From the pen of

ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER

January 1897

Paris, France

My dearest Amelia,

I am your very cranky aunt today and probably should not be writing when I’m in such a fret. But there has been so much noise and tumult in our apartments this past month, that now that I am alone, I must take advantage. The weather has been wretched, cold and windy and even a bit of snow, so we are all cooped up inside. I am so much driven by people talking, talking, talking and asking question after question, that I am almost pleased to be on my sick bed.

Please do not worry. I have only a head cold. But a most miserable one. My throat is very bad, and I can scarcely hold up my head, but there is no fever. The doctor has threatened to send me off to the countryside if my breathing does not improve. Of course, the countryside is out of the question as I have a number of purchases to complete before we leave in less than a month.

As you well know, it has been a long trip: England, France, the Netherlands, Germany, at Palazzo Barbaro for the summer, then back here to Paris. But I’ve had a number of successes that make it all worthwhile! I have purchased Botticelli’s Tragedy of Lucretia, Peter Paul Rubens’s Portrait of Thomas Howard, Second Earl of Arundel, and my very favorite of the year, a little Madonna, barely one-foot square, that is now before me on a chair.

The Madonna and Child in a Rose Arbor is the work of Martin Schongauer, a German and a contemporary of Holbein and Dürer, but to my mind, a far better painter. The present frame is ghastly, far too bold and garish for my little babe, and I shall order a new one as soon as I am out of bed. Best of all, she is small enough to smuggle inside my suitcase and avoid those nefarious taxmen and their horrid duties. Now that your Uncle Jack has agreed to my museum, I am in full cry.

Your uncle still complains about all the money we are spending, but I daresay he is anticipating the excitement of the planning and building to come. It is quite intoxicating, and I am anxious to return home to begin work with the architects. And, of course, to see you and my two favorite children, dear Jackie and adorable Fanny. Sweet Fanny already had such a vocabulary when I left seven months ago, I can only imagine the paragraphs she must be speaking now!

Last night we dined with Henry James and Edgar Degas. When we told them of our plans for the new museum, they were both taken with the idea, and we talked long into the evening about whose work should be purchased. When Edgar said he would be proud to be considered, I told him that Mr. Gardner and I would be thrilled if we three could agree on a price, and the man had the audacity to say I had already heard his price! Fortunately, neither Henry nor your uncle was listening carefully.

When Uncle Jack said he must work at the bank’s offices for the rest of the week, Edgar invited me to his studio on Wednesday. After his comment, I am a bit nervous, but nothing will keep me away. As you are always so interested in these adventures, I will continue this letter when I return from Montmartre.

Wednesday evening

I have returned. As always, my Edgar stories are told to you in the strictest confidence. Out of respect for your uncle, I ask you to burn this letter after you have read it. It would be most unfortunate if it fell into the wrong hands.

As soon as I arrived in the studio, as I expected, Edgar offered to paint a picture for my museum if I would model nude for him. He did not seem surprised at my refusal and asked if I would put on my silken robe. To this I agreed. I have learned that once you have done a risky thing, it is quite easy to do it again.

And it was as luscious as the last time! He had a fire going, and, if anything, it was even more sensuous than in the heat of summer. Of course, it was difficult work holding a pose, but when he released me and allowed me to stretch in any way I liked, I can only say, I have never felt so playful, so much myself. I closed my eyes, and it was as if I were dancing with a gossamer angel.

But instead of continuing his sketching, as he did the last time, Edgar knelt and touched the single strap of my gown. “Please, Belle,” he whispered. “Allow me to take this from you. Allow me to see you as you truly are.”

I was lying on the sofa, and when I opened my eyes, I looked directly into his. They were so deep and pleading, so without guile, that before I realized what I was doing, I raised my arms, and he pulled the slippery silk from my skin. Oh, Amelia, I can’t describe to you the bliss, the joy, the gay abandon. I was unrestrained, reckless, and more open to the experience of being alive than ever before. It was as if I were a newborn babe.

“You’ll never show the sketches to anyone?” I murmured, as he positioned my arm, my leg, unpinned my hair. His touch was dry, courteous, respectful.

He smiled and picked up his sketchbook. “You are a beautiful creature.”

“Most certainly not,” I said, but I must confess to you, I was no longer sure.

And it only grew more so. When, once again, Edgar released me from my pose, and I was allowed to assume positions of my own choice, a great warmth and tingling began within my body. This grew and grew until it burst from the very core of me and flowed outward to my every extremity. I gasped with the power of it, the joy of it.

I had the thought that I was breaking from the chrysalis that has imprisoned me all these years. That I was, for the very first time, unbound, able to truly connect to the physical world. To connect to myself. And, of course, to connect to Edgar.

I know this is something no proper woman would ever do, particularly not a Stewart or a Gardner. And I am well aware that the gossip and rumors that have swirled around me since I arrived in Massachusetts would be nothing compared to what would take place if this ever became known. But I tell you now, no matter what consequence there might be, I shall never be sorry. Mum’s the word.

I am your loving,

Aunt Belle