11th November, 1917
My Dear Emma:
I have exercised considerable restraint in writing before this time—one because of effort, and two because of the frailty of my heart. I know you could take this letter immediately to your husband, but I heard through Alex (who heard a rumor from someone—perhaps a solider from Boston) that Tom is injured and not with you at the moment. I’m deeply sorry for what you both must be going through. But to the first point—I am not the best writer and I hope you will forgive my poor penmanship. When I was a child, before blindness set in, I learned how to write. My efforts have not progressed much beyond that early point. But if I sit in the direct sun, I can make out the black lines I put on paper. Others might call them scratches, but for me they constitute writing. Alex usually helps me with my spelling and correspondence, but no one, not even he, knows I’m composing this letter.
To the second point—it has been a miserable three months since you left. I think of you every day and wonder, more usually fret, about your safety and well-being. I know you are doing the work you hoped to do, now that you are settled in Paris. I got your address through the Red Cross—please don’t be angry with me.
My own work has suffered of late because of my emotional condition. I say this not to blame—you are not at fault; the problem, and the solution, lie squarely upon my shoulders. I should never have allowed myself to engage a married woman in the manner that I did. I was wrong and I hope you can forgive me. Let the matter live and die between us. There can be no good in communicating my afflictions and emotional outpourings to others.
In some respects, I feel we are too late on that account. I heard through Alex that Louisa Markham may have been less than discreet with the unfortunate situation she observed at my studio. Of course, even Alex was shocked to hear the gossip that circulated, I’m afraid so broadly, among Boston circles.
But there is more, my dear Emma, and that is the real reason for my letter. Vreland has hinted to me that all is not well with Tom outside of his injuries. He will only say that something is amiss and, try as I might, I cannot get the point out of him. I am sure this rumor grows like a cancer out of some tale told by Louisa. So protect yourself, my dear sculptress. I know angels guide your work, and they will protect you well, as I cannot be there to do it for them. The wretched war and the Atlantic separate us—as friends.
I have taken too much of your time. I leave your protection to God, your husband, and your own excellent resources.
If you wish, burn this letter so you never have to read its words again or be afraid that it will fall into the wrong hands. I wish so dearly that I could share a moment with you.
Your dearest friend,
Linton Bower
“Madame, are you all right?” Virginie stood before her in the hall. “Your face is white.”
“Oh . . . oh, yes, I’m fine.” She folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “When will our patient be here?”
“In less than a half hour.”
“I’m ready. Do we have enough plaster?”
Virginie looked at her oddly. “Hassan will prepare the plaster when it is time.”
“Good.” Emma watched as Madame Clement picked out wilted flowers from the vase in the hall and replaced them with the fresh daisies. Walking to the sculpting room, where Hassan continued his work on the plaster cast, she stopped at the window and watched the stream of Parisians who traversed rue Monge under the leaden sky.
She placed Linton’s letter on the sill. There it was—for all to see!
No, I won’t burn it!
She picked it up delicately, as if holding a flower, and pressed it against her heart.
* * *
A knock alerted Emma to the French soldier wearing a short waistcoat who huddled in silence against the wind-blown snow. She leaned to the left in her chair, far enough to see the man through the door’s glass panes. Madame Clement called out that the soldier had arrived and complimented the man on the beautiful crimson-and-blue scarf that covered much of his face. The housekeeper’s cheery, repeated “Bonjour” sounded like the chirp of an excited bird.
Emma closed the anatomy and physiology book she had been referring to and waited for the soldier. Hassan prepared the plaster and Virginie readied the bandages. Although the reality of her work had toughened her to facial disfigurements, each soldier presented a new and difficult challenge.
Her stomach twitched a bit as the patient approached. His injuries were devastating: a shock of unruly black hair protruded from a stitched scar at the crown of his head; his left jaw and most of his lower face and nose had been blown away, leaving a gaping wound for a mouth and a blunt mound of downturned flesh for a nose. His face resembled the scarred head of an ancient Greek statue pocked and cratered by time.
The devastation to his jaw and tongue was so severe that he could only utter a few unintelligible grunts. The soldier’s voice croaked “ahhhhh” and “thhaaahhh” in response to Madame Clement’s directions.
Emma smiled and shook the man’s hand; several of his fingers were bent and scarred. For those patients without a voice, she kept pen and paper handy when the situation arose. If the man could write, the two could communicate. Writing was much less embarrassing for a soldier than a torturous attempt to decipher words spoken through a mouth destroyed by war.
Even though she had gotten used to the ghastly wounds and mutilations, now and then a soldier appeared who reminded her of someone from her past: the tone of voice, a gesture, a movement often launched a memory. This soldier was no different, sparking a remembrance. Virginie led the man to the reclining chair used for the plaster fittings. Was it the curly dark hair that swirled around the back of his head? Did the texture of his curls remind her of Linton?
Hassan drew the voile sheers over the windows so only soft winter light filtered into the room. They served another purpose as well: they blocked the soldier’s reflection, an image many men couldn’t bear. Reflective objects had no place in the studio, either; the only mirror was tucked safely away in a drawer for her personal use. Virginie often covered the “deformed” plaster faces on the wall with cloth to soften the psychological blow to the new visitor.
Emma asked the man to sit. He stared nervously at the chair, exhaled, and then took his seat.
Virginie patted the soldier’s hand and explained the casting process in soothing French. Emma fastened a barber’s cape around the man’s neck and studied his face. The casting process could be uncomfortable and unsettling even for a soldier who, by the time he arrived at the studio, had undergone many hospital stays and painful reconstructive surgeries.
“His left mandible is gone,” Emma said to Virginie. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such an extreme loss of the septum and upper lip.”
“It is tragic,” Virginie said, “but what are we to expect from this war?”
Emma turned her attention to the soldier, as Virginie asked him if he was ready to begin the first cast.
His cobalt blue eyes shifted and his brows furrowed, as if he was uncertain. Emma had seen such reactions before—not for the indignities suffered in the casting process, but that the man must endure the process at all.
Hassan stood ready with fresh plaster.
“Tell him, he will have to breathe through his mouth with straws,” Emma instructed her. “All right.” She dipped an artist’s brush into the wet plaster. “Let’s begin.”
Hassan bent over the soldier and applied a thin coat of lubricant to the injured area. The soldier flinched, but then leaned back against the chair’s head brace and relaxed somewhat.
Emma inserted two paper straws between the man’s lips. Virginie told him to touch the straws only lightly with his lips so the lack of saliva would keep them from collapsing in his mouth. Emma began by drizzling the plaster onto his left cheek, the nose and upper lip, and then down the disfigured jaw line. Virginie applied cotton bandages to the areas covered with plaster. Emma let the thick, white material
cure for fifteen minutes before daubing another coat onto the bandages, building up the injured areas as much as she could, covering them thickly enough to dry into the facial mold.
As Virginie applied the last layer of cotton for strength, the soldier coughed and squirmed in his chair.
“Tell him to relax and breathe normally,” Emma instructed the nurse. Virginie complied, and the man, whose face looked as if a partial death masque had been created over the injuries, slumped in his chair.
“Is he all right?” Emma asked.
The soldier’s eyes widened as if an electric shock had jolted him. He pointed to his mouth.
“Air,” Virginie said. “Perhaps not enough air.”
Emma leaned over the man’s chest. “He’s not breathing.”
The solider swiped at his mouth and clumps of wet plaster and bandages flew over Emma and onto the floor.
Virginie shouted as Hassan held down the man’s arms.
The soldier kicked at Hassan and writhed in his chair, as if he were being tortured.
“Let him go,” Emma shouted.
Hassan released the man’s arms and the soldier jumped from the chair, the last of the plaster and cotton mass slipping from his face to the floor. He coughed, sputtered, and clawed at the remaining bits on his face.
Emma reached for him, but he pushed her away.
He grabbed his coat and scarf, hurriedly put them on, and rushed for the door. He turned and cast his gaze toward Emma, a mixture of horror and unspeakable pain glittering in his eyes.
Emma understood his fear and sorrow and knew the solider would never return. He would be like the young man she saw in Boston, wandering the streets with a cup in his hand, his wounds for all to see. She leaned down to pick up bits of plaster. Virginie and Hassan stood over her as she rolled the material into a ball in her hand. Sadness swelled within her.
“A mistake, Madame,” Virginie said, attempting to reassure her. “How you say, claustrophobia?”
“Perhaps,” Emma said. “I can’t save every one of them. I don’t know why I try . . . why their faces affect me so. . . .”
The soldier disappeared down the courtyard stairs into the silence of the snow. Forcing a sad smile, Emma looked at Virginie and Hassan, but the man’s terror and pain had burrowed into her head.
That evening, in her room, she sketched the soldier’s face as it would have looked with the mask had it been completed: from the casts, to the final clay portrait over which the thin copper would be molded. On paper, she filled in the gaping hole of a mouth, the missing nose and jaw, and a young, handsome man appeared in front of her. She pictured the curve of the jawbone, the angle of the nose and how the metal mask, formed over the mold, would fit tightly and cleanly against his face. His new “skin” would have been French Mediterranean in color, with a red blush on the cheeks, a blue sheen stippled on for the shaven beard. That’s how he would have looked had the mask been completed. If only he had stayed, she could have transformed his face and restored his life. As she drew, the disappointment of her failure touched her heart.
* * *
She sketched in the studio lit by the warm, yellow light of two candles, preferring the flames to the glare of the electric bulb. However, the charcoal drawings seemed more like doodles than studies. She’d thought of sketching Linton from memory but decided against it. Her pencil scratched against the paper—a soothing sound because it connected her to the past: studies at school and sculpting in Boston. She paused and studied the two fresh casts on the wall. Once their masks were finished, the soldiers could rejoin society, walk among the crowd, hold jobs, make love, and have children without fearing the horror precipitated by their faces.
Upstairs, Virginie dragged a log across the bedroom floor to the fireplace. Hassan had already gone to bed in his room. Madame Clement had left hours ago after supper.
The snow Virginie had predicted fell during the day, but only enough to make the streets slick and the air uncomfortably damp. Above the eastern rooftops, and through a broken expanse of pearly clouds, pinpoints of stars glittered like soft diamonds. She opened the window and drew in an exhilarating breath of air. She wondered what Tom, farther to the east, was thinking. What was he doing on this frosty December evening? Was he as alone as she felt?
She gathered a blank piece of paper and a fountain pen, tapping the instrument against the desk to clear the ink before she wrote:
15th December, 1917
My Dear Linton:
I can’t tell you how heartened I was to receive your letter. Of course, I’m not angry with you for writing.
To say that the last four months have been an adventure, more often a trial, would be an understatement at best. Yes, Tom has been injured, but I cannot reveal the details because this letter will be censored. You probably already know the details by word of mouth—in other words, gossip provided by a soldier that made its way home.
She dropped her pen on the table and laughed. Had she come to think of Linton so intimately that his blindness had been cured miraculously? Who would read this letter to him, with all its personal detail? Certainly not Louisa Markham or Alex Hippel. Memory carried her back to a night in late May when Anne found her asleep in her Boston studio. She had told her housekeeper she was dreaming of a man in a Greek Temple.
“Was the man your husband?” Anne asked. Emma at once understood her housekeeper’s capacity for passion and longing. Anne would understand now. She could be trusted to read the letter to Linton.
Emma picked up the pen.
Tom is recovering, slowly, but his doctor tells me he should be able to return to work soon and live life normally as time goes on.
To your first point—I appreciate your efforts in composing your letter. I had no trouble deciphering your “scratches” as you termed them, and I’m happy you were able to overcome the “frailty” of your heart. A letter from a friend, when you are living in a land of strangers, is always welcome. As important as my work is, I often go through days in Paris with a sense of ennui—no, a feeling of dread that the world has shifted; that this war will never be over, that it will consume us all. And, of course, those of us near the Front fear this the most.
To your second point—the hardest to address—I am sorry your work and life have suffered because of our friendship. I have no control over the rumors spread by a malicious person (you know who she is) but I do have the ability to live my life and conduct my work with pride, without the shame induced by others. At times, I have been bullied and sullied into actions I did not want to take and later regretted, though I must admit my mind was clouded by my own insecurities and adolescence. Some decisions were, in the long run, disastrous for me.
Our time was ours alone and perfect in its innocence.
I’m a branded woman in Boston; first, because of my audacity to be a sculptor (I will use the masculine form here for effect), and second because of the wagging tongue of my so-called friend. You believe she spread a lie after her unfortunate arrival at your studio, and my instincts tell me your assumption is correct. When I return, I will have a chat with her about her predisposition for gossip. That conversation, as you will no doubt guess, may come too late to affect change.
You are also correct in your deduction about Tom. Something is wrong. I’m fairly certain this involves correspondence from my friend, but I can’t be sure. The truth will win out in the end.
Please write again. I loved getting your letter. It kept me in touch with Boston—and you.
If the Atlantic were not so dangerous, I would invite you to my studio in the spring. We could sit in the sun in the Luxembourg Gardens and enjoy the tulips and flowering trees. Paris is a most beautiful city, to be savored by lovers and friends, even during a war.
Please take care.
Your friend always,
Emma Lewis Swan
P.S.: I am sending this letter to Anne with instructions to read it to you. She will need to contact you through Alex with utmost discretion. I know s
he can be trusted to keep our confidences.
The wind clawed its way down rue Monge with fierce talons, sweeping away the gray snow clouds, leaving a sparkling coat of white on the ground and a frosty spray of crystals in the air. The sun shone like a fiery mirror in a flawless blue sky.
The Paris clocks had struck ten on a Sunday morning. Virginie was at church and Hassan was asleep in his room. Madame Clement was off for the day, and Emma guessed she was at church as well. A bit of warmth radiated from the bedroom fireplace and Emma was curled up in bed with a copy of Madame Bovary. She had read it in English, but not in French. She lumbered through the pages, writing the words she didn’t know on a pad. The story held an uncomfortable fascination for her: a woman who craved love and excitement outside the confines of her bourgeois marriage.
A tentative knock, almost apologetic, sounded on the studio door below. Emma threw off the covers, flung on a robe over her nightclothes, and hurried down the stairs. She caught sight of a man descending the courtyard steps—an American, judging from his uniform.
Emma stepped onto the landing and called out, “May I help you?”
Lt. Andrew Stoneman turned, looked up at her, and smiled.
Emma recognized that contagious grin, the wire-rimmed glasses perched on his thin nose, the sandy hair protruding from under the Montana hat. Holding the railing, he bounced up the steps two at a time in a confident gait, his long wool Army coat flapping in the wind.
Upon reaching the landing, he hugged Emma and kissed her on the cheek. After a second kiss, he said, “The prettiest sight in Paris.”
Emma stepped back, flustered by his affection.
“Lieutenant, how are you?” she asked breathlessly, struggling for words.
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