Mrs. Osmond Read online

  ALSO BY JOHN BANVILLE

  Long Lankin

  Nightspawn

  Birchwood

  Doctor Copernicus

  Kepler

  The Newton Letter

  Mefisto

  The Book of Evidence

  Ghosts

  Athena

  The Untouchable

  Eclipse

  Shroud

  The Sea

  The Infinities

  Ancient Light

  The Blue Guitar

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2017 by John Banville Incorporated

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Viking, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., London, in 2017.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Banville, John, author.

  Title: Mrs. Osmond : a novel / John Banville.

  Description: First American edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017027401 | ISBN 9780451493422 (hardcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780451493439 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Young women—Fiction. | Americans—Italy—Fiction. | Inheritance and succession—Fiction. | Married people—Fiction. | Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Classics. | GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PR6052.A57 M78 2017 | DDC 823/.914—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2017027401

  Ebook ISBN 9780451493439

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photograph by Jeff Cottenden

  Cover design by Carol Devine Carson

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by John Banville

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Part II

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  A Note About the Author

  Reading Group Guide

  Deep in her soul—deeper than any appetite for renunciation—was the sense that life would be her business for a long time to come.

  —The Portrait of a Lady

  I

  I

  It had been a day of agitations and alarms, of smoke and steam and grit. Even yet she felt, did Mrs. Osmond, the awful surge and rhythm of the train’s wheels, beating on and on within her. It was as if she were still seated at the carriage window, as she had sat for what seemed impossibly many hours, gazing with unseeing eyes upon the placid English countryside flowing away from her endlessly in all the soft-green splendour of the early-summer afternoon. Her thoughts had sped along with the speeding train but, unlike the train, to no end. Indeed, she had never registered so acutely the mind’s unstoppable senseless headlong rush as she had since leaving Gardencourt. The great snorting and smoking brute that had paused with brusque impatience at the meek little village station and suffered her to take her place in one of its lattermost compartments—her fingertips still retained the impression of hot plush and greasy leather—now stood gasping after its mighty efforts under the high, soot-blackened glass canopy of the throbbing terminus, disgorging on to the platform its complement of dazed, bedraggled travellers and their jumbles of baggage. Well, she told herself, she had arrived somewhere, at least.

  Staines, her maid, had hardly stepped down from the train before she flew into an altercation with a red-faced railway porter. Had she not been a female it might have been said of Staines that she was a fellow with a heart of oak. She was tall and gaunt, a person all of angles, with long wrists and large feet, and a jaw that put one in mind of the blade of a primitive axe. In the years that she had been in Mrs. Osmond’s employ, or, given how closely they were conjoined, better say in the years that they had been together, Staines’s devotion to her mistress had not wavered by a jot. In their long period of exile in the south her forbearance had extended to putting up with the Italian market and the Italian kitchen, and, which required an even more saintly fortitude, with Italian plumbing. Indeed, such was her steadfastness that on occasion Mrs. Osmond—Isabel—found herself longing wistfully for even half a day’s respite from her servant’s unrelenting, stone-hard solicitude. In their recent travels together the chief token and proof of Staines’s loyalty had been a permanently maintained state of vexedness, not only in face of the impudence of porters, cab-drivers, boot-boys and the like, but also against what she considered her mistress’s wilful credulousness, deplorable gullibility and incurably soft heart. Now, as the maid, her bonnet fairly wagging from the force of her indignation, stood berating the porter for unspecified shortcomings—as a Londoner she was exercising her right to quarrel with her own kind, in her own city—Isabel moved away with that wide-eyed blandness of manner she had perfected over the years at the scenes of so many similar confrontations between Staines’s will and the world’s recalcitrance.

  She longed for the hotel and its stilly-breathing cool and shadowed spaces, in which she might sit perfectly immobile for a long time and let her reeling mind run down of its own accord. She would rest if only she could stop thinking, but how to effect that marvellous trick? The death of her cousin Ralph Touchett on a recent eve in his mother’s house at Gardencourt—extraordinary to reflect that there had been an exact, measurable moment, marked by a click on the clock, when for him eternity had begun—had left her with a hard task to solve, like an exercise in geometry or algebra. The solution she was required to derive was no more or less than to find a fit mode by which to mourn the young man’s passing. In truth, her cousin could no longer have been described as young, but that was how she thought of him, and no doubt how she would think of him always. Perhaps that was the main part of her difficulty, that it seemed a scandal to shed tears for a person whose life had been so marked by the slow vastation of a wasting illness that he could hardly have been said to have had a life at all. Thinking this, she at once chided herself. Who was she to judge the quality of any life, however brief or burdened? Behind the chidden thought, however, lay a darker, irrepressible formulation, which was, that the intensest living Ralph had done he had done through her, by way of a passionate vicariousness, watching in smil
ing wonderment from his seat at the ringside her breath-taking flights, her spangled swoopings, to and fro in the powdery light high up, oh, so high up, under the big, the tremendous, top. To have lived through someone else, even someone he professed to adore, that had been the height of Ralph’s triumph, and the depth of his failure. How she wished now she had been capable of that greatness he had hoped for in her, those loftier leaps, those ever more graceful pirouettes in mid-air, those weightless landings on one braced toe, those sweeping bows with swan’s-neck arms widespread. If she had lifted him up, she had also let him down. What he could not have expected, what he could not have imagined possible for one so firmly balanced as she, was the great, the catastrophic plunge from airy heights that had been precipitated by her marrying the perfectly wrong person.

  Behind her now she heard an unmistakably solid step, and a moment later Staines loomed at her shoulder, her scant plumage ruffled and crackling, and she readied herself for the inevitable rebuke.

  “Why, there you are, ma’am!” the maid said loudly, for she had a voice as large and forceful as the rest of her. “I was looking for you everywheres among all this pushing and pulling crowd.”

  “I merely walked on,” Isabel mildly protested, offering a mitigating smile. Staines, however, was in no mood to be mollified, and her mistress waited, almost with interest, to know how she herself should be implicated in that recent struggle on the platform, of which she had experienced no more than a hard glare from the porter’s soiled eye and a muffled oath directed at her departing back.

  “The gall of that fellow!” the maid said now, puffing out her cheeks in the way she did when she was wroth. “Well, he got a piece of my mind, I can tell you.” Here she made a marked pause, as she notched the barb to her bow-string, and when she resumed it was in a tone seemingly more of regret than reproval. “Of course, if he’d have known you was in mourning I have no doubt he would have presented a very different attitude.”

  This time Isabel reserved her smile to herself. The maid’s veiled yet pointed reference was to the dispute she and her mistress had engaged in, before departing Gardencourt, over the matter of a mourning band, a dispute in which, unusually, the more determined of the two combatants had been forced to concede. It was to all intents a perfectly acceptable circlet of black crape that the servant had proffered, with a matchingly solemn mien, and it was a question as to which of them had been the more surprised when Isabel had declined, politely but firmly, to allow it to be pinned high up about the sleeve of her travelling coat. After a second of shocked silence the maid had begun to remonstrate, but her remonstrances proved to no avail; it was one of those instances, few but momentous, when the mistress showed her steel and the maid prudently stepped back. Mrs. Osmond would not wear a mourning band, and that, incontestably, was that. Staines had sulked, of course, and had bided her time, until now, when her mistress’s flashing blade was safely back in its scabbard and she could risk a retributive shot. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, with a sort of toss of the head in her tone, “I’m sure even a ruffian of his sort would have shown a bit of respect for a person’s loss, if he’d only of been able to see the evidence of it.”

  To this Isabel did not respond; she had found, over the years, that a remote and unemphatic silence was often the most effective counter to her maid’s insinuative provocations. In truth, she was not certain herself why she had refused, to the point of vehemence, to have the thing on her sleeve. Perhaps it was that to her it would have been somehow to claim too much to make such publicity of her sorrow; that it would have been a breach of common decency—a breach, even, of common modesty. On the other hand, she was sure Ralph himself would be only too delighted to behold her draped from top to toe in black bombazine, complete with jet veil and broad sash, but only so that he could tease her and laugh at her in his fond, ironical fashion. So perhaps, after all, she thought now, she should have consented to the harmless convention of the band, if only to afford Ralph’s spirit a moment of amusement in the place he dwelt in now, that realm of shades where surely he would welcome the opportunity for even the most wan of smiles. He had given her so much, and had asked so little in return.

  Coming out at last from the cinder-smelling confines of the station, she felt as if she had dived into some clear light vaporous medium that was at once more and less than air. She had lived for so long amid southern harshnesses that London looked to her almost immaterial, with no sharp edges to it at all. Even in sunlight, as now, the city had a pearly sheen, and its shadows were the deepest shade of mauve. The crowds, too, weaving their endlessly shifting tapestry to and fro before her, had to her eye a quality of dreamy vagueness, as if all these people, despite the determination of their step and the fixity of their forward gaze, were not entirely certain of their destination, as likewise they could not quite remember their setting-off place, and yet minded not at all, in either case. Already she felt smoothed down and soothed; she had not been aware, before arriving in it, how achingly she had yearned for the strangely tender accommodations of this great metropolis of the north. She did not know London, not with any intimacy; she had spent time here, on visits, but for the most part she had viewed it not through her own eyes but through the eyes of others—those of her husband, of Ralph Touchett and his mother, of her friend Henrietta Stackpole; of painters, too, and of poets and novelists—so many!—the Dickenses and Thackerays, the Byrons and the Brownings, all the bards who had sung to her, in the far-off city of Albany where she had passed the years of her youth, of this magically distant Land of Cockaigne.

  Before she discerned the man himself her ear was caught by the sound of his weeping. It was a strange, unhuman sound, and at first she looked about for some wounded creature nearby, a fledgling gull, perhaps, fallen from the edge of some high parapet and mewling for its mother. But, no, it was a man. He was burly and broad but not at all strong-looking, with a big box-shaped head and hair of a fiery ginger shade and curly ginger whiskers. He had positioned himself at the corner of the wide thoroughfare that led the way out of the station precincts. She did not think she had ever seen or heard a grown man crying like this, copiously, helplessly, unstaunchably. His washed-blue eyes were red-rimmed, and his swollen and glistening nether lip trembled like a baby’s. He wore a collarless shirt, an ancient pair of moleskin trousers shiny with grime, and a jacket of rusty serge that was much too small for him and pinched him under the arms and left his frail white wrists defencelessly exposed. He stood in one spot but kept turning his body first in one direction and then the other, caught it seemed in a trance of convulsive indecision. Beside him on the pavement was a shapeless bundle of something tied up in a knotted rag. It had seemed at first he was wearing shoes, but now that Isabel looked more closely she saw that his feet were bare but thoroughly caked with black, tar-like dirt. The coppery brightness of his whiskers, through which dark glinting rivulets of tears were coursing, and the pulpy paleness of his lightly freckled skin, somehow added to and intensified, for her, the sorrow and abjection of the spectacle he made; it was as if he had been flayed of a protective integument, and his flaming hair were blushing for him to be so nakedly and shamefully on show.

  “Oh, look, that poor creature!” she breathed, laying a hand on her maid’s arm to stay her. “We must do something to help him.”

  Staines, however, was unimpressed, and barely cast a glance in the direction of the weeping man where he stood sobbing and shaking and rocking. “There’s no helping them as can’t help themselves,” she said, with a sniff, and went resolutely on, despite her mistress’s restraining touch. Isabel, after a moment’s hesitation, had no alternative but to follow her, albeit with a troubled heart. It was strange—surely Staines, who most likely had sprung from the same depths of society as had the weeping man, was the one in whom the urge to render him succour should have been strongest, instead of which she had turned her face against him, with lips compressed into a white line. And yet it was understandable, after all: the maid’s instinc
ts were those of a still uninfected person spurning a doomed victim of the plague. To Isabel, however, whose store of bullion in the bank guaranteed her immunity, it was plain that her duty lay precisely in helping such as he, the unfortunate and fallen ones of the world. But the rules were the rules: they applied in both directions, downwards as well as upwards, and she knew the impossibility of disobeying her servant and going to the weeping man even if it were for no more than to press a coin shamefacedly into his hand.

  In the hansom cab, the choosing of which was a right Staines naturally arrogated to herself, Isabel sat hard by the open window to have the benefit of what freshness the city air could offer. After her moment of mild exaltation on exiting the station she had relapsed once more into her former state of diminished numbness. The lingering rhythm of the train was replaced by the harshing of the cab’s steel-rimmed wheels on the metalled roadway. She viewed the panorama of the city passing in the window as if it were a running series of exhibits under glass. She felt dulled and dazed, like one who after a long illness is taken out for a supposedly invigorating “spin.” They had crossed the park and come out into the cacophonous bustle of Knightsbridge. She glanced at Staines sitting opposite her, stiffly upright with her big jaw stolidly set and her sceptical gaze fixed upon the passage of brightly bedecked shop-fronts. “Are you happy to be amid familiar sights?” she asked. “I mean, are you happy to be home, even if only briefly?”