I was so very touched by—and grateful for—the shawl and mittens you sent me: they comforted me in the coldest part of the English winter. I do not even recall if I have thanked you as I should.
I shall write more anon; in the meantime, tell me how you do.
Affectionately,
Emily
“When you set out upon a picture, what are you hoping to achieve?”
Emily and Miss Drake sat close to the fire in the huge drafty studio, black night around them and city lights in the distance.
“A glimpse of life,” said Emily, drawing up her knees and hugging them with her arms.
“Life as it is? Should be? Never was?”
Emily smiled as if at a memory. “The beauty of it.”
“The beauty of what, my dear young lady?”
“The way the light falls upon a woman’s face, or a flower—or even a crumb upon the tablecloth.”
“Only a glimpse, you say?”
“A glimpse of perfection. I do not think it is possible ever to gain more.”
“Indeed.” Miss Drake’s wry tone was nonetheless encouraging and she studied Emily openly.
“And at the risk of sounding morbid, in the world there is so much pain and confusion, I long to show that there is always beauty to be contemplated, grasped, if only for an instant—”
“Always beauty? Is it to be found everywhere?”
“No. You are right to correct me. Indeed it is not. But is not the purpose of art to uplift the soul, through the senses?”
Miss Drake laughed, a gruff, snorting sound. “Thousands before you have held to that truth. I dare say it is what we all believe or we would not strive at it so.”
“Art is the only permanent thing to hold on to, is it not? The only illumination? The only record that we have lived?”
“Quite so, young lady. Now it is late and time for you to go to bed. You look pale and wan and it is absolutely my fault for keeping you up. I have left an extra blanket on your chair, should you require it.”
Emily’s lungs were sore and she had bled since coming to Rome. There were no miracles to crown her pilgrimage. But she hoped the hemorrhages were sufficiently small for her to be able to conceal them from Anna and Miss Drake. She washed out her stained linen herself at her washstand, and if it were too besmirched, disposed of it discreetly when no one was looking. She began to nurture a sustaining hope of improvement, if not recovery. In a little under a fortnight she had come to fear her condition less.
MISS EMILY HUDSON
C/O POSTE RESTANTE, ROME
CARLTON CLUB, SW
December 15th, 1862
Dear Cousin,
I write to acknowledge my receipt of your recent letter.
I find I must ask you to return the money by which you have funded this latest rash journey. I cannot be seen to endorse financially or otherwise your stay in a house and with a person unknown to me.
Regarding your (somewhat petty novelette-ish) concern about maintaining the secrecy of your address, you may rest assured that as you have seen fit to act entirely without my guidance, advice or friendship, I seek no renewal of our intimacy, correspondence, or any other form of intercourse.
I remain, yours truly etc.,
William Cornford
“What—more tears over a letter?” said Miss Drake, coming upon Emily huddled in a drafty corner of the studio among the unfinished canvases.
“It is my cousin. He is very angry. And he places me in a difficult position—financially.”
“Allow me to read it.”
Taking the letter from her hand without waiting for an agreement, Miss Drake perused it quickly; when she had finished folding it and saying coolly, “He is fond of words, if only to disguise his own feeling. It is quite clear what must be done. I shall lend you the money and you shall work for me. You certainly seem strong enough after a month here—almost healthy in fact.”
“But what shall I do?”
“Aid me in supervising my classes. The young ladies in especial do tend to giggle so. Model for my students and for me—if it does not offend you. Put your brain to work on my books. In addition, there is always research to be done. Employ yourself. A person must work. It is the greatest discipline, the cure for all ills, bar the most acute, of course.”
They sat side by side and Emily was grateful not to be forced to look into her companion’s eyes at the mention of illness.
“But Miss Drake—”
“And in return, you shall have board and lodging. You need no longer be a guest. That should please you.” The lady paused, allowing herself a tiny, beady glance at her new friend, “And perhaps a small allowance will be included.”
Emily saw clearly that she was exchanging one dependency for another, but this was a fairer, more honest pact than any she had made with her cousin.
“I gratefully accept!” she burst out, somewhere between a laugh and a cry.
WILLIAM CORNFORD ESQ.
CARLTON CLUB, SW
ROME
December 21st, 1862
Dear William,
I write, as you can see, enclosing a banker’s draft for the full amount I had occasion to borrow from you.
While I continue to hope you understand that I did not intend to injure you, nonetheless I remain well aware that I did not behave honestly—and for that again, I am sorry.
I shall not seek a renewal of our intercourse unless I hear from you to the contrary.
Should you have occasion to visit Rome I would of course be pleased to receive you.
Yours truly,
Emily Hudson
Emily was forced to cross out the last line, because she could not convince herself that it was at all true.
MRS. R. W. HARPER
HOTEL SPLENDIDE, VIENNA
PALAZZO
ROME
January 1st, 1863
Dear Augusta,
The turn of the year and life moves on apace. I am delighted that your first married Christmas has been so delightful in Vienna. It seems you cannot tire of amusement, and that is how it should be for newly-weds in my opinion. I am at pains to imagine, however, that any Viennese cake could rival an Italian concoction!
Regarding your letter’s many questions concerning my abrupt departure from London, I am sorry to say that I cannot at present be more specific even to dearest you, not until we meet again. Forgive me. Try to understand that I had no cause I can explain in writing and do not worry for me. That is all I can say. (For your part I sense a hankering in your letter for a return to your adopted city. I can only encourage this in you, as my longing to see you is as strong as ever.)
I have had occasion to visit many of the sights of Rome in the company of Miss Drake and her students. Whether observed in solitude or in a small or large group, the eternal city never ceases to amaze. Miss Drake says that the weather gives it an austerity it will shake off in the spring and summer, but I find that hard to imagine: a piece such as the Ecstasy of St. Teresa or the grandeur and wild joy of the fountains in the Piazza Navona appear entirely undimmed by rain, wind or dull skies. The idea that light could make them more exuberant even than they are at present is hard to conceive.
I simply love it here. Every day I wake up in my peculiar little iron bed, in my barely furnished room, and I understand what made you so ardently happy. It is not a contentment I feel, but a deep joy.
Neither am I short of convivial company. The young ladies and gentlemen who come to the studio share my awe about Rome, and if they do not appear to notice it and are vulgar or brash, I find that amusing, although—I hasten to add—not (I think) in a cruel way. After all, they are young and feel the joys and pain of youth as I do, and so we are connected—although I must admit that I feel a great deal older than they.
When we have our expeditions through the city and pass a crumbling column by the side of the road, abandoned-seeming, unattended, and so beautiful and so old, it always makes me want either to laugh or cry.
I wish you had had occasion to meet Captain Lindsay. I find I cannot wholly forget him, and hope passionately that he has been spared without daring to discover it for certain. I have tried to put the ocean of distance and time between my past self and his—but even so, he will rise up to meet me at the most unforeseen moments and there is no advantage to be had from the memory, therefore even if I cannot excise it quite, I must endeavor to try. It is simply that there seems so much left unsaid, and only this blankness remaining.
Back in this time and place, there are so many impressions. The poverty I witness—the women begging at the gates of churches with their ragged children—is both horrifying and pitiable: that you must also remember. The crowds of beau monde I occasionally see or hear from a passing carriage seem blissfully far removed from anything that concerns me.
I have started working again. That fact makes me feel clean and whole and as if my struggles have not been entirely in vain. It is only a little study of Anna and her son Paulo, but I am drawing them in the kitchen preparing our lunch. When it is warmer I shall put them on the loggia and attempt to convey the light and color around and through them, and so I am impatient for the summer to come.
You would not recognize me. I have put aside my corset (it is much easier to breathe) and I own only one or two work dresses and one for best, just like Miss Drake. I still put up my hair, of course, but it is far lower on my neck, easier to pin for myself. It is such a relief no longer having to care how I present myself to the world. I do not trouble myself very much with a looking glass.
My dear Girl, forgive this endless, trivial letter. I fear it is inconsequential. Perhaps all calm and near-content sounds essentially frivolous, I do not know.
Do give me news of your adventures.
How do you do?
Affectionately as ever,
Emily
MISS EMILY HUDSON
C/O POSTE RESTANTE, ROME
TRELAWNEY HOUSE
RICHMOND, SURREY
January 5th, 1863
My dear Emily,
So here we have all been, your English friends, beside ourselves with worry for your safety and state of mind, when on a sudden you write to me of this Nirvana you have come upon. I own I do not think it sounds comfortable in the least, but you are a romantic—this I know—and you have found the right spot for it in Europe.
All I ask of you is that should the city appear threatened in the least by this so called unification that you will quit it; and secondly, and perhaps more importantly, that you will try not to quarrel with your new-found savior. That would be most unfortunate. Needless to say you are finding my tone scolding—and I admit it is partly because I have been so sick with fright on your account and William would tell me nothing but that you had “Gone to Rome for your health.” He looked so thunderous at this announcement that I did not dare ask him anything further. I must say he can be very intimidating for one so young, and for a person who gives an impression of such outward fragility.
I have an idea that I will see less of him now that you are gone. Thomas continues to mention him, for they meet at the Club and share a bond that is quite independent.
My life here, so long taken up with nursing, then with funeral arrangements, and more recently with the usual confusion about the estate, is beginning to settle back to its familiar pattern.
I have removed to Richmond and am resolved to remain here for the time being: London is quiet and rather dreary at this time of year. Everyone of consequence is still away.
I wonder when I shall see you again.
Now that you have affronted your destiny with such daring my advice about conduct will, I am sure, go unheeded. But please, do not neglect your health or squander your virtue.
Affectionately as ever,
Caroline
MISS CAROLINE TRELAWNEY
TRELAWNEY HOUSE, RICHMOND
PALAZZO
ROME
January 15th, 1863
Dear Caroline,
Your last letter sounded not a little melancholy and I detect bitterness in your tone. I hope your disapproval, though well deserved, is waning.
I am sorry. Your advice is sound.
Visit me. I can think of nothing better.
Only the best hotel for you—of course.
With love as ever,
Emily
MISS EMILY HUDSON
PALAZZO———, ROMA
TRELAWNEY HOUSE
RICHMOND, SURREY
January 31st, 1863
My dear Emily,
You are incorrigible. My scolding inspires only silliness and levity in you! But the tone of your letter made me laugh, once I had recovered from the irritation.
I am disinclined to make any journey whatever—especially in February!
I shall visit you, when the time is right.
In the meantime keep me apprised of your doings and your health. Do not neglect it. To ignore the dangers we have both witnessed, dearest friend, would be folly of the surest kind.
Affectionately,
Caroline
MISS EMILY HUDSON
C/O POSTE RESTANTE, ROME
BOSTON
January 13th, 1863
Dear Cousin Emily,
Rest assured that I am relieved to hear that you are at Rome, where I understand the climate is more favorable to your condition than the famous damp English weather.
Your adventure sounds extremely romantic, but I would be deceitful if I were to say that I did not concern myself as to your well-being.
Even though my brothers were both amongst us, Christmas in Boston was quiet and sad—this war, you see.
Affectionately,
Mary
MISS MARY CORNFORD
CORNFORD HOUSE,
BOSTON, MASS
C/O POSTE RESTANTE, ROME
February 8th, 1863
My dear Mary,
Thank you for your kind letter. You express yourself with a delicacy I fear I cannot match.
I remember that this time last year we occupied the same house in Boston and indeed had experience of many of the same vicissitudes. Here I am, once again among virtual strangers, but I am fortunate enough to be being received with all kindness.
You do not mention it but I trust you are in tolerable health and spirits? Please write further when you have the opportunity. I am quite quiet at present and have a peculiar sensation of waiting, as if something—at present unidentifiable—is about to happen.
With love,
Emily
SEVENTEEN
It was May and with the coming of spring, the wildflowers and the warm weather, Miss Drake and Emily made an expedition into the Campagna. A pony and trap were procured, driven by Anna’s brother, and a rocky meadow close to a pile of picturesque ruins with a view of the city was found with little difficulty.
“This is my favorite pursuit at this time of year. I have refined my approach to an art,” said Miss Drake. “In the early years I would bring too much, in the middle years too little, but now I have just the right amount of luggage to supply our needs for the day.”
“You have a reassuringly practical mind.”
“Let us sit upon the ground; it is by far the most pleasura
ble way to enjoy the countryside.”
Emily could not help but think of William, and his loathing of sitting on the sand dunes at Newport. In their loose clothing, with their parasols propped among rough stones and their rug spread out with perfect smoothness beneath them on the dry earth (Miss Drake could not abide wrinkles), they sketched in companionable silence for the morning, breaking off only to find a stream in which to cool their hands and throats.
“I love the wildflowers. The haze of them,” said Emily.
“It will turn to yellow very quickly.”
“It has a golden quality even now.”
“Yes. And the reds, and the speedwell blues.”
“I must bring my easel and paint in the open air,” said Emily, narrowing her eyes at the distant sky, blue and promising the heat of the summer to come.
“The light would change. You would not be able to control it.”
Emily Hudson Page 24