY

A small slice of fiction based on the life of George Eliot

May 22, 1862
Dear John,
It is complete: I have signed on with Smith & Elder to publish Romola. Mr. Smith made an offer too extravagant for me to refuse. You said yourself that Romola would pose problems in the marketplace with its difficult premise and you were not prepared to take on the financial loss if it should not do as well as my three previous novels. I suspect you are right but no author wants to hear that. Mr. Smith has faith it its acceptance by the reading public just by brandishing the name George Eliot. I am a brand, it seems. These modern entrepreneurs are full of catchy expressions that give me pause. In any case, I put myself in the hands of this modernity though I am exceedingly old-fashioned.  How this venture turns out  remains to be seen.

All good things come to an end and the collaboration between myself and Blackwood’s has been very good indeed.  Please know that I think of you with the fondest regard, we have made a little history of sorts; financially beneficial for both of us. Bear me no ill will, my friend. Business is business as they say. (Another modern expression, forgive me.)
Marian Evans Lewes
The Priory
London

June 1, 1862

Dear Marian,
Yes, I was unprepared to meet Smith & Elder’s offer of 10,000 pounds. You could hardly refuse such a sum and I do not blame you.  As for Romola being “difficult,” that, as you say, remains to be seen.

And yes, we have had a wonderful collaboration and I will always look upon the George Eliot titles published at Blackwood’s as the firm’s pinnacle of achievement. I wish you nothing short of a triumph for Romola.
I remain your humble servant,
John Blackwood
Blackwood & Sons
London, England

September 19, 1863

Dear Mrs. Lewes,
With the publication of your latest novel, Romola, we must ask you for help with its sales. As you know, your three previous novels set in the Midlands  practically fell off the shelves and Blackwood’s had trouble just keeping the presses running to meet demand. You were able to keep well out of the spotlight as per requested by Mr. Lewes.
 
Romola, a critical success to  be sure, is unfortunately not a book the public will easily digest. Therefore, we at Smith & Elder request that you do a public reading and sign copies of the book. I might point out that all authors do this nowadays and some actively enjoy their brush with their readers. Both Dickens and Trollope are quite engaged in promoting their works as the public is always eager to know the person behind the stories.


Would you do us the honor of a public reading, Mrs. Lewes? We can start here in London and if it is a success, perhaps you and Mr. Lewes would wish to travel further afield to meet your audiences. It will all be most civilized and genteel, I can assure you. You have nothing to worry about on that front.

Please consider this proposition. It is in the best interest for the success of Romola.
Sincerely
George Smith
Smith, Elder & Co.
London, England

September 25, 1863

My dear Mr. Smith,
Surely you jest? You know perfectly well it’s not possible and furthermore, you know the reasons. I cannot risk the snubs I should receive. My sorry soul should not be able to withstand the pressure even with Mr. Lewes by my side. As it is, I’ve had a ferocious headache since Romola’s release. I did tell you, dear publisher, that Romola would in all likelihood  not be a commercial success. It was very difficult to write and I suspect even more difficult to read especially for those whose reading matter consists of  foderal, fantasy and fabrications of the most infantile variety, the so-called public you speak of. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

As to my sitting for a photographer for publicity material, I cannot tell you how odious I think this idea to be. With a face like mine, it would be ludicrous to plaster it everywhere. Everyone would say, "Imagine that horse-face wishing her picture to be all over town as if she were on the stage."  That's what they would say; I know London society, Mr. Smith. I would not be able to face the ridicule and don't feel I should have to.

That said, I should much prefer to remain in the shadow - let the public dance around Mr. Dickens and Mr. Trollope - I am busy working on a new novel that I expect, or very much hope, will be my best yet. I should like to finish it before I am called to my grave which as you know, at 43, I am not getting any younger.

Hence, Mr. Smith, I must decline your proposal for a public reading. It is not in anyone’s best interest and I should not bear the strain. All this prurient curiosity about George Eliot is a distraction I cannot waste time with. Do your best for poor Romola and let us be grateful for the public’s embrace of Adam Bede and Mill, whose author must remain at her desk until further notice.
Sincerely,
G. Eliot

May 13, 1864

Dear Mr. Smith,
Regarding the less than expected sales of  Romola: I’m sorry for your disappointment, believe me, I share in your bereavement. I think it best that we part company, me to my former publisher and you to nourish other talents that have the possibility of gain. I did warn you Romola would not be commercial and you chose to believe the name George Eliot would, by its own stature, assure you of reward. I’m sorry to say you were wrong. If you did not earn as much as anticipated, at least George Eliot’s name spared you great loss.

Henceforth, Mr. John Blackwood will resume publishing my future titles including Felix Holt, the Radical that you refused.  I wish you success in all your future publishing ventures.
Sincerely,
George Eliot

June 10, 1864

Dear Mrs. Lewes,
I’m sorry you were not happy with our short collaboration. Be sure I will always regard you with nothing less than benevolence. In  my defense, I did warn you that in today’s world, marketing is key. It is not enough to write a book, Mrs. Lewes, you must now engage the public in celebrating its arrival, much like a child.

Since you refused to do a reading or sign copies or even allow your photograph in the papers or subject yourself to an interview, it was left for my advertising staff to sell a book that was not only difficult but so very different from those under  previous authorship of George Eliot. A little help from you, with your lovely voice, your poise and supreme command, could have made all the difference.

You say you are "too ugly" to be a public figure, you say you are “not quite a lady.” But simple effort on your part, offered with sincerity would have worked wonders. Queen Victoria herself regards you in the highest esteem and has read your books. Surely that should give you enough confidence to come out of the shadows?

I do not wish to chastise you dear lady. It was an honor to publish Romola and we will bear the financial loss. I look forward to reading future titles.
With fondest regards,
George Smith
Smith, Elder & Company
London, England

September 3, 1964

Dear Mr. Smith,
Enclosed you will find a short story called Brother Jacob. We had discussed its publication in your magazine for a certain sum. Forget this sum, I give you this story as a gift to do with as you please. I'd like to make up for some of your loss on Romola and to show there are not bad feelings between us. London's  gossip mill will spew forth any doggerel.
I wish you all the best.
George Eliot
London

October 25, 1865

Dear John,
Yes, it’s indeed true: we will once again work in partnership bringing out my next work of fiction. I hope you are as happy as myself and Mr. Lewes at this prospect. You have been the world to me, I hope you feel that to be so.

As you know, Romola did not have the return of my previous novels. You were right about it all along, I dare say. That said, I have finished a shorter work called Felix Holt, the Radical and since Smith & Elder have declined to purchase it, I offer it to you for five thousand pounds and Mr. Lewes is prepared to begin the negotiations.

 I am preparing to begin my next novel to be called Middlemarch. It will be comprised of  many characters and touch on subjects dear to me, such as the Reform Bill of 1832, advances in medicine and what are referred to as women’s rights but only incidentally. Don’t worry, I intend for it to be commercially viable; I do write for money after all.

Meanwhile, I am fraught with headaches, bad teeth and various pains that have no exact label or place of origin. I’ve been in bed for a fortnight. My dearest Mr. Lewes is also suffering these days from stomach ailments, lumbago and some sort of nervous strain. We are two very dilapidated mortals I must say. We will travel once again to Germany, home of many of our fondest hours in hopes of shaking off what ails us.

Middlemarch will require a Herculean effort on my part and I am not at all sure it’s worth it. I so worry about bringing another novel into a world that overflows with pointless books. The idea of writing an unnecessary novel seems like a kind of sin. I wish authors would stop writing when they have nothing more to say but the need for money and of course egotism will keep publishers busy for all eternity. I only hope I can do something with Middlemarch and not feel it a waste for myself, the paper it’s printed on or the reading public. I persevere, dear friend, and pray for inspiration and intellectual acumen.
Your loving friend Marian
The Priory
London

EPILOGUE
Marian Evans Lewes completed 'Middlemarch’ in 1871. It  is considered by many be the greatest novel ever written in the English language. She was made fantastically rich by its publication.

#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.