CHAPTER 2
The ragamuffin boy, his mouth twisted into a sneer, eyes bulging from his head in disgust, dashed from behind a building to the street corner. Then he turned, jammed his thumbs into his ears, stuck out his tongue, and wiggled his fingers at someone behind him. A woman in a drab black dress loped after the boy, shooing him forward with her hands.
From her spot across the street, Emma was unable to discern what had captured the boy’s attention. She shielded her eyes against the sun and watched as a nanny, resting her hands lightly on the rail of a black-wicker baby carriage, neared the corner. Spotting the same unidentified threat coming toward her, the young woman lowered her head and stretched a white blanket tightly across the pram’s opening before hurriedly pushing the carriage across the street. Her evasive actions reminded Emma of a bird fleeing a cat.
Soon, the object of their attention came into view. He was no terror, no supernatural adversary. He was a soldier attired in a tattered uniform.
Even from yards away, the scope of the man’s tragedy became clear. Emma guessed the soldier to be in his early twenties. He hobbled on spindly wooden crutches patched together with bandages soiled brown by dirt. His face had been burned, partially ripped away, the right side of his head sunken like a crater, the fleshy remains of his mouth grotesque and twisted. Red patches of flesh and black strands of hair floated like islands upon his scalp. In his left hand, he carried a battered tin cup.
Men and women looked away, lowered their heads, or crossed the street to avoid him. The surprised few who happened to look upon him cringed as if confronted by a monster.
Emma crossed the street in the patchy sunlight, weaving between horse-drawn carriages and sputtering automobiles, drawn closer to the soldier, fascinated by his face. Her curiosity vanquished any urge to flee—she had never seen a human with such injuries. He was abhorrent, freakish to most, but he elicited sympathy in her and, in some manner, empathy—powerful feelings that drove her toward him.
She understood the soldier’s need for comfort. His visage drew her forward, as she remembered the vision of the faceless child. If only she could heal the wounds and obliterate the anger and sadness he must feel, and, by doing so, assuage her own. Did she possess the patience and strength for such a task? The young soldier, illuminated in the sunlight, fueled a sudden bout of nerves in her, as if she were approaching a specter.
He looked up from his cup and stared, no spark of life flickering behind the one terrible, brown eye rimmed with scarred flesh. He might have been an American but he wore the unrecognizable tunic and breeches of a foreign army—Americans had not yet begun to fight in the war.
“May I help you?” Emma said as cheerfully as she could. “Do you need to cross the street?”
The man shook his head and slumped against the building’s brick wall.
Emma looked into his cup. It contained only a few pennies. She pitied him even though such an emotion seemed self-serving as her own memories of loss flooded her. The soldier needed medicine, a safe place to rest and recuperate, and the attention of doctors who could restore his face, if such a feat was possible. She reached into her purse, withdrew a shiny half dollar, and dropped it into the cup.
The soldier peered at it and then lifted his head.
Questions plagued her as she studied his face. What could she do for him? Could she fill his wounds with clay, much as she molded statues over wire frames in her studio? Could she restore his face along with his chance for a normal life? She thought of Tom, serving as a volunteer surgeon in France, struggling each day on the battlefield to save dying and wounded soldiers, facing even his own death. A Red Cross banner flying over a medical camp was no defense against errant shells.
An insane idea, she thought—filling a wound with clay. The dream from her past lingered and she shuddered at the memory, one that filled her with sadness no matter how hard she tried to bury it. Nothing could displace it while she was in the soldier’s company.
She managed to smile as he stared back with the brutal eye. He was dead inside and his cadaverous coldness settled over her like snow falling upon her shoulders on a winter’s day. Emma turned, feeling the eye bore into her back as she walked toward home. His circumstances were too painful; his physical and emotional needs too grave for her to offer any real solace. She looked at her feet, the neat black shoes treading over the bricks as if she were walking in a dream. The soldier’s disfigured face threatened to overwhelm her.
Entry: 13th May, 1917
I return to you, diary, whenever I am bored. And now that Tom is gone, I find solace in you for a long night alone. I wonder where Tom is in France and if he is happy. When he left Boston, he looked so gay, like a child about to get a new toy. I didn’t cry when he stepped into the cab, only a slight numbness overtook me, no more than I have felt upon many an occasion. The next few days I knocked about the house with only the housekeeper for company. I even avoided our friends. When I look into my heart I know Tom’s work is his real wife and I’m only an occasional mistress. This throws me into minor despair, less so now than it did in the last weeks before his departure. Perhaps a certain emptiness has become like a comfortable friend—always there, constant, and without change. And to rid one’s self of a friend causes pain. Since our marriage I have been reliable, steady Emma because that’s what Tom and I wanted from our relationship. Now I focus on my art: A sculptress in a world where men of like ability are held in high regard and women are often scorned.
I feel oddly enough, at 27 years, that my youth is long past. My carefree feelings have been compressed by remembrance. My work calls, but still my art and my emotions suffer from my unfortunate past.
By chance, I saw a badly wounded soldier on the street today. I gave him a fifty-cent piece, which is probably more than he collects in a week. I don’t know his story and I’m sure I will never know, but he wrapped the war around me like a blanket. My fear for Tom, as well as for myself, surfaced, but for different reasons. That wounded, lonely soldier has more in common with me than he suspects. We both need restoration, and we both need love.
Emma stepped back. She stared at the creature and disgust prickled over her, filling her with darkness.
Perhaps the flute was out of proportion to the faun’s hands. No, the panpipe was perfect. She brushed her hand over the clay face. The eyes, the nose, were too odd, too alien, even for a world plummeted into insanity by the war raging in Europe. Thousands died every day; yet, Tom of the gentle hands and the sharp eyes saved soldiers’ lives. Here, safe at home, she tinkered with a maquette, everything seeming so bourgeois, so irrelevant, compared to the unfolding tragedy across the Atlantic.
She wiped her fingers on her white smock. In Boston, the war was as distant and remote as a tropical beach, but, whether she was working or not, her own inadequacies rushed to the fore, their sting compounded by memories. She blotted these out until they were dim shadows; but, when night drew close, or she tossed in muddled sleep, they cut into her like a scissor sliced against a finger.
A chilly breeze ruffled the newspaper covering her worktable and a desiccated edge flapped onto the brown clay. She flicked the newspaper away, then looked up, and watched the dull clouds drift over the courtyard. How long would it be until a spring downpour interrupted her work? Her first day working outside since the cerulean days of October had been frustrating—the exhilarating promise of May dashed by a gloomy afternoon. She put aside her anticipation of light and warmth even as bleak New England winter faded.
She swiped a finger through clay and softly molded the brown blob against the faun’s right cheek, drawing a furrow with her nail, then smoothing it with the mound of her index finger. For her effort, the cheekbone rippled like a creased sheet of paper. Now the faun, its youth destroyed, appeared old and ugly. She blotted the face with a towel, bits of clay sticking to the white cloth. She raked her fingers over the scalp and the faun’s wavy hair shifted like beach sand battling the tide.
No, it’s wrong. All wrong. Perhaps Bela Pratt’s warning was correct. I should spend my time in pursuits more suited to a woman. No, that’s madness! What do critics know? How can they understand what I’ve felt, what I’ve experienced?
Tom appeared before her, pleasing in his soft smile, his manner gentle, his words encouraging her from thousands of miles away. He wanted her to succeed! Just as quickly as she gauged his support it faded under her apprehension. He only wanted to keep her busy; thus, her little avocation would root her to home, pleasantly occupied, while he remained at the Front, doing the job he needed to do.
Lazarus padded past the open French doors into the courtyard, his tail slapping her leg. As she reached down to pet him, a spit of rain splashed her hand.
The faun stood naked, unprotected, under the gray, iron sky.
“Come, inside!” she yelled at Lazarus as he circled the courtyard before following her across the threshold. She closed the doors against the wind and stood in front of the logs sizzling in the sitting room fireplace. Her young Irish housekeeper, Anne, had stoked it earlier that afternoon in anticipation of a dreary day. The cheery light and warmth of the room buoyed her somewhat as the dog settled at her feet. Yet, she couldn’t help but stare through the wavy glass panes at her work sitting forlornly on the table.
“I feel sorry for the faun,” she said to Lazarus.
The small fir in the courtyard thrashed in a sudden burst of wind, and rain pattered upon the walls in increasing veils. Rivulets of muddy clay coursed down the faun, onto the table, soaking the newspaper, before splashing in brown streams upon the stones. The face she had fretted over for weeks was dissolving in the downpour. She turned to the fire and called for Anne.
The faun’s face was never right. Never.
Agitated, she swiped her hand across her husband’s photograph on the mantel. An oily film of soot and smoke coated the glass. Tom, in a contemplative mood, stared out at her. Anne needed to be more thorough in her cleaning. Tom’s picture should never be allowed to get dirty—but the thought arose more from irritation with her husband’s absence than with the housekeeper’s duties.
She stared at the photograph and was transported to the privacy of their bed in their first years of marriage. Trying to fire his emotions, she had touched his cheek, run a finger over the stubble of his chin, and down through the light matting of blond chest hair. Often when they had made love, even when she was thinking of Kurt, she studied the muscle and sinew of his body, the bone and cords that formed him. In a clinical way, he was a model for her. He had the gift of a surgeon; but, in the silence and the darkness, she was the artist, the sculptress who saw beyond the body, into the soul, capturing that essence for later transformation into bronze or marble.
But the early days with Tom had become long ago and Emma struggled to recreate in her mind any touch from a man, the way it had been before such tactile senses had diminished.
Anne broke the silence with her soft query, “Ma’am?”
“I’ll have supper upstairs, in the studio,” Emma said.
Anne nodded and then cried out.
“For heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?”
“Your statue, ma’am. It’s melting.”
The faun dripped in the murky light, the face transformed by the rain into a shapeless mass. Emma took some pleasure in watching the transfiguration, as if she were a Greek goddess mocking the folly of men.
“It’s all right,” she replied after some time, “the faun was a failure.”
“I thought it was beautiful,” Anne said.
“If only you were a critic.” She pointed to Tom’s photograph. “The glass is dirty. Please clean it the next time you do the room. I’d like his picture—”
“I understand, ma’am. I know how you must miss him.” Anne smiled.
“I don’t want things to get . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence because she didn’t know how to reply. Yes, she missed him dearly at times, but her instruction was more a matter of keeping a household together.
Anne departed and Emma settled into her favorite chair across from the fire. Lazarus, needing no prodding, curled at her feet. With her every glance into the courtyard the faun’s form changed—metamorphosing—the eyes washing away, the nose disintegrating to a smooth lump. The brown water pooled on the stones.
An image jolted her.
Narcissus.
After supper, she would look at her art books for depictions of the youth obsessed with his image. He was the perfect metaphor for the nations, all vainglorious, thrust into war. Why had she not considered the subject before?
Her mind drifted from her work to Tom. From a basket next to her chair, she fished out his first letter from Europe. She read the censored text again, searching for some hidden meaning or further deduction regarding his emotional state that she might have overlooked on previous readings.
10th April, 1917
My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):
How can I describe what I see here? I cannot, for the censor would never let my words pass. We crossed the Atlantic without incident—although our guard was always up. Several merchant ships had XXXXXXXX. Upon arriving in France, the Red Cross rushed us to a field hospital at XXXXX. The field officer, without endangering our lives, wanted us to understand what we would be up against. The medical conditions are primitive but serviceable. The tents to which the injured are carried strive to keep out the wind, the rain, and the heat. The men lie in single beds under white sheets and service blankets. The smell of bleach and alcohol permeates the tents, but the men, mostly French, seem in somewhat good spirits despite their injuries. Some of them are in desperate shape, however, with wounds so XXXXXXXXXXXXXX they must eventually be moved to a better facility.
I am traveling now and will be happy when we arrive at XXXXX. There, I hope, we doctors will not have to deal with XXXXXX conditions, XXXX, or the rampant XXXXX. My fervent wish is that these men, the most seriously injured, fighting the good fight, have lives ahead of them, and that I, doing my duty, will aid them in their recovery.
Our stop in Paris was brief, and I was absolutely enchanted by the city. I had the chance to sneak away for a few hours and visit Notre Dame. The venerable Cathedral never looked so formidable, or as welcoming, as it did on a Sunday evening when I climbed to the top, to stand amongst the eternal gargoyles and look out over the shimmering silver city. A mass was being said below. The sun was setting in the west, near the Eiffel Tower, and its rays cut through a bank of purple clouds which dripped rain over the arrondissement. The view brought chills to my spine and I wished you were here to see the enchantment as well.
I do miss you and Boston. Enjoy the spring days—you know how precious they are. Take a walk with Lazarus along the river. His name always reminds me of spring and eternal life.
I will write you as soon as I arrive at my destination and tell you as much as I can.
Give Anne my best wishes. Have her bake something special for you—something light for the warmer weather. Soon you will be able to drink lemonade in the courtyard with Louisa.
By the way, how is the faun coming along? I know you were pleased with what you had accomplished so far. I believe it’s your best work to date, especially the face. I fully expect to see it in bronze by the time I return. Hopefully, deadlines will be set for both—completion of your work and an end to the fighting. Most of all, I hope your gallery showing of Diana goes well. I know it will. Have faith in your talents.
Your husband,
Tom
Emma refolded the letter and dropped it in the basket. Not once did he write, I love you. The thought struck her that he missed her and Boston equally, perhaps Boston more. The same feeling had filled her the night before he left for Europe. Later, as she watched the endless stars pass beyond their bedroom window, she tossed, sleepless, but still wondered, why the concern? Would separation be so bad? Their marriage was as worn as an old shoe. She was the trusty book and Tom the trusty bookend. However, one without the other would ruin the pair.
Now that he was gone, she strove to remain placid, resolved not to break under the fear of a distant and bitter war. She shook off a burst of anger about his absence and felt ashamed. Tom was a noble man performing a noble deed, she the sacrifice that he had made in the grand plan to make the world safe. At least he supported her art. For the moment, that was all that mattered.
* * *
The evening’s rain passed and the next morning fled as quietly as a moth on wing.
The day was sunny and clear, but chilled by a northwest wind. In the afternoon, Emma began her preparations for the gallery opening. She and Tom had stipulated a bathroom with hot and cold running water for their home. Anne drew hot water in the claw tub, and Emma took her time, soaking up to her neck. In the bath, she paid particular attention to her hands, scraping the clay from under her nails, polishing them with a buff, and washing her fingers with a bar of oatmeal soap. After, she picked out a simple black dress, jacket, and hat from her closet and finished the outfit with a mauve scarf.
Anne ushered Louisa into the sitting room promptly at six, as Emma relaxed with a cup of tea. Louisa was dressed smartly as usual, attired in a dark coat with an ermine-trimmed collar. The few open buttons of her outerwear revealed an emerald green dress of layered folds accented by a platinum leopard pin studded with silver and black diamonds.
“Where should we eat?” Louisa asked in a chipper voice.
“I hope you won’t be too upset, my zephyr, but I’m in no mood,” Emma said.
“To eat?” Louisa stepped forward and placed a hand on Emma’s forehead in mock concern. “I’ve never seen you too sick to eat. You’ve the constitution of a horse, and the appetite of one as well.”
“Thank you, but I’m too nervous about the opening to eat. I’m worried about what the critics will say.”
“Nonsense. Just a slight case of nerves. Nothing to get worked up about. You must eat.” Louisa slipped out of her coat and settled into the wing chair near the fireplace.
Emma took another sip and then replaced the cup in the saucer. “When I meet a stranger, I tell them about my zephyr. You are like a warm breeze comforting me—a woman of impeccable social standing wrapped in current fashion. Everything I’m not.”
Louisa laughed. “Should I be insulted? No, I think your assessment is fair—and you have hit upon my loyalty.” She tapped her fan against her knee. “You do need to get out of the house more often, Emma. Many days, I worry about you in a practical sense. I know you’re making your mark and I admire you for that; but as much as I respect your passion for art, there are other things in life.”
“I’m quite aware of that. Sometimes I feel stuck in the last century and I wish I could rid myself of the classical references. I’d like to stop thinking in those antiquated terms because they are quite limiting. After all, the world has entered a new age.”
“Hardly an age of genius,” Louisa said with a raised eyebrow. “But you, my dear, are an exception, despite any outmoded conceptions you might have. Your solitary pursuits may confine you, but Boston depends on women like Emma Lewis Swan to lead the way—out of the kitchen and into the world. However, I would never ask you to relinquish the classics. Where would we be without the Greeks and the Romans?”
“Perhaps not in this horrific war, considering their propensity for battles.”
“Speaking of . . .” Louisa leaned forward, rustling the folds of her dress. “Have you heard from Tom?”
“Yes. He’s on the way to a hospital somewhere in France.” She looked at her cup. “Would you like Anne to bring tea?”
“I do hope he’s in fine form—no tea for me. I’m quite content.”
“As fine as can be.” Emma looked at her friend. “All in all there’s not much to say about the whole matter. He can only tell me so much, and I can only go about the house, continue my work, and wish the whole mess would be over. He told me in a letter how much he misses Boston, and how you and I should drink lemonade in the courtyard.”
Louisa shifted her gaze and stared into the shadowy space beyond the French doors. “Is that your faun?”
Emma rose from her chair and walked to the threshold.
“That was my faun,” she said, “before I let nature destroy it.”
Louisa waved her hands in a gesture of dismissal. “Well, I didn’t much care for it anyway—something seemed off about the face.”
“It was that evident?” Emma asked.
Louisa nodded. “Well, before we become too morose, I think you need a lift. Rather than hail a cab, let’s be adventurous and walk to the gallery. Afterwards, we can stop at Grover’s for a bite.”
“I truly do have a case of nerves.”
“You’ll be fine. Everyone will love your work.”
“Well, I see you’ve settled the matter,” Emma said. “Let’s be off.” She strode to her friend and offered a hand. Louisa rose gracefully from the wing chair. After saying good-bye to Anne, they walked arm in arm out the door after Emma suggested a route by the Charles River.
Evening, like a deep-blue blanket, descended upon Boston. In the west, the sun dipped toward Cambridge, casting angular patches of light on the city across the Charles. To the east, toward the Atlantic, the Back Bay row houses formed a horizontal line against the deepening twilight. Ducks, with their young, paddled near the river’s shore, while gulls soared on white wing. A stiff breeze pushed at their backs as they passed by the few walkers out for a stroll. Emma was quiet while Louisa chattered about her Commonwealth Avenue neighbors.
When they arrived at the Fountain Gallery on Newbury Street, they joined a small crowd inside. The gallery walls were hung with brightly colored paintings, many in compositional forms Emma had never seen before. Her sculpture, Diana, sat on an onyx pedestal near the center of the exhibition. Emma spotted Alex Hippel, the owner, talking to a prospective client by a painting on the back wall. She disengaged herself from Louisa and edged toward the two men.
“It’s rubbish on canvas,” she overheard the man say as she approached. “As ridiculous as what those French maniacs produced at the end of the last century.”
“No, not so,” Alex insisted. He repeated this sentiment over and over, each time shaking his head and wagging a finger at the man. “Wait . . . wait and see. This painting will be among the great works one day.” The man scoffed and strolled off. Alex turned.
Emma forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Alex. These old-fashioned patrons don’t understand what you’re trying to do.”
“Ah, I feel sorry for them. They’re cursed in Boston.” He waved a hand toward the painting. “Only New Yorkers understand true art. Someday this bold brushwork, this powerful rendering of form and color will be commonplace.”
Emma studied the canvas, but squelched her desire to reach out and touch the bold geometric shapes that disturbed yet intrigued her. The odor of fresh oil paint wafted over her.
“Is there a point to this?” she asked Alex.
He sighed. “Of course. Can’t you see the woman’s form in the chair? Or the bouquet of flowers on the table next to her?”
“Not really, but you know what a classicist I am. Sometimes I’m afraid the world has left me and my art behind.”
“I’m afraid sculpture is no different. I recognize your figural talents, but art is headed in a new direction. However, there is room for both. You wouldn’t be in this show if I didn’t believe in you.”
She felt a finger on her shoulder.
“You must come,” Louisa whispered. “A crowd has gathered around your statue.”
“A moment, Alex. . . .”
“Don’t be disappointed,” he cautioned her.
The crowd, unaware of Emma’s presence, murmured as she approached. Sniggers and muffled laughter burst forth as well. She broke away from Louisa and stood behind the man who had argued with Alex about the painting. He was listening to another man with a profuse shock of gray hair, who held a notebook and pen. She studied them both, the former a bit hunched at the shoulders, dressed in a somewhat tattered navy jacket, the latter attired in an impeccable black suit looking like a lion defending his territory.
“I must say,” the lion said, holding court while he scribbled notes, “this statue is the best piece in the show—if only the artist had the talent to display emotion on any level. Look at the face.” The group bent toward the bronze of a kneeling woman with the bow in her hand. “Do you see any expression? How can we tell if Diana is overjoyed or distraught at the prospect of killing the stag? The sculpture is devoid of true feeling. However, I regard this piece with more affinity than the other works in this heinous gathering.”
“You are quite correct, Vreland,” the fawning man next to him chimed in. “Of course this is the effort of a woman.” The appellation dripped with acid. “Women should know better than to attempt an art clearly intended for a man. They can dabble, but never succeed.” The women gathered around Emma’s bronze tittered—only one looked embarrassed about the comment of the middle-aged man in the navy jacket who stood so close to Vreland.
The name sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. Vreland—the esteemed art critic for the Boston Register.
Emma looked at her Diana. It had taken two years to complete. The bow, the grasp of the fingers on the archer’s string, the knee and leg resting on the base: all took monumental effort. Despite her struggles with the work, the balance of the legs, the proportion of the hips, the abdomen’s slight plumpness and the soft curve of the breasts had been easier for her than the face.
“I may be a failure as a sculptress, but I’m not a failure as a woman,” she said to Louisa, while directing her comment to the group.
“Now, Emma,” Louisa whispered.
The two men turned to stare.
“So, you are Emma Lewis Swan?” Vreland asked. “I’m sorry we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Yes. Perhaps I should retreat to the middle of the last century where I could sculpt as Ellis Bell or some other pseudonym satisfying to men of your ilk.”
“My pleasure,” Vreland said and bowed. The man next to him nodded stiffly. “I meant no offense,” he continued, “but in my capacity as a critic for the Register, you are aware I must make artistic judgments.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Emma said, sizing up the man. “You are the Mr. Vreland, the critic who has savaged artists before me.”
“Savaged is a strong word, Mrs. Swan,” Vreland said, “and I honestly don’t remember seeing any of your work before now. Pity.” His gray eyes swept over Emma with a fierce intensity. “My newspaper pays for my artistic opinions. The editors, and the public, I might add, see worth in my judgments.”
“Despite your failed memory, many have been on the poor side of your judgments previously. I’d hoped this opening might prove differently, but I’d been warned.”
“I’m afraid not.” He paused and slowly pointed a finger at the statue. “One . . . only has to look. Warned . . . it must have been someone with little artistic taste.”
Emma’s cheeks flushed and she bit her tongue not to mention Bela Pratt’s name.
“Still,” he said, “I reiterate my feeling that your sculpture is the best piece in a mediocre show.”
“Damned with faint praise,” Emma responded. “I shall bear that in mind when I read your words tomorrow—if they are literate.” The disagreeable man next to Vreland hissed at Emma.
“And who are you?” Emma asked, barely containing her anger.
“Mr. Everett—an admirer of good art.”
Louisa tugged at her arm. “Alex is waving to us.”
“Until we meet again, Vreland,” Emma said, with mock sincerity. “Good evening, Mr. Everett.”
Louisa pulled her toward Alex. “Are you mad? You’ll catch more ants with honey than vinegar. Vreland will rip you to shreds.”
“I couldn’t care less.” Emma disengaged herself from Louisa and reconsidered her attitude. “Oh, that’s a lie. But, really, consorting with a clod who believes sculpting is only for men . . . what nonsense.”
Alex strode toward them with his hands clasped tightly. “The verdict?” he asked Emma. His light-brown eyes flashed with curiosity.
“Not good, I’m afraid. Fortunately, Louisa came to my rescue before I made a complete ass of myself.”
“There are worse enemies than Vreland, but, at the moment, I can’t think of any,” Alex said and then kissed Emma on the cheek. “Sometimes our enemies are inside us, and if we defeat ourselves we’re doomed despite what anyone else says. Art will change, society’s perspective will shift, and Vreland and his associates will remain mired in the nineteenth century. I’m certain his review of this show will be positively scathing.”
“I’m sorry, Alex,” Emma said. “I should have controlled my feelings.”
“Artists and women have done so for far too long. Don’t give Vreland another thought—although I’m not sure how long I can continue to sustain this gallery in the face of unabashed criticism. Either the critics or the war will be the end of me.”
Louisa sighed. “Don’t be silly. You’re the only breath of fresh air in Boston. Your supporters will rally. Long live the Fountain!”
“You really are beginning to sound like a reactionary,” Emma said to her friend. “Come, we should leave and allow Alex to pursue his clients. I’ve done enough damage for one night.”
Emma said her good-byes to Alex and a few others in the gallery, lingering for longer than she would have liked. When she passed her now deserted sculpture, she patted it on the head.
Dusk had deepened the shadows to indigo when they stepped onto Newbury Street. The encroaching darkness battled with man-made lights, some soft and warm, some muted by emerging spring leaves, others glaring electric white in shop and apartment windows.
“Can you imagine a world without electricity?” Emma asked Louisa.
“Of course not. Soon the world will be ruled by the automobile, electric gadgets, and the flying machine.”
“Not that long ago, we had none of them. How the world has changed.” Suddenly, Emma was overcome by a powerful melancholia and stopped in the recessed entrance of a milliner’s storefront. “It’s too easy to say I miss Tom—my feelings are much more complicated than that, but what would my life be like, if he never came back?” She looked over her friend’s shoulder, above the buildings, at the sparkling pinpoints of stars and chided herself for asking such a question—of course, she wanted him to return, but the possibility of his death frightened her, leaving her feeling helpless and alone in a world ruled by men, exacerbated by her conversation with Vreland and Everett, his contentious friend.
“I’m sure the French forces and the Red Cross will protect Tom to the fullest,” Louisa said and patted Emma’s hand. “I’m concerned as well, but Tom probably won’t be at the Front—he’ll be in some comfortable hospital far away from the battle. And the war will be over quickly now that we’re in it. He will be home before you know it. I promise.”
Emma took a deep breath. “Would you mind if we didn’t have supper out tonight? I would be happy at home with tea or, on second thought, a shot of gin. Will you join me?”
“Seeing how I’m a single woman in Boston with no better offer? Yes.”
As they left the doorway, Emma glanced down the street and spotted the dim profile of the soldier she had seen days before, leaning on his crutches, hunkering against a building, his left hand shaking the cup at passersby.
Louisa sniffed as they swept past him and whispered, “This is what we have to look forward to—the horrors of war.”
The evening, as soft and languid as the May air, held no comforts. She looked back several times at the soldier and wondered if he would ever find happiness. Her restless state of mind made her wonder as much for herself. First, Kurt, and then Tom. Her subdued passion ached within her like a spring bubbling to burst forth from the earth. Her obsession with Kurt, her predictable relationship with Tom, had led to disasters of the heart and she had to come to terms with both. Could she ever find peace?
* * *
She studied the drawing in front of her, brushing her hand softly over the page, feeling the smoothness of the paper against the mound of her index finger, tracing the face over and over until the lines were fixed in her mind.
If only . . . if only the process weren’t so difficult—to replicate the artist’s work into sculpture. Narcissus’ reflection stared at her as she sat at her desk—a face filled with vacant delight, the pool shimmering around it. The face should be sad in its preoccupation with its own beauty.
A palpable loneliness coursed through her, she a solitary figure in the upstairs studio in the late evening. Anne had gone to bed after clearing the dishes and the pleasant odors of dinner in the sitting room had been overtaken by the oily sweetness of paint and the earthy scent of clay. Logs crackled in the small fireplace, the light distended and orange, an ember flicking now and then above the flames. The light reminded her of the war so far away—of bombs falling and flames licking at their targets. She shifted her attention from the fire and looked again at the beautiful youth in the drawing.
There was nothing more to be done on the sketches. Work on the new sculpture could begin as soon as possible. Her lips puckered as she thought of Vreland’s tart Register review that would surely appear the next morning. Perhaps she wouldn’t read it at all, for to take in the words was to risk much. Skin is frail, but the ego is even more fragile. The slightest prick can wound permanently. She studied the few paintings stacked against the wall, an art she dabbled in when the mood struck her—chiaroscuro studies of faces, half-finished landscapes. How silly. All artists receive bad reviews. She considered that recovery from such an injury to her ego might take days, months, even years. But she needn’t worry about learning the outcome of Vreland’s column. Louisa, without fail, would herald any news—good or disastrous.
27th April, 1917
My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):
I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. Even though the trip was long and exhausting, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to see as much of France as possible, unlike some of the other men who slept the hours blissfully away. One never knows when God may call, so I try to take advantage of the present. You must forgive me; I don’t intend to be morose. But one sees so much—death.
The hospital is near XXXXX and is quiet for now; the calm before the storm. It is tiny compared with Boston’s major hospital. I’m not sure how much I can tell you. Suffice it to say the facilities are as modern as French and American know-how can make it. I would change a few things, but I’m only a surgeon, not the Directeur and by no means the Commanding Surgeon.
Last night, I was able to get away to the city square just before dark. I sat on a bench under a fragrant flowering tree. I’m not sure what it was (it smelled faintly of lemon), and when the breeze stirred, it showered white flowers around me. It was like sitting in a heavenly spring rain. And, of course, you came into my reverie, my visions of you sitting by the fire or perhaps curled up with Lazarus—please give him a pat and a hug from me. At one point, I thought I saw yellow flashes in the sky and heard exploding shells, but the disturbance must have come from a distant storm.
I haven’t heard from you. I assume it’s the post and not that you have lost affection for me! Perhaps the Red Cross has had trouble tracking me down. I wish the same for the Germans.
I’m most concerned about your gallery showing. I hope it goes well. Remember, have faith in your talents despite what others may say. Please give my best to Louisa. I miss Anne’s cooking.
Your husband,
Tom
She read Tom’s letter the next morning and then dropped it on her studio desk.
You came into my reverie. I miss Anne’s cooking.
His words struck her as intellectual and hollow and, in their coolness, a mirror of their marriage. Nothing would change while they were thousands of miles apart. A chilling thought struck her: What if nothing ever changes? The days without Tom were torturous, but so was the thought of grinding on in a marriage devoid of pleasure. She was caught between a desire to break free and the constraints of her marriage contract. What else could a woman expect but to bow to the ways of men?
A knock at the front door echoed up the stairs; Anne rushed to answer, the wooden floor creaking under her shoes.
Hearing the sound, Emma stopped drafting the thoughts she planned to put on paper to Tom, but then resumed, not wishing to be bothered by a visitor. Emma presumed Louisa might be at the door with news of Vreland’s review; on the other hand, the Sunday morning disturbance might be from a salesman peddling sundries.
Two male voices, firm but pleasant, filtered up the stairs.
Not one, but two peddlers? She couldn’t hear them distinctly enough to make out their words.
Emma sighed and replaced her pen in the desk notch. Distracted from her letter, she stared out the window into the milky light of morning and a sky patchy with clouds. The day was as diffuse as her mood. She fidgeted with notepaper on her desk, folding and refolding it, until she settled upon a perfect square to fit the envelope in front of her. She thought of Vreland and cursed him as the soft steps approached.
Anne opened the studio door and peered around it. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but it’s Mr. Hippel, the gallery owner, with a gentleman caller.”
Emma was pleasantly surprised. “Really? Show them up.” Perhaps the review was palatable after all. She slid two chairs from their places flanking the fireplace and positioned them in front of her desk.
After a few moments, Anne reappeared, followed by the two men.
Alex brushed past the housekeeper, tugging at the man behind him, relinquishing his grip long enough to give Emma a kiss on the cheek.
“Emma . . . Emma,” Alex said, his voice a plaintive sigh. “Have you read the morning paper?”
She motioned for the two men to sit. “I don’t like the sound of that question. No, I had no stomach for it.”
Alex guided his guest to a chair.
“Vreland has finally gone mad,” Alex said, taking off his hat and seating himself next to the other visitor. He settled his brown-felt derby firmly in his lap, revealing the thinning black hair atop his head, and the slight graying of the temples. “The monster wants to kill me—drive me insane—he will only be happy if I throw myself into the Charles. There is no limit to his persecution!”
“Alex, you’re being melodramatic,” Emma said, judging the worth of his words. “Surely, the review wasn’t that horrible.”
“Oh no?”
Emma clutched the arms of her chair. “Well, go ahead, tell me. I’ve been anxious all morning. Louisa Markham didn’t telephone, so I assumed the news was bad.”
“Bad would be a superlative in Vreland’s view.” He pulled a clipped newspaper article from his jacket pocket. “How’s this? ‘A show of horrors . . . art created by lunatics, thrust upon an unsuspecting public . . . the Fountain’s open door is too high a price to pay for these monstrosities.’ Do you call that bad?” Alex’s head sank over his chest.
“No, I suppose not. It’s much worse than bad.” Emma slumped in her chair, defeated by the depth of Vreland’s spleen. “I hate to ask . . . but my Diana?”
Alex lifted his head. “You should be grateful you were dismissed in one sentence. Vreland was kind to you. He reserved his rants about lack of talent and assaults on aesthetics for others. The sum of his commentary about your sculpture was: ‘Diana, by Emma Lewis Swan, unlike nothing else in the gallery, has the soul of an icicle.’” Alex cracked a thin smile. “He wouldn’t even begrudge you an iceberg.”
She thought she had prepared herself for such a remark, but pain slashed across her chest—a swift laceration leaving no visible sign, but somehow bleeding from the heart. “I see,” she said weakly. She looked away from them and out the window. The day seemed darker now even though the strengthening sun had broken through the thinning clouds.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “You and I know your work is beautiful. Why, even Mr. Bower has offered to hunt Vreland down—the dog—and thrash him.”
Emma chuckled, but the wound still bled.
“I’ve been such a boor,” Alex continued, “I haven’t even introduced the two of you. This is Linton Bower, the painter who created the wonderful Woman with Still Life which that disagreeable patron with Vreland—Everett—described as ‘rubbish on canvas.’”
Linton nodded and smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Swan. I admire your art, even though we work in two very different styles.”
Emma looked at the man to Alex’s left. When Linton had entered the room, she had avoided looking at him directly. Now she realized why. He was blind and stunningly handsome, so much so that she didn’t want to stare at him like a freak in a circus sideshow. A translucent film covered the pale blue irises of both eyes. His face, however, retained the ruddy freshness of youth—hair profuse, black, and wavy upon his head, his lips full and tinged with red. The extent of his beauty startled her. An instantaneous physical attraction swelled within her and she fought back a rushing blush of embarrassment.
Linton, wearing a cream-colored suit and waistcoat, sat confidently in his chair, his manner dignified yet relaxed. Emma found it hard to keep from staring at his muscled arms and sturdy legs, which were evident through his stylish attire.
“I believe I misunderstood your painting.” She directed her remark to Linton in an effort to draw Alex’s attention away from her discomfort.
“You wouldn’t be the first,” Linton replied.
“I’m . . . sorry. . . .” Emma sputtered.
“You needn’t be,” he said. “Most people are shocked when they’re introduced to a blind painter.” He lifted his hands to his eyes. “Blind is too strong a word. When the lighting is perfect, I can make out fuzzy shapes and colors. Not much more. That’s how I paint . . . I understand that you paint as well.”
Emma glared at Alex, who shook his head, indicating that he hadn’t said a word to Linton about her forays into other art forms. “I attempt to paint, but in a classical manner—my work isn’t as exciting as the work you do.”
“But wouldn’t you agree, Emma, this young man has talent?” Alex asked.
“Exceptional.”
“Of course, considering Linton’s condition, I never took his threat of thrashing Vreland seriously.”
Emma and Alex laughed after catching Linton’s own contagious laughter.
“That is what I love about you, Alex,” she said. “Never one to shy away from scandal—having one of your artists thrash our favorite critic! Boston would be a dreary place without you.” She paused and looked again at Linton, but dared not stare long for fear of being rude. “How about tea? Anne can make a pot.”
“Thank you, but we must be going,” Alex said. “I’m taking Linton to look at new studio space.”
“Actually, feel new studio space,” Linton said. “Five of my paintings from the exhibition have sold. That money and Alex’s support have given me enough courage to think about painting outside my cramped apartment. I’ll know the moment I walk into the place whether it’s right for me.”
“That’s wonderful,” Emma said.
Alex lifted his hat. “I wanted to give you Vreland’s choice words personally. I’d hoped Louisa hadn’t telephoned or dropped by.”
“She would never be a party to destroying my ego,” Emma said. “She and Tom always build me up.”
“Of course. It’s as I said. We must carry on despite what others think. Beauty lives in our work.”
Emma tapped her desk. “Because we aren’t having tea, would you mind if I accompanied you on your walk? It’s a nice day and I’d like to get out of the house—I can’t think of better companionship.”
“Of course not,” Linton said briskly.
Alex frowned, taken aback by Linton’s quick response. “We’ll be doing quite a bit of walking.”
“The air will do me good,” Emma said.
“Please join us,” Linton said. “I love to walk—particularly in the bright light. In the sun, the world becomes a beautiful kaleidoscope of color and form. Alex is one of the few who has taken the trouble to walk with me.”
“Now you have my company as well,” Emma said.
Linton rose from his chair. “I would be thrilled for you to accompany us, Mrs. Swan.”
Alex managed a weak smile. “Well then, let’s be off. The morning is almost gone.”
Emma nodded, excited to talk a walk with a handsome man by her side and to see the prospective studio. Linton was a kindred soul, she knew; that understanding coming from deep within her, as if she had known him for years; much stronger, much deeper, more passionate, than the novelty of a first meeting—this attraction, this drawing toward him, could be dangerous if she let it get out of control. Don’t be a schoolgirl, Emma. You’ve already allowed that to happen one time too many. She would have plenty of time to think as they walked.
* * *
Can I look at him? Dare I walk as close as I wish? The air tingled around her. What a sense of romance—what prickles of excitement—clung to her skin. The pleasure of walking with a man reminded her of the times that she and Tom had strolled the Embankment, arm in arm, enjoying a bright spring day or a sultry summer evening. But, with Linton, the ugly specter of the forbidden reared its head again, as it had with Kurt, and she vowed to push it away, to resist its seductive charm.
Her heart beat faster when Linton’s hand rested upon her arm. Ladies, attired in pleated Sunday dresses of rich greens and blues, wearing brimmed hats, sporting yellow and white parasols trimmed in black, turned their heads as they passed. She enjoyed the scandalous attention that the looks elicited. Being with Linton opened her to freedom, to a giddy expansion of breath and soul, filling her with a vitality she hadn’t felt in years. The sidewalk glided under her feet, the warm sun shone more glorious than ever upon her body. May, a fickle month—one of beauty, life, and regeneration in Boston, if winter can be held in abeyance—had never seemed so beautiful.
They glided under the fresh canopy of leaves, across the avenues, past the brownstones and weathered churches, into a part of the city Emma had never seen before. Even as she enjoyed her companion and the sight of the fading blooms of a bed of red tulips, the nascent buds of the lilac, she marveled at the power of her deceit. Was she unfaithful because she was enjoying a walk with an attractive man? Of course not. But what about Linton drew her to him? In her heart, she knew. He was as forbidden, as dangerous a new love as Kurt had been. Linton’s vitality reminded her of her former lover—a man she hadn’t seen in many years, a man she dreamed of, but hoped not to remember. That time when they were last together in Lowell now seemed as foreign as the faun’s face; yet, being with Linton brought back a strange familiarity.
The call of the illicit, the seductive danger of romance, were siren calls to her artist’s soul. But her conscience reminded her that emotions should be held in check because the risks of passion were too great.
And then an equally dangerous thought came upon her. It would force Linton and her together for art’s sake. Linton is my Narcissus. As quickly as the idea entered her mind, the matter was settled—a nod to taboo in a manner no one could question except herself.
When they crossed the triangle at Columbus Avenue, Linton wrapped his left arm gently around her waist for support. A thrill ran up her back, his intimacy enough to rock her on her feet. But the world of men was never far away—Kurt, Tom, even Alex. They passed a war poster in a shop window that dampened her good spirits. Shame washed over her—how could she enjoy her time, even this innocent walk, with Linton, while Tom toiled as a surgeon on French soil? The reality and horror of it, like the determined doughboy in the poster, sent her plummeting from the heavens. She squeezed Linton’s arm and focused on the city stretching before her—brick bowfront after brick bowfront in an undulating wave to the horizon. Life traveled that endless distance, until it could proceed no further.
* * *
“Here it is,” Alex said. He withdrew a key from his pants pocket.
Emma looked at the stone building that towered over them—five stories tall, ugly, utilitarian in its uninspired rectangular architecture. It plunged the adjoining alley into darkness as it pushed back into the murky depths of the lot. A tailor and a cobbler occupied the ground floor, the wares of the trades, suits and shoes, displayed in the grimy windows.
“It’s one flight up,” Alex said. “I know the landlord. He was kind enough to give me the key.”
Emma and Linton, behind Alex, climbed the dingy stairs lined with dust and bits of dead leaves.
“Contrary to what you might think, Mrs. Swan, I have no trouble navigating stairs,” Linton said.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
At the landing, Alex stopped at a green metal door inset with frosted glass. He slipped the key into the lock and led them inside.
A vast room, broken only by its circular stone columns, opened before them. The studio smelled of dust and the vacant odor of neglect. Greasy cobwebs dangled from the high ceiling. But the light! The room, which faced west, was already filling with afternoon sun thanks to an unbroken row of large windows that looked out upon the low buildings across the street.
“Linton, it’s perfect,” Emma said. “It needs sprucing up, but I could help you with that.”
“Really, Emma, you go too far,” Alex said, his voice bordering on censure. “Linton isn’t an invalid. He knows how to handle a broom.”
“Ssshhh!” Linton put a finger to his lips. “Let me walk.”
He withdrew his arm from Emma’s and took a few steps toward the windows. Then, he turned in a circle, his head and the cloudy eyes directed toward the ceiling. He stopped, faced the windows again, walked to them, and caressed the glass as if it were fine crystal. After a few moments, he walked back to Emma in measured steps.
“I love it,” Linton said as he approached. Fire sparkled beneath the pale irises. “The light is extraordinary. When can I have it, Alex?”
“The first of June, if you wish.” Alex turned to Emma. “The owner has made a very generous offer because he owes me a few favors. Linton can have the space for five dollars a month.” Alex added with a wink to Emma, “The details of our business proposition shall remain undisclosed to all.”
“Always,” Emma said.
“Then, it’s settled,” Linton said. “The space is mine as of June. I already know where I’ll set up my easels. Perhaps a sofa and some chairs. My table and work counter will be there.” He pointed to a dusty corner on the south side of the room. “Now, I only need to retrace our steps, so I can find my way home.”
“Come then,” Alex offered. “I have an appointment after lunch with a potential buyer.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Swan would be glad to escort me home,” Linton said. He took no notice of Alex, but stared at Emma with his dim eyes.
Alex smiled curtly as if overpowered by the two and tipped his hat to Emma. “Who am I to dissuade creative minds from their artistic pursuits?” He shook Linton’s hand and then placed the key in his palm. “Hold on to it. I’ll deliver the good news personally to the landlord. I know he’ll be pleased. Good-bye, Emma. Linton . . .” Alex brushed his hands against Linton’s and then he was gone.
“I wish there was a place to sit,” Linton said, backing away from Emma. He waved his right hand in a broad circle. “Is there any furniture?”
“Unfortunately, no. Not even a footstool. But we won’t be here long.” She hoped she didn’t sound too disingenuous because, in actuality, she wanted to linger in the studio, breathe in the electric air of possibility.
“Thank you for coming today, Mrs. Swan,” Linton said, and returned to the windows. “It would have been harder to make up my mind with just Alex accompanying me.”
“Why?” she asked. “And, please, call me Emma.” She stopped behind him as he peered through the dusty glass. He stood, his hands planted against the casement, the contours of his shoulders and back showing beneath the suit jacket.
“Because Alex would have forced the issue,” he replied. “He wants me to paint—to take this space no matter what. Even though I’m blind, I’m no fool. I’m an asset to him as long as I make money.”
“That’s rather cold thinking.”
He looked over his shoulder for a moment. “Not at all. Art is a business as well as a vocation. Think what financial straits Alex would be in if he made no sales at all. The Fountain is barely scraping by as it is. He needs artists who sell.”
“Unlike me,” Emma said with a touch of bitterness.
“I didn’t mean to imply that. Please don’t extrapolate upon my argument . . . Emma.”
He turned toward her and the light created a soft sheen upon his black hair.
“Diana has not sold,” she said. “I often wonder why I remain in this business—a sculptress unloved by the critics, with so few sales to my credit. It’s hardly worth it. My husband and my friend Louisa are great supporters, however.”
“You sculpt because you love it—because you were born to. It’s in your blood.” He faced her, and then, as if he had come too close, strode away.
“Is something wrong?” Emma asked.
He shook his head. “No, but I think we should be going. I was about to say something that perhaps I shouldn’t have.”
Emma came up from behind and placed her hand on his shoulder. His muscles contracted with her touch and a sudden tension filled the space between them.
“I was about to say I could be one of your encouragers as well,” he said. “But that is stupid and forward of me. We’ve only just met.”
Emma joined arms with him and walked toward the door. “I think it’s very nice of you to say so. Yes, we’ve only just met, but we can be . . . friends.”
“I would like that,” Linton said.
When they reached the door, Linton opened it and Emma locked it with the key. Linton shadowed her, his hand upon hers so he could learn how the lock worked.
“By the way,” he said as they descended the stairs, “when Diana sells, you or Alex must give it a good cleaning for the new owner. My fingerprints are all over it. I think it’s a beautiful statue.”
“Thank you,” she said as they reached the landing.
As they stepped out of the dark entrance into the light, Emma added, “I have a favor to ask and I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me.” She shuddered a bit, knowing she had crossed a threshold.
He touched her hand lightly and smiled.
“I’ve decided to begin work on a new sculpture. You would be the perfect model for it.”
“Really? Nothing that would upset Vreland, I hope?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Alex is right: we shouldn’t care what he thinks anyway. The subject is Narcissus, studying his visage in a pool. I’m trying to portray the vanity of man, the preoccupations that ultimately lead him to his own destruction. It’s a sculpture of its time.”
Linton frowned. “Are you implying I’m vain?”
“Don’t be disingenuous. How many women have told you that you’re handsome?”
“A few.”
“And? Did you believe them?”
Linton slowed, and as he stood before her, his face sagged under some unknown difficulty known only to him. They stood near the triangle at Columbus Avenue where bicyclists rode alongside horse-drawn carts and motorcars sputtering exhaust.
“For all my faults, I’ve never been accused of false modesty,” Linton said. “Yes, a few women have told me I’m handsome, and I keep my body in shape to prove it. I can’t really see how I look, having had this condition for nearly three-quarters of my life, but I take them at their word. I’ll admit I’ve used my face and body to my advantage. People have been kind to me in ways I’m certain they wouldn’t have been, if I had been ugly or in some other way deformed. But despite that, life has not been easy . . . I’ve had to work for everything I’ve gained.”
Emma reasserted her hold on Linton’s arm and continued their stroll. “I assure you I do not consider your eyes a deformity, or your looks . . . but I must admit, I was taken aback when I met you this morning. You reminded me of a man I once knew. Not so much in the physical, but in—how shall I say it?—in the realm of the romantic. He was strong willed and not without his faults.”
“Then we are hardly similar, for I have no faults.” He chuckled. “I take it your relationship ended badly.”
“The timing was wrong for both of us.” Emma stopped on the sidewalk, resisting the temptation to touch his cheek. “But you have a perfection of face he could never attain. That’s why I want you to pose as Narcissus. We could start in Roman dress, if that’s suitable for you. I could retain another model, of course, if you wish to decline.”
“When would you like to begin?” he answered.
“Well . . . we could start as soon as possible. Shall we say in June, after you’ve had a chance to occupy your new studio? Perhaps you can spare a few hours a day to pose, before or after you paint.”
“Perfect,” Linton said.
“I must warn you—I’m not good with faces. That’s why I want to do this statue—to realize the perfect face. I understand the importance of this work, its strength, its power, as surely as I can see it in my mind. After I’m finished, Vreland will beg for more.”
“Please leave him out of this. It will be better for both of us.”
Emma laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
When they reached the Public Garden, Linton indicated he could find his way home and said good-bye. At the last moment, she remembered the studio key and took it from her jacket and pressed it into his palm. He grasped her hands firmly and his warm touch lingered on her skin as he walked away, working his way down the path without a stumble or falter.
Emma rubbed her hands together as she approached a bench near the pond and watched children playing near the water’s edge. She imagined Linton looking into the pool, studying his reflection, ignoring the cares of the world, concerned only with his own thoughts. A child threw a pebble into the water and the ripples, as they spread toward the bank, destroyed the vision in her head.
Entry: 20th May, 1917
I’ve had a few days to think about my project with Linton. I find the prospect exciting and at the same time daunting—for a number of reasons. Our meeting was brief, but something about Linton touched me. Perhaps it was his inherent sensuality, his courage, his obvious tenacity—all qualities I admire. Our walk was refreshing and he, as we glided under the trees, opened up something in me, a vibrancy I haven’t felt in years. I have given away so much of my time, my energy, and my life to my marriage and my art—and for what? To sit at home like a lump? I’ve wondered recently if I would ever feel again. Now, the possibility has arisen; however, I understand my situation. I’m a married woman with obligations and a husband. . . . Well, that’s where the argument breaks down. A husband who wants no children because there isn’t time for a “little one” in the house. A husband who provides financially for every need, including my art, but eschews the bedroom. But I cannot deny Tom his love of medicine and healing. What he does for others is beyond measure. And, for that, I love and respect him.
I must be cautious with my emotions. After I said good-bye to Linton I noticed a butterfly skimming, soaring on beautiful black and yellow wings, through the Public Garden. I have always loved them for their fragility and, at the same time, their strength. They are small with translucent wings, yet able to overcome the storm and travel thousands of miles to fulfill their destiny. I must emulate the strength and beauty of a butterfly.
“So, who is he?”
Emma smiled and settled into the wing chair opposite the French doors of the sitting room. Lazarus curved in an oval at her feet, his black snout propped upon his paws. She looked past Louisa into the courtyard, loving the play of afternoon sun, flooding the stones with light and then plunging them into shade, as the orb toyed with the scudding clouds. The late May wind swept into the room in bursts as the fir trembled in the breeze.
“Don’t smile at me,” Louisa scolded. “You know perfectly well who I mean. I haven’t seen you beam so since you met Bela Pratt.”
“You know me too well, Louisa.”
Anne brought a pot of tea and placed it on the center table.
“Thank you, Anne,” Louisa said. “At least there’s one woman in this house with common sense.”
“Ma’am?” Anne asked with chagrin, startled that Louisa would address her outside of domestic duties.
“Oh, never mind.” Louisa waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s not important.”
“Don’t move,” Emma told Louisa as Anne departed. “How do you expect me to finish this little drawing of you if you don’t hold still?” She paused. “And you shouldn’t tease Anne like that.”
“I’m ready to take off this damnable chapeau.” Louisa fussed with the white plume that stuck like a feathered quill out of her black hat. “And I’ll speak to domestics as I please—I’ve had years of experience.”
Emma studied her friend. She was not beautiful; however, she was elegant, refined in a way that might be termed handsome. Her hair was darker than Emma’s but only by a shade. Her eyebrows were prominent and black, belying her Italian heritage, but pleasing in line. Emma had often thought of her as a model for one of her sculptures; her face, long and angular, would lend itself easily to the sculptural form. Emma considered her own too round and soft as witnessed by the several self-portrait busts in clay she had begun in past years. She had destroyed each of them, dismayed by the ugliness of the work.
“Singer Sargent will fall over himself when he sees this,” Emma said. Her pencil slid softly across the pad in her lap. She concentrated on the plume, the jaunty form of the hat, and the dark hairline of the right side of Louisa’s face.
“Nonsense. Mrs. Isabella Stewart Gardner has him wrapped around her matronly ring finger. It’s highly doubtful we should ever see Mr. Sargent outside of Izzy’s house. You would have to present your drawing personally at Mrs. Jack’s.” Louisa fiddled again with the plume. “Although, I must admit, he was quite respectable to me the last time we met. I think his sincerity grew from the fact that I never asked him to paint my portrait.”
Emma smirked. “He passionately hates you society matrons.”
“I am not a matron, and I will club to death any woman who dares refer to me as such. I am, and always will be, a mademoiselle.” Louisa reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup. “And you are avoiding my question.”
Emma threw down her pencil. “You are insufferable. All right . . . Linton Bower.”
“The blind painter?”
“The same.”
“I saw him at the Fountain the night of the opening. He cuts quite a handsome figure.”
“I missed him that evening—I was so perturbed.”
“Alex told me Linton has sold quite a few paintings, despite his modern style. He considers him one of his rising stars.”
“I’d like to use him as a model,” Emma said.
Louisa sipped her tea and then leaned forward. “You do know he’s a homosexual.”
Emma’s breath caught for a moment as she stared at Louisa, flustered that her friend blurted out something so personal, so insidious, a rumor so potentially damaging to Linton. Of course, such a revelation, if it were true, would mean the end of any romantic fantasies she might harbor, quashed like a fire splashed with water. She chastised herself for letting her feelings get so far out of hand so quickly.
“Why the glare, my dear?” Louisa asked. “There are far worse things than being a homosexual. Alex will tell you so.”
“Really, Louisa.” Emma straightened in her chair and dropped the drawing pad beside it. Lazarus cocked an eye, snorted, and then returned to his nap. “Have you any proof? I would never take gossip at face value—I mean, Alex is one thing. . . .”
“Yes, a homosexual. Alex likes to keep his gentlemen friends. But I have no proof about Linton—after all, I’m not a man. . . .”
Emma sighed. “You are impossible. It makes no difference to me, anyway.”
“I can see that it doesn’t,” Louisa said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Perhaps we should just ask him,” Emma said with an agitated flourish of her hand. “Let’s forget this dreary drawing of you and take a walk. Yes, let’s stroll straight to Linton’s and ask him if he’s a homosexual.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Louisa asked, smoothing the folds of her black dress.
“No, but I can find out.”
“Now who’s being impossible? You’re making absolutely no sense. No sane person would ever ask that question of another human being.”
“I intend to.”
“Then you will be the first—but that doesn’t surprise me, considering the way you tend to stand up to men these days.”
Emma was prepared to respond that her words at the Fountain were merely self-defense, but Anne appeared in the doorway with a letter in hand. “I’ve just picked up the mail, ma’am. This came from your husband.”
“Good,” Louisa said. “A needed breath of fresh air from France.”
Emma took the small brown envelope in hand. It looked rather ordinary—the censor’s mark on the outside, the postage meter, Emma’s name, and the Boston address written by Tom. Despite the number of letters she’d received from him, each new one filled her with trepidation. What if something was wrong—perhaps he was sick, or worse yet, badly injured? She ripped open the letter, read the first page, and then dropped it into her lap.
“My goodness,” Louisa said with alarm. “What in heaven’s name is wrong?”
Emma heard Louisa speak, but it made no difference what her friend said. Louisa’s words vanished in the air as her mind raced. She had to have time to consider, she had to think Tom’s proposition out.
“Tom wants me to come to France.”
Louisa looked at her with a questioning glance and then lowered her teacup silently to the table.
* * *
The fire died in the studio. Embers crackled under the grate. Emma wished she hadn’t instructed Anne to make it for the evening was too warm. Normally, the flames soothed her confused mind, but this one had little effect on her nerves. She held the letter up to her face in the dim light, scrutinizing the words for every nuance.
20th May, 1917
My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):
I have such good news for you. I received your letter today and I couldn’t help but write you as soon as I could. I’m sorry your opening was less than stellar, but I hope you’re holding up—don’t stretch the truth on my account. I’m sure Louisa will eventually fill me in on your true state of mind, if she writes me. However, like an epiphany, your letter prompted a wonderful idea on how you can aid the war effort and also utilize your skills as a sculptress.
She reached for a book on her cramped shelves. This one, in folio size by a French engraver, hissed when she cracked open its red leather binding. Near the middle of the book she found more references to her project, including a series of engravings entitled The Three Fates of Narcissus. The first showed Narcissus as a child. His mother bathed him in a pool surrounded by alabaster statuary as he caressed the flower that bore his name. The second portrayed him as a man standing in a Greek temple, a loose garment draped over his torso, staring at his reflection in a handheld silver mirror. The third showed him morphing into the flower, his arms and legs crackled and vein-like, his face partially swallowed by the petals of the Narcissus. Emma considered rethinking her ideas for the sculpture. The youth staring into the pool was, after all, a cliché. However, a man obsessed with his reflection in the ruins of a temple would be more to her theme. She visualized Linton in his studio, draped in an arabesque cloth, staring into a mirror—the silver one bequeathed to Tom by his father, part of his dressing set.
I have seen such horrors, I can’t describe them. You can help these men. I was told of a man in England who made masks for the facially disfigured—yes, masks! Can you imagine? I want to find out how he does this miraculous work. You could do the same in France—perhaps set up a studio in Paris with the Red Cross, far enough away from the Front to be safe, yet close enough for the soldiers to take advantage of your services. There is such need. As surgeons, we can only do so much, but you could return these men to the world of the living. And, best of all, we could see each other again.
Your husband,
Tom
She folded the letter and placed it on her studio desk.
See each other again? Could there be more than sight?
Emma chided herself for being so blasé. How could Tom know what she was thinking? Had she really made her feelings known? Both had slipped into comfort without passion and accepted the consequences without objection. She had no doubt that she loved him and he her, but how could love be measured? Was its quality spent in days spent together, the hours of longing while apart, or nights entwined in the bedroom? Perhaps they loved each other equally as absence diminished their relationship, the war ripping them apart as surely as Europe was split by the Front. Perhaps she had loved Tom more than he loved her, or vice versa; she couldn’t really tell. It seemed that fate, as a trickster, had drawn them together. The thought had crossed her mind that she was being punished by God for ending a life, but she considered her situation. There had been no other choice.
She closed the book and drifted near sleep as Narcissus, followed by the faces of men without eyes, noses, and cheeks like the begging soldier on the street, visages horribly broken and torn, floated in the void.
Lazarus scratched at the door.
“Anne?” she called out while sitting in the dark room, but the house was silent. The fire lay black and cold. “Anne, did you let Lazarus out?”
A door creaked open from the attic bedroom above and steps flowed down the stairs, followed by a knock at Emma’s studio. Her maid opened the door in her nightgown. “Are you all right, ma’am?” Lazarus padded in past the housekeeper.
“Yes, just tired. Have you taken the dog out?”
“Hours ago, ma’am. Do you know what time it is?”
Emma shook her head as Lazarus nuzzled against her legs.
“It’s after midnight, ma’am.”
“My God, is it? I dropped off.” She brushed her fingers through the dog’s silky fur.
“Were you dreaming?”
“I was—of a man in a Greek temple.”
“A strange dream indeed, ma’am. Was the man your husband?”
The question pierced Emma. She pushed Lazarus gently away, rose from the chair, and replaced the book of engravings on the shelf.
“We should both be in bed. I’m sorry I awakened you.” Emma thought for a moment. “It must be near dawn in France.”
She turned to the window, catching her reflection, as Anne called Lazarus. For a moment, in the darkness, she saw her husband dressed in his white surgeon’s apron. In her vision, a young man, silent, purple in death, lay on a gurney as Tom lifted a bloodstained sheet, the wounds of the flesh raw and crimson before him.
Emma gasped and forced the image from her head.