20 December 1924
Dearest Mama and Papa,
I do promise to send you a proper letter very soon, full of every last detail of my birthday and Christmas, but I have to run off to class in a few minutes, and would you believe I’ve yet to buy any gifts for Aunt Agnes or my friends here? (I sent off a parcel to you last week—has it arrived yet? I do hope you receive it in time.)
Thank you very much for the beautiful bracelet. It fits my wrist perfectly and as you know I have always adored amethysts. I opened it the moment I awoke this morning, having forced myself (with great difficulty!) to leave the parcel alone when it arrived last week.
Thank you as well for your cheque, which I had no trouble in depositing at Auntie A’s bank. Yesterday I went to Galeries Lafayette and spent nearly all of it on a new winter coat in a gorgeous raspberry color, and with the remainder I bought a matching hat.
Once again I am sorry to not be with you for Christmas, but Maître Czerny only closes the school between the 24th and 26th and I dare not miss any classes. I know you will be very busy, what with everyone coming to stay with you in Yorkshire, and I do hope that you will be so occupied you won’t even notice my absence. Please know that I am thinking of you, and of course missing the both of you very much.
With much love from your devoted daughter,
Helena
It was the Saturday before Christmas, and it was Helena’s birthday. Not wishing for anyone to make a fuss, she’d said nothing to her friends and happily passed the day at the studio, hard at work on a portrait of the jolly farmer’s wife she’d seen at Les Halles.
At five o’clock sharp Daisy packed up her things and left for home, mindful as always of her father’s wish for company. That left the rest of them to continue on to dinner at Rosalie’s at seven o’clock. Sam was waiting outside when they came around the corner, and he seemed exactly his normal self, if rather quieter than usual. If he had spent the last few days obsessing over their kiss he betrayed no sign of it, and in his manner she could discern no trace of tension or awkwardness. It was almost as if she had imagined the entire thing, and Helena couldn’t decide if she ought to be relieved or disappointed.
“How did you spend the day?” she asked as soon as they were settled and Luigi had brought them bread and wine.
“I had to work. Was filling in for Geoff Fraser.”
“Wasn’t it your day off?”
“It was, but I lost a bet to him back in October, when New York lost the World Series to Washington, and he waited until today to make me pay up.”
“The World Series?” Helena asked.
“Of baseball.”
“How can it be a ‘world’ series if both teams are American?”
He rolled his eyes at this. “Fine. The baseball championships. So what does he make me do? Spend half my day standing around at the Rotary Club, waiting for some jackass assistant to an undersecretary of trade to show up and give a speech.”
“Was it interesting?” Mathilde asked.
“God, no. It was so boring I can’t even remember the man’s name. Should be fun spinning a story out of that.”
Helena wanted to enjoy dinner, and her time with her friends, but she couldn’t manage to loosen the coil of apprehension that was tightening around her chest whenever she thought of what would happen once dinner was finished, and she and Sam were left alone for the walk home. Would he pretend the kiss hadn’t happened? Would he wish to talk about it? She’d rather be paraded through the streets on a tumbrel.
Her anxiety was allayed, if only temporarily, when Étienne insisted they all go to Le Dôme for a round of drinks. “I need at least two glasses of fine à l’eau to wash away the taste of the vinegar we just drank. I am certain I felt my teeth dissolving.”
“Like Cleopatra’s pearls?” Helena teased.
“Just so.”
They were able to find a tiny table at Le Dôme, crowding into a space that was better suited for two, and Étienne hailed the waiter with a snap of his fingers and, oddly enough, a wink.
Rather than come to them straightaway, the man did an about-face and vanished into the kitchens, appearing several minutes later with a plate that held a single chocolate-topped creampuff. He set it before Helena with a wonderfully Gallic flourish, extracted a tall and very thin candle from his apron pocket, lighted it with a match, and inserted it in the top of the cream puff.
Sam spoke first. “Happy birthday, Ellie.”
“How did you know?”
“How do you think? Your aunt.”
“She took me aside at the party,” Étienne explained, “and told me then. She knew you wouldn’t say anything, and she thought it was silly. So now—”
“Enough explaining,” Sam interrupted. “It’s time to sing. Do you know ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’?” Étienne shook his head and Mathilde simply shrugged. “No? I guess you’ll have to keep up. Here goes.”
He stood, his chair scraping against the tiled floor, cleared his throat, and began to sing in a lovely, deep voice.
“For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us.”
Within seconds, people at neighboring tables joined in, and then everyone at the bar, and soon everyone at Le Dôme, was singing Helena’s praises.
“And so say all of us, and so say all of us, for she’s a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us!”
After that, the barman stood them a round of drinks, and against her better judgment Helena had a fine à l’eau. The watered-down brandy burned her throat, but it helped to steady her increasingly ragged nerves.
“I must be off,” Mathilde said, setting down her glass and buttoning up her coat. “Étienne, toi aussi.” She leaned across the table and kissed Helena’s cheek. “Happy birthday, my friend.”
“I suppose we ought to go, too. I haven’t seen my aunt since breakfast.”
Helena and Sam walked home in silence, which was just as well since her heart was pounding so loudly she couldn’t hear anything above the roar in her ears. Sam had offered his arm, as he always did, and she accepted it without protest.
It was cold enough that she was very glad of her new coat, and grateful that she had also worn the plush fur stole Agnes had insisted on lending her. Sam, as usual, was bareheaded and immune to the weather. Even if it had been snowing he likely wouldn’t have noticed.
Vincent was at the side door when they arrived, which was rather a surprise as normally she and Sam were left to say their good-byes in relative privacy.
“Good evening. Lady Helena, your aunt wishes for you and Mr. Howard to join her in the petit salon.”
“Oh,” said Helena, disappointed yet also, somehow, relieved. “That’s lovely. I mean . . . do you mind coming in? Do you have time?”
“Of course I do,” Sam said easily, following her inside.
A table in the petit salon had been set for dessert, with champagne on ice and Helena’s favorite cake, a Victoria sponge, ready to be served.
“Happy birthday, my darling girl! Did you have a nice evening with your friends?”
“I did, Auntie A, but you didn’t need to tell everyone.”
“Of course I did. Come here, now, and have some champagne and cake, and then you must open your present.”
Agnes’s gift was a bottle of French perfume, Mitsouko, which Helena had never heard of before. “It’s from Guerlain,” her aunt explained. “Do try it on.” So she opened the bottle and dabbed the stopper to her wrists, and at once was enveloped in roses and jasmine and another scent that she couldn’t name, but which reminded her of Earl Grey tea.
“It smells just like the gardens at Villa Vesna,” she said, and Agnes clapped her hands in delight.
“I thought so, too. You must wear it this winter and think of warmer days to come.”
“I’ve something for Helena,” Sam said quietly, and set a neatly wrapped parcel on the table.
She had a little trouble opening it, for the colored string that fastened shut its paper refused to be undone, and she had to wait for Sam to pull out his penknife and cut it free. It was a book, she was certain. The paper fell away and revealed a familiar binding. It was his rare, precious translation of Rilke’s poems, which she had returned to him only last week.
She opened it to the flyleaf and saw that he had inscribed it, his messy, looping scrawl so distinctive she’d have known it anywhere.
To Ellie—
an artist with a poet’s heart
—Sam
“Oh, Sam,” was all she could say, and suddenly she had to blink back tears.
“I thought you might like it,” he said, and when she dared to look up she saw that his cheekbones were flushed, as if he were embarrassed by the generosity of his gesture.
“Well, I ought to be on my way,” he said. “I’ve a story to finish up for tomorrow. Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Paulson.”
“You’re very welcome. Helena, walk Sam to the door.”
Agnes didn’t follow them, and so once again they were left to stand at the door, alone, as he shrugged on his coat and checked his pocket for the key to his room.
She stood by awkwardly, not knowing what to say, but he didn’t seem to mind. “When will I see you again?” she blurted out.
“I have to work on Christmas Eve, but what about Christmas Day? We could go for a walk.”
“Would you like to come for lunch? I was thinking of asking Étienne,” she added. “I don’t think he has anywhere else to go.”
He smiled ruefully at this. “I guess I don’t, either. What time?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps one o’clock? I could send you a petit bleu once I know for certain.”
He nodded slowly, and then reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch wonderfully gentle. “I wish . . .” he whispered, his voice oddly strained.
“What is it? Do tell me.”
“Never mind. Happy birthday. I’ll see you soon.”
IT WAS MONDAY afternoon, only three days before Christmas, before she was able to do any Christmas shopping. She began on the Right Bank, at Fauchon, where she bought a tin of Scottish shortbread and a canister of Lapsang souchong tea for Agnes. The weather promised to remain fine, so she walked to Magasin Sennelier in St.-Germain, where she found a set of squirrel-hair brushes for Étienne, a sheaf of fine watercolor paper for Daisy, and a box of intensely pigmented soft pastels for Mathilde.
Her final errand of the day was to a shop she’d heard about but not yet visited, Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare and Company. According to Sam, Miss Beach had the best collection of English-language books in France. There, Helena reasoned, she’d be able to find him the perfect gift.
The moment she entered the shop she was transfixed by the stupendous amount of books on display. They were jammed into bookcases that went all the way to the ceiling, they were heaped on the floor, they were stacked in precarious piles on the windowsills and the staircase at the back, and they tiled the surface of the long oak tables that ran down the middle of the front room.
The décor was eccentric, for much of the woodwork had been painted in bright colors, and in lieu of artwork there were scores of framed photos of writers, many of them signed, and a tattered poster proclaiming “The Scandal of Ulysses.”
Miss Beach was sitting at a desk near the front, her attention on some papers she was collating. As Helena’s approach she looked up and smiled warmly.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“Hello, Miss Beach. I’m Helena Parr. We met a few months ago at one of Miss Barney’s Friday salons.”
“Of course, of course. Welcome to my shop, Miss Parr. May I help you in any way?”
“Yes, please. I’d like to buy something for a friend. Sam Howard. I know he comes in here often.”
Another smile. “Oh, yes. I’m very fond of Mr. Howard.”
“I’m not sure where to begin. I was thinking he might like a novel, something new, but he also likes poetry. I wish I had a better notion of his taste in books.”
“Why don’t I have a look in my files? I keep a record of everything I sell, and he’s a member of the lending library here, too, so that should help to narrow things down.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Why don’t you have a look around, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
Straightaway she knew she would be coming back after Christmas to find something for herself. The shop was a treasure trove, with surprises waiting on every shelf. In less than five minutes she’d come across a Kelmscott Press translation of Beowulf, an early edition of Daniel Deronda, and a bound volume of Japanese woodcuts; with enough time, heaven only knew what else she might discover.
The bell above the entrance rang, and when she looked over to see who had entered, for she was a little nervous of bumping into Sam, she recognized Hadley Hemingway’s husband. She smiled at him and was gratified when he returned the gesture.
He went over to Miss Beach and spoke to her, the two of them laughing at some joke he made, and then he came over to Helena.
“Hello,” he said. “You look familiar. Didn’t I meet you at Miss Stein’s the other week?”
“You did. I was there with Sam Howard.”
“Of course,” he said, and they shook hands. “I’m Ernest Hemingway.”
“I’m Helena Parr. I came in to look for a present for Sam, though I’m not sure how I’ll make up my mind. It’s like Aladdin’s cave in here.”
“What were you thinking of getting him?”
“A novel, I thought. Or some short stories. You have a book of stories published, don’t you? Sam told me about them. He said he thought you are a very fine writer. Perhaps I ought to buy him your book.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Mr. Hemingway said, evidently delighted by the compliment. “I’ve two books out. Let me talk to Sylvia.”
He was back a few minutes later, shaking his head. “She’s sold all her copies of Three Stories and Ten Poems, and Howard already has the first two volumes of in our time. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s grand that you’re such a success.”
He looked back at Sylvia, who had prepared a parcel of books for him. “I’m sorry, but I must go. I’m taking my wife and son to Austria until the new year.”
“Good-bye, then. Do wish Mrs. Hemingway a happy Christmas.”
“I will, and the same to you.”
She resumed her search, never quite finding the right thing, and then, standing slightly proud of its fellows, she spied a slim volume with the words Al Que Quiere! on its spine. Some instinct urged her to pull it from the shelf, though she didn’t speak or read Spanish, and when she did the book fell open to a short poem titled “Danse Russe.”
She read it through, and it was unlike any other poem she’d ever seen, and so she lingered over it, all but memorizing the lines where she stood. “I was born to be lonely. I am best so!”
She could buy it for herself, but it was the only copy in the shop, and she felt, somehow, that Sam would like it. She took the book over to Miss Beach, feeling apprehensive as she held it out. What did she know, after all, of poetry and fine literature?
“Ah—William Carlos Williams. I do love his work. He’s been overshadowed by Eliot in recent years, but these earlier poems are striking.”
“Do you think that Sam will like them?”
“There’s no way to tell. He won’t find them boring, though, and that’s the most important thing.”
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, Étienne and Sam arrived at one o’clock, each bearing gifts: Sam had a bouquet of hothouse lilies for Agnes and a sweet little posy of violets for Helena, while Étienne had brought a bottle of Russian vodka for them all to share. This latter offering pleased her aunt to no end, and she ordered it put on ice immediately so they might enjoy it with their first course.
In the dining room the table had been set for four, and though it had been reduced to manageable dimensions there was still a baronial gap between each of them when they sat down for lunch.
They began with oysters, which Helena secretly detested, though she managed to gulp down two with the help of some champagne; she had thought it prudent to refuse the vodka. Foie gras on toast, smoked salmon on tiny buckwheat pancakes, and grilled herring with mushrooms followed; the latter, according to Agnes, had been Dimitri’s favorite dish.
For the main course, Agnes’s cook had managed to find a turkey, which was served with chestnut dressing, haricots verts, and pommes de terres soufflés.
“Helena told me how you miss your American foods from home, so I thought it would be pleasant if we had one of your roast turkeys. Is it prepared properly?”
“It’s delicious,” Sam said. “Thanks for thinking of me.”
For pudding they had a choice of Russian honey cake, English fruitcake, or bûche de Noël. The men ate heartily—Étienne in particular was able to consume vast amounts of food, to no ill effect—but Helena accepted only a wafer-thin slice of honey cake.
Most of the conversation over lunch revolved around Agnes’s memories of grand Christmases past with Dimitri, for he had insisted on celebrating twice—once at the end of December, and again in early January, when the Orthodox feast was held. It all seemed terribly grand, a parade of caviar and royalty and Fabergé jewels, and Helena was still trying to wrap her head around the notion of Christmas breakfast in full court dress when her aunt turned to Sam.
“How did your family celebrate Christmas?” she asked. “Are there any odd American customs I need to know about?”
“Apart from eating turkey instead of goose? Not really. Most years we stayed in the city. It was just the four of us for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, but the entire family would always come for dinner. Aunts and uncles and cousins, and any waifs and strays my mother had invited. Friends without family of their own, or people who were traveling and had nowhere else to go.”
“Rather like our little group today,” Agnes agreed. “Is it hard to be so far from home for Christmas?”
He swallowed, his gaze fixed on the table, and nodded slowly. “It is, I guess. But it’s easier to stay away. My brother . . . he was killed in the war. My parents try, but it isn’t the same.”
“I quite understand, and I do beg your pardon if I’ve upset you at all.”
“No,” he said, and the smile he directed at Agnes was genuine. “This is the nicest Christmas I’ve had in years.”
They repaired to the petit salon after lunch, and as Helena and Agnes had exchanged gifts the night before it remained only for her to give Étienne and Sam the presents she’d chosen so carefully. Étienne was very pleased with his brushes, and came over to embrace her heartily right away; Sam, however, reacted in an altogether different fashion, and simply stared at his book, his brow furrowed.
“Is anything the matter? I pulled it off the shelf, and one of the poems in it was so strange and lovely, and I had hoped . . .”
Sam cleared his throat, and then he looked up, his eyes bright. “I met Williams last January. He was at the shop, visiting Miss Beach, and we talked for a few minutes. He must have signed the book then.” He held up the book, open to the title page, where a scrawling signature had been inscribed.
“I didn’t know—I mean, I bought the book from Miss Beach, but I didn’t look at the title page. You like it, then?”
“I do. I like it very much. Thank you.”
She couldn’t have said, afterward, what they talked of that afternoon. Étienne and Agnes worked their way through most of the vodka, and Helena and Sam polished off the rest of the champagne, and by the time her friends got up to leave her head was spinning.
She said good-bye to both men with a chaste kiss on the cheek, for she knew better than to expect a passionate farewell from Sam while Étienne stood nearby. As soon as the door closed behind them she returned to the petit salon to thank her aunt, and to ask if she might return to her room for a nap.
“Of course, but first come and sit with me awhile,” said Agnes, who had the look of a cat sated with cream.
“Is anything the matter?”
“Not at all. You realize, of course, that he’s halfway to falling in love with you.”
For a moment Helena thought she might be ill. She pressed her fingers to her temples and took several deep, steadying breaths. “What? No, he can’t be. I mean . . . we’re only friends. I’m sure that’s all we are.”
“The man is smitten with you. It’s as plain as the freckles on his nose.”
“No, no . . . you’re wrong. He can’t be. It’s impossible.”
Sam was fond of her, and he certainly was attracted to her, but she felt certain that was all. If anything, he was feeling just as she did: confused about the path their friendship should take but reluctant to do anything that might threaten the bond between them.
No matter how he felt, he certainly wasn’t smitten with her. That sort of thing happened in romantic novels, but not in real life.
Agnes patted Helena’s hand, her shrewd gaze missing nothing. “Surely he’s given you some notion of how he feels. Has he kissed you?”
Helena’s hands flew up to cover her face. She wasn’t having this conversation with Agnes. She wasn’t. She’d had too much champagne and rich food; that was all. She would go upstairs and rest and the world would make sense again very soon.
“I’m not your mother, my dear. I won’t have the vapors if you’ve shared a kiss with a man who cares for you.”
“The night . . . the morning he took me to Les Halles,” Helena mumbled, still hiding behind her hands. “He kissed me then. And then, the night of my birthday, I thought he might. But he didn’t. Which was probably for the best, I suppose.”
“Why would you say that? He’s a terribly attractive man, and you’re evidently fond of him.”
“I am, and there have been, well, a few moments when I’ve wondered if there might be something between us, but I can’t let myself hope for anything more. That life . . . it isn’t for me.”
“You mean marriage and babies and all of that?”
“Yes. Once I wanted it, or at least I told myself I did, but now . . . I’m not so sure.”
“And what’s to stop you from becoming his lover?”
Helena was so stunned she could only stare, openmouthed, at her aunt. Surely Agnes wasn’t suggesting—
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not your mother. I won’t condemn you for doing as I did at your age.”
“I honestly don’t know what to say.”
“Would you consider it?” Agnes pressed.
“No! I don’t know . . . perhaps? But what if he doesn’t want me? He’s only ever kissed me the one time, and that was weeks ago.”
“Perhaps he is waiting for you, hmm? In any event, you don’t have to decide anything today. Remain his friend, or become his lover—the only thing that truly matters is your own happiness. That, my dear, is the mark of a modern woman.”