* * *
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 Sculptress Page 11