At the sound of heavy steps, everyone stopped talking. May pushed a chair close to the skeleton that hung from a hook by the blackboard. Dr. Rimmer took off a rumpled black overcoat with a green sheen around the buttonholes and collar. His stained wool vest, which was high-buttoned in the old German style, was tight over his round belly. Wiry gray hair puffed over his ears. Without a word, he picked up some chalk, faced the blackboard, and began drawing parts of an ear. May copied examples of the helix, tragus, concha, and auditory passage. She savored the vaguely forbidden quality of it all, discovering what was usually reserved for those in the medical profession. She wished he’d stick with unfamiliar terms and maps of the body, but Dr. Rimmer sometimes digressed to topics such as selling art.
“The judges who decide what gets in the Paris Salon miss a lot about what makes great art, but work shown there gets seen by those who can afford to buy it. So an artist can feed his children and keep working,” he said. “At least Europeans care about art. Boston calls itself the Athens of America, but there’s not even an art museum open to the public.”
“There’s talk of building one,” Anne said.
“They like to talk. Gilbert Stuart refused to show his pictures here because they were always so poorly lit. Mr. Copley moved to England.”
As the weeks passed, some young ladies stopped attending. Dr. Rimmer looked unsurprised as he called names from a book and heard no response. He murmured, “They send excuses. Family. Someone is engaged. Or uninspired. Everyone is uninspired.”
The remaining students continued to copy bones and muscles until January, when they learned how to construct an armature, bending wires around a steel rod and attaching small wooden crosses to hold clay and make tabletop models.
Dr. Rimmer grimaced at these maquettes. “There are hundreds of ways to show someone standing, not just one! With a shoulder raised, one foot in front of the other, perhaps at a slant. Consider the shapes of the hands, which can tell as much as a face. Each bent finger offers a chance for a new expression.”
At the end of one afternoon’s work, May, Alice, and Charlotte headed down the hall, hearing the soft thudding of ballet students practicing glissades and jetés. Alice complained, “He never praises anyone. You always were so encouraging, May. I wish you’d teach again.”
“He admires Anne Whitney’s work.”
“I’d hate to be such a bluestocking,” Alice said. “Her hair falls from her combs, and I don’t believe she bothers with lacing and stays.”
“She’s talented.” May tightened her cloak as they stepped into a bitter wind. “Not everyone marries.”
“Especially since the war, which took so many good men. But Miss Whitney chooses not to. It’s strange.” Alice shrugged as they walked down a narrow, curving street. “She wants to go to Rome and carve marble. I’d rather see Paris.”
“I hope you get there. Will your father travel with you?” May asked.
“He has so much business to tend to. And … he isn’t well. But he’s anxious that I broaden my vision and perhaps meet someone, which was the greatest desire of my mother, may she rest in peace,” Alice said.
May took her hand. “I hope it’s nothing grave with your father.”
“I don’t think so. He says I might go to Europe with the proper companion. Someone with a bit more experience. Perhaps my favorite art teacher.”
May’s heart beat hard, though she cringed to think that she was considered old enough to be some sort of chaperone. “I’m not sure I’d be suitable.”
“My aunt might come, too, to keep me out of trouble, making sure any suitors aren’t swindlers or such.”
“I could see that you got into just enough trouble.” May squeezed her hand.
IN THE GLOAMING, MAY TRUDGED THROUGH THE SNOW before her house and opened the door. Freddy flung himself at her as if she’d been gone longer than half a morning and an afternoon. He, his mother, and his little brother had recently settled back here. Anna had said that she could bear how the thin walls of their city lodgings let in cold winds, and the renters downstairs who rapped with a broom on the ceiling, as if that would quiet a baby, but a recent fever left her hard of hearing. And after the pipes froze, she couldn’t get water for her children.
“Where were you?” Freddy asked.
“You know I went to the city, chipmunk,” May said.
“I’m not a chipmunk!”
“Of course you’re not, my little skunk.”
“I’m not a skunk!”
“Are you a little bear?”
“No! I’m a boy. You’re silly, Auntie May.”
“Yes.” As she sat in a chair by the fire, he scrambled onto her lap. He slid off when Anna screamed from upstairs.
“Wait here,” May said, and she sprang up the steps.
Anna stood by the crib, tears streaming down her face. She said, “The baby won’t stop crying. I fed him. I changed him. I rocked him. I tried everything, and I’m so tired!”
“Of course you are.” May felt like crying, too, but she saw that Freddy had crept upstairs and stood quietly in the corner. Even in the dim moonlight, she could see fear in the way he stood too still. She picked up the wailing baby. “Anna, why don’t you read to Freddy while I bathe Johnny? That may help.”
May stripped off the baby’s damp gown and diapers and dropped them in a pail filled with soiled garments. She brought the baby down to the parlor, where she warmed water over the fire, then poured it in a basin. He stopped crying, though he looked alarmed as she dipped him in the water. She patted him dry, put on clean clothes, and brought him back to Anna.
Freddy tugged his mother’s sleeve. “I want to go outside.”
“No!” Anna snapped. Then she spoke more gently. “It’s dark and cold.”
“You said I could play!”
“That was hours ago.”
“There’s a full moon,” May said. “I’ll take him. Anna, maybe you’ll get some peace.”
After she gently twisted and tugged Freddy’s arms and feet into a jacket and boots, he gave her a fluttery hug. May helped him dig a snow fort. He jumped from a pile of snow into a soft patch under the elm, opening his arms wide, like that of a bird or an angel.
A FEBRUARY BLIZZARD KEPT MAY FROM EVEN OPENING the door into gales of sleet and snow, never mind getting to the road. She supposed the trains weren’t running, and she tried to console herself that class must have been canceled, though she wished she could continue working on the painting of a model they’d finally begun. A few days later, Mother was plagued by dyspepsia and lightheadedness. On the following Wednesday, May considered wrapping her in a shawl by the hearth, since she could manage to get to the fire and keep it up. But once Mother was on her feet, she couldn’t be trusted to keep from tending to chores. Even worse, May had found Mother rummaging among flour bins for a doll and in the linen cupboard for red slippers she’d worn as a child. May stayed, though her throat ached with thoughts of what she was missing while she made the house fragrant with cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. She couldn’t help wishing someone wanted a painting more than gingerbread.
A few days later, the cold Anna had recently caught grew worse. May held the baby in one arm while making Freddy an F-shaped flapjack. Another began to burn. She told him stories and took him sledding behind the house. A neighbor boy joined them, and May asked him inside to warm up by the hearth. They built a castle, fort, and depot out of books, but Freddy refused to let the boy use his little wooden train. Hearing shrieks, Anna came in to scold him.
When the boys were playing quietly again, May went into the kitchen and told Anna, “He’s four years old. He has the rest of his life to think about other people first.”
“Don’t lecture me.” Anna said. “You’ll understand when you’re a mother.”
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, ANNA COUGHED, RUBBED her forehead, and said, “I can hardly stand, never mind dash after a toddler and care for a baby, too.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to m
anage this one day,” May said. “I’ve waited so long to work with a model. She could start another pose before I get to finish my painting.”
“I need you!” Anna’s gray eyes widened. “Goodness, I’ll pose for you.”
“Sitting still is harder than you think. I’m sorry. People miss a lot in one class, and some think they’ll never catch up and don’t return. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
When May got off the train in Boston, snow and sleet began to fall. As she headed down a street, a dog darted in front of a horse and carriage. The horse shied and bolted. Passersby rushing to get out of the way knocked May onto the slippery sidewalk. She twisted her ankle and landed hard on one hip. Boys chased the dog. Men yelled at the driver. As May stood up, someone accidentally pushed her onto a frozen-over puddle, which broke under her weight. Her boot got soaked through. Her ankle stung from the cold and a possible strain.
She hobbled forward, managing to hold up her weight, step gingerly over icy patches and around slush, and make it to the Art Studio Building. The train schedule forced her to arrive early, so even after having walked more slowly than usual, Room 55 was empty when she entered. She took off her cloak and wide-brimmed hat. She sat by the stove to shake snow from her boots, pull them off, and rub her twisted ankle and toes that had turned the colors of bruises.
But when she put her boots back on, she felt better standing in front of her partly finished painting. The model’s shoulders looked too limp to hold up her arms, but the color of the mouth was a satisfactory shade of rose. May was pleased with the way she’d straightened her turned-up nose. Dr. Rimmer lectured about the need to observe with accuracy, even when truth didn’t flatter, but she believed few others held such a position. Who wouldn’t prefer her skin to look unblemished and unwrinkled?
She tied on her blue smock and squeezed modest dabs of paint onto her palette: Chinese white, Cerulean blue, and a mere hint of crimson for the skin. She glanced out the window, eager for company now. She stepped over to the skeleton and studied the sockets where the eyes and nose had been. When she touched a hand, the wired-together bones clattered. Heading back to her easel, she saw something glitter in the wire wastebasket. She bent down and scooped up two crumpled paint tubes. Both were mostly empty, but one held enough scarlet paint to tint several small faces. She unscrewed the cap, smelled its exquisitely sharp scent, then spun around.
Dr. Rimmer watched from the doorway.
May clutched the salvaged treasures, lifted her chin, and strode to her easel, hoping he didn’t notice how she blushed. She wasn’t stealing or even begging. She had simply saved what someone else had thrown away. As Alice and Anne passed through the door, she called hello, thinking that a gentleman would have pretended not to see her sifting through the trash. A nice man would have turned away.
She kept her face turned from him as she complimented Charlotte on the quills in her bonnet, mixed paint for the shadows on the model’s neck, and greeted the young woman who settled into her pose.
As the students painted, Dr. Rimmer moved around the room, commenting. “Do you see only one color in her hair, Miss? Observe. Her skin is darker near the top of her forehead and the tip of her chin. Her nose is bigger.” He took the brush from a girl’s hand and rubbed out a line. “Every stroke must mean something. We don’t paint just skin, hair, and cloth, but the human spirit. Paint her as a Madonna, Athena, or a noble idea such as Liberty.”
May tried to think of the model as a saint, goddess, or symbol, but instead she found herself wondering what she’d eaten for lunch and if she were tired. Who did she go home to? May stepped back, feeling her chest tighten as Dr. Rimmer examined her canvas. Before stepping away, he said, “Keep working. Travaillez.”
May heard the students around her stir, reacting to the absence of criticism, which might be the grandest compliment of the day.
Dr. Rimmer scolded Charlotte. “Do you remember nothing I taught you about bones and muscle? They are your alphabet, for you to write the opera of the face.”
“I’m trying.” Charlotte’s cheek muscles looked strained.
“You’re all spoiled.” Dr. Rimmer shook his head. “How can I expect you to see when you’ve never lived? How can you express feeling when you’ve never known need?”
Tears fell down Charlotte’s face.
“If you can’t bear a few honest words, go home and embroider handkerchiefs,” he said. “I teach to help you recognize meaning, not add to falsity, but why do I even say such things? None of you have suffered enough to be able make art. None of you know real work.”
May let out a breath. She thought of how she’d sewed undergarments for aunts and strangers until her fingers burned from the needle. She’d spent mornings stacking alphabet blocks with toddlers. Maybe Charlotte had never worked as a seamstress or a teacher, but wasn’t it work, too, to smile and be silent while men told you it was wrong to yearn for more than a husband and children—as if such were easy to come by? How many of the women here had gotten slush in their boots, wore gloves that were too thin to keep out the chill, and kept on, never minding the cold? Wasn’t it work to refuse a sister’s plea for help, knowing that such requests would be repeated, while her own desires could get lost? How many had mothers or sisters who weren’t well, who might never be well, or hearts broken by men who didn’t survive the war or other disasters? Weren’t keeping such secrets a struggle, too?
“I’m afraid you don’t know American women.” May looked directly at her teacher, then glanced down, remembering he was American, though he wore Germanic vests and uttered French phrases. “Just because we don’t wear black crêpe doesn’t mean we haven’t known hardships.”
Dr. Rimmer stared at her.
She willed him to say anything, but when he stayed silent, she gathered her things and hurried into the hall. She heard footsteps behind her and stopped at the top of the stairs to put on her cloak and broad-brimmed hat.
“You mustn’t go.” Dr. Rimmer caught up and stood beside her. “Of all the young ladies in class, I think you might have a chance to become an artist.”
“I haven’t even finished a painting here.” Her ankle throbbed.
“I didn’t say you are an artist. I said it was possible. Talent doesn’t need canvas to be spotted. I saw it in how embarrassed you looked holding crushed tubes of paint, but by how you stiffened your shoulders and got to work. You have more studying to do, but that capacity to be seen, then to keep on despite shame, shows me someone who can paint.”
“Am I to thank you for those words?”
“If you know poverty, show it. You’re hardly alone.”
“People look to art for a better world.”
“Art must not lie.” He reached toward her. Perhaps to get a better view of her eyes, he lifted her hat brim, his hand brushing her hair.
She stepped back.
His gaze trailed from her eyes, over her mouth, down her throat, to her chest. He said, “But you must pledge yourself to it. I’ve seen this chance in a few others, but then they leave, they marry. They forget what they once loved. They have children, and no time to devote to their vision.”
She let her eyelids fall, willing him to stop talking, which made her aware of how much she wanted everything, how that was impossible, and that he was right. One had to make choices between being loved and making art, telling the truth or turning from it. She heard dresses rustle from down the hall and expected some students were listening. Despite the pain in her ankle, she swiftly strode down the stairs, past the ballet and sculpting studios, and onto the sidewalk. She crossed into the Common on her way to the train station. Children so swaddled they looked like soft toys lumbered near the frozen pond. May turned from the clatter and scraping of skates, passing the spot where she’d once waved a handbill, begging people to listen to her father. Her eyes burned at the thought of that hopeful little girl who should never have been sent out alone.
She boarded the train. Dr. Rimmer’s words and silences filled
her as she looked through smoke-stained windows. Had he touched her? Had she stepped back? She couldn’t find words for everything that had happened in that room and hallway. All she knew was that she couldn’t go back.
9
LANDSCAPES
Even with a shawl swathed around her head and neck and gloves under her wool mittens, May shivered while sketching crackling ice on the river, dried cattails, the curved bridge, a squirrel on a dead limb, and vast sky. A memory of Dr. Rimmer’s voice rose between her pencil and the frozen river. Choose, she heard. Was it his fingertips brushing her hair or the prophecy that she could become an artist, though it would bring terrible loneliness, that made her hand tremble? She kept moving her pencil until her thoughts and heartbeat slowed to meet the pace of her eyes and hand. The strength of the stones and exposed roots felt like hers as she drew them. Perhaps it was just as well that she concentrated on pictures of Concord for the book she’d proposed. But she couldn’t help wishing someone noticed that she didn’t take the train into Boston the following week or the next. By the time the roads became muddy and orioles built nests, even Mother seemed to have forgotten she’d ever taken classes.
May couldn’t bother her with the story of why she’d stopped, or even risk that she wouldn’t understand, for lately she sometimes seemed confused about not only the day, but the decade. May wouldn’t tell Anna, who might blame her for being alone in the hall with him, saying too much, wearing her hair unpinned, wanting to make art, anything. She hoped she could confide in Louisa when she returned from Europe.
But even after Louisa had been home a few days, she hadn’t finished talking about water cures, old palaces, mountains, and how she wished that she’d never seen Charles Dickens in London, wearing scads of diamond rings and a fur coat. As Louisa said that monarchy wasn’t as pretty as she’d imagined when they were girls, May guessed she made more of the disappointments to keep her from becoming jealous. It didn’t work. She was glad when Mother changed the subject to how it was a pity that Father wasn’t here, as he’d already left to give his conversations. There seemed to be more interest in them this year, as if having President Johnson in office had increased people’s appetite for idealistic words. Mother mentioned a recent rash of burglaries that made Mr. Emerson reluctant to leave the silver cream pitcher. “He’s relieved his son returned to college, after going West and seeing a buffalo. But it’s a shame Julian was asked to leave Harvard.”
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