Behind the man, an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman in a sleek royal blue skirt suit, unaware of the unattractive run snaking up one leg of her textured nylon hose, bent down to the child behind her. “Oh, just wait, young man, until you see the pool. There is even a shallow beach end for you, honey.” Rising back up while cautiously trying to maintain her balance on her thick high heels, she addressed his mother next. “And I know that I am ready to use that hydrotherapeutic steam bath for myself.”
“Tell her about the animals,” the little boy said, looking up at his mother and pulling on her sleeve. “Tell her not to be scared—they are not real.” The young mother then explained how they had seen only a small portion of the ship and that her son had been mesmerized in the children’s café, where enormous images seemed to have leapt from the pages of a Babar the Elephant book onto the walls.
Taylor had studied his ship documents on the train from Chicago and had seen the reviews of the Normandie, promoting it as the pride of France, a floating wonder featuring the best in French design and craftsmanship, and offering the finest French cuisine. Now, with the ship’s schematic in hand, Taylor stopped first for a peek at the dining room. Twelve soaring columns of Lalique’s signature frosted crystal were the focal masterpieces along the ornate glass sculptured walls. A waiter who was putting finishing touches on a table setting told him that each evening the room would accommodate over seven hundred passengers. As if he captained the ship himself, he proudly explained that despite the summer temperatures, the guests would be content in their formal attire, enjoying the presentation of courses in the comfort of air-conditioning.
Passing next through the grand salon, Taylor found red, black, and white floral upholstered chairs, settees, and chaises, and a brilliantly polished ebony piano. He was once again impressed by the ship’s interiors, and understood why its moniker was “Ship of Light.” Following this theme in the salon, four oversized torchieres illuminated the room where rich wood pillars alternated with the art deco murals.
He spent another hour just walking the outer perimeter—around the impeccably maintained decks of the ship. He began on the lower levels and worked his way to the top, where against the backdrop of the city skyline, the men below, busily hauling passengers’ suitcases and trunks, looked like worker ants. As an experienced sailor himself, he was intrigued with any seagoing vessel, but the boats that had crossed the Atlantic from Europe and had navigated the channels of the Great Lakes to reach Chicago were more often old, rusted cargo carriers. Standing now in the bustling harbor of New York, he was instinctively turning to his father to share this experience. It was the first time on his trip that he absorbed the impact of being alone, that he understood just how much he needed to be an adult now.
Inside once again and in search of his cabin, he tipped his hat as he passed clusters of lovely young ladies and their mothers. After he passed, he could hear one group stop and discuss him, making no effort to keep their voices discreet. “He’s soooo cute,” he heard them say before he was out of range, and when he turned slightly back toward them with a smile, they quickly spun around, covering their giggles with gloved hands. Once, a pair of sisters, probably no older than fourteen and fifteen, followed him down a long corridor until they finally had the nerve to address him. “My sister says that you are an American, but I think you are French,” the braver one said. And when he answered them smartly with “Je ne comprehends pas,” the one phrase he used most often on his past trips to the Cote d’Azur, they stood dumbfounded and then, laughing, mimicked the swoons of actresses.
It was no wonder that Taylor Woodmere inspired such reactions from impressionable young ladies, for at twenty-two years of age he was a perfect specimen of a young man of good breeding. He was six feet tall and his physique was athletic, but not overly so. His full, medium brown hair was highlighted by blond strands left over from his summer sailing on Lake Michigan. Sometimes he slicked it down with tonic and combed it to the side to present himself formally, but just as often he left it natural and casual. He had the habit of running his fingers through his hair when in conversation and more than one young woman wished her hands could follow that path.
He was unusually handsome, his eyes the startling sapphire blue of his mother’s side, the pupils edged by a light brown. Back in Chicago, he had frequently been sketched or photographed for the society pages, his likeness often featured in reports on theater or charity events. Since his college years, he had become a favorite of the Chicago gossip columnists. But Taylor Woodmere’s true gifts were less superficial and these he assiduously cultivated—his intellect, his strong sense of responsibility, his sincerity. He had the gift of truly listening to others, not with that appeasing quality that many have when they are waiting for their turn to interject a thought, but with a truly interested and empathetic ear.
Few people would have believed that as an adolescent Taylor was prey to all of the emotional insecurities typical of that age. By the time he was a junior at University Preparatory, his boarding school in New Haven, Connecticut, the students and faculty alike had identified him as a leader—bright, confident, ambitious, and popular. They had no idea, however, that the young man behind that façade, the young man who saw in the mirror the same exterior that others perceived, when lying alone in his bed at night, conjured fantasies of mediocrity. He longed to be able to blend rather than excel, to receive less than perfect grades and be praised for “good tries,” not only for successes. He longed to escape from the demands for perfection and the burden of being an only child.
Only his mother could read the fear behind his eyes. “Taylor, you do not have to be perfect to be fine—even to be great,” she would assure him. She would sit on the edge of his bed when he returned home during school vacations, and affectionately stroke the side of his face even though the softness of his childhood cheeks now was roughened by the bristles of puberty. She would push the thick strands of hair from his forehead and massage his temples as he pretended not to be listening, as he stared out the window. But they both knew that he drank in her words—"Don’t judge yourself so harshly, so strictly,” she would say. Eventually he would turn his head back toward her and she would love capturing the smile that would emerge. “Don’t be afraid to make a mistake—it’s not the end of the world—just smile when you do and the world will smile back at you. My darling—people will be more attracted to you if you are more approachable and more like them—human—with all that it means.”
Her words meant a great deal to him and would reassure him for weeks—at least until he received the next letter from his father.
I understand your team took seconds in crew—and I am thinking now that they should choose a more assertive coxswain. But that would be a waste of your talent and could be filled by a smaller boy; truly, your place is at stroke position. You do have the most fluid, strongest motion, and there you can best help the team increase their strokes per minute. I will drop a note to your coach on that. I assume you will be captain next year.
And then the anxiety would resurface and the pressure would mount and the distance between the Taylor in the mirror and the Taylor in his soul would return.
Taylor did not lack for company during his days and nights aboard the luxury ocean liner. During the days, he would try to relax on a deck chair away from the bustle of the pool and attempt to study his materials. But after a short time, an energetic crowd of college students would seek him out and lure him to participate in a game of water polo or shuffleboard. With the distractions of endless meals, professional concerts, cinema and live stage, a vibrant nightclub and stimulating conversations with the impressive list of passengers, the time moved as swiftly as the Blue Riband pennant-winning ship. In four days they had reached Southampton and by early the next morning they arrived at Le Havre, the gateway to Paris.
Monsieur Francois Benet was holding the “Woodmere” sign when Taylor arrived.
“Bonjour, Je suis Francois Benet,” the man said, e
xtending his hand as Taylor approached. “I hope your trip was easy and I would like to be the first to welcome you to France.”
“Bonjour, Je suis Taylor Woodmere, and that may be just about the extent of our conversations in French,” he replied.
“I am delighted to be your translator and your tour guide during your stay, as I have done often for your very gracious father and your grandfather, as well. May I please inquire first as to their health?”
“Oh—très bien, très bien—I’m surprising myself— maybe a few courses in French were not wasted, Monsieur Benet.”
“Francois, please. And I shall help you to expand that vocabulary as we travel—but not so much that you would no longer require my services.”
“Your job is safe, of course.”
“Of course—bien sur,” Francois replied almost automatically.
And Taylor repeated, “Bien sur.”
Monsieur Benet was a slightly built man, his finely chiseled face and wiry hands protruding from a loosely fitting three-piece suit. With a flamboyant ascot and matching pocket handkerchief, he presented a spirit that seemed much stronger than his physique. Taylor was reluctant to hand him his small bag and briefcase and was relieved when he directed another man, the driver and valet, to take them and then to lead the porter with the rest of his luggage to the waiting automobile.
After a three-hour car ride, they arrived at the Hôtel de Crillon, perfectly located at the cultural heart of the city on the Place de la Concorde. The former palace of the Comte de Crillon and his descendants, it had been converted to a luxury hotel in 1909. Not surprisingly, it was even more opulent than the ship, with an expansive inlayed marble floor, glistening chandeliers, and Louis XV style décor. After Taylor was settled into his suite, however, he had no interest in exploring the hotel; he was eager to finally visit the city of Paris and the World’s Fair.
Having accompanied Taylor to his room and sitting momentarily at an elegant writing table, Francois pulled from his own briefcase the most updated conference schedule and saw that they would have enough time for a first look at the Exposition if they went at least partway to the entrance by automobile. The driver brought them to a location on the Champs de Mars, and after quickly exiting the backseat, Taylor immediately began perusing the paintings and wares of the street displays of the artists and merchants. Even when Francois encouraged him on toward the fair, he was reluctant. He kept lagging farther and farther behind as they walked, and Francois had to retrace his steps and try to hurry Taylor along.
“But look at all of these,” Taylor said, pointing to the inventory where he stood. “I do know a little about art—they are intriguing and accomplished, not really amateurish. Francois, just wait a moment. Indulge me.” He would not be coaxed from the stall of one young artist, with dozens of oils on display and with splashes of paint adorning every section of his clothing, including his shoes, as if he were a mobile canvas. Taylor studied a number of pictures and finally settled on one. In it, a woman was walking along the bluff overlooking a lake, and the beauty of the landscape, the trees swaying in the heavy wind with the woman tightening her shawl, reminded him of a fall day in his own back yard. “Look at the colors. Emily would love this. That’s my girlfriend, back home, in Chicago.” Francois let only a small smile show, but inside he was extremely amused by the suddenly adolescent enthusiasm of this very mature looking young adult.
“Could you please ask him how much it is? I would love to bring this home for her. Do you accept a price? Do you negotiate? I’m sure you do. We could settle on a price and I could return with the French francs.”
Instead of answering him immediately, Francois took Taylor aside. The French artist would unlikely have a command of English, but he had such a burgeoning optimism in the anticipation of a sale that Francois felt sorry to have to be the spoiler. “I am guiding you in many ways on your stay—and now I am just asking you—to take time in making a selection. Do not buy the first thing you see. Become more familiar with the offerings.”
“But everything is so beautiful. How could there not be a thousand great paintings, when there are a thousand beautiful scenes here, everywhere I look? The Seine, the bridges, the parks, the buildings, there is such character here…” And he would have continued if Francois had not interrupted.
“Mr. Taylor. I do not mean this disrespectfully to you, as I am honored by your praise of my city, of everything Parisian. But I assure you, you will find many more wonderful objects for your discriminating tastes.” Within hours, he would be proven right on two counts.
When they entered the fairgrounds, they immediately procured a map of the area, and stepped aside from the moving throng to review their choices.
“Ah, exactly what we want. We will have time now for one stop only and so I see where we should head.” Francois continued speaking as they walked in the direction his finger was following on the map. “In a short time already I feel your tastes. Today, we will enter only the Exhibition des Maitres d’Art Independants at the Petit-Palais, where it is said the Impressionists have an inviting showing.”
It seemed to Taylor as if Francois had read his mind. He understood that this initial visit to the exposition would have to be brief, as he felt that in the days to come he would have many opportunities to visit the international pavilions with the rest of the group and to study the technological advances at the exhibits. But first the art galleries were a magnet to him. He had loved studying the many works of art that hung at his parents’ home in Kenilworth, impressive works that his grandfather, the senior Addison, both loved and shrewdly invested in. Paintings by many famous artists were on view in the gallery on their upper reception level at home. Among Taylor’s favorites were two oils by the American expatriate Mary Cassatt, each featuring a pair of women relaxing on couches at tea time. He knew that Cassatt herself had spent most of her productive years with the other Impressionists in France. Another treasured painting was by Alfred Sisley, a landscape at Argenteuil. But Taylor loved most Claude Monet’s rendering of a French boulevard leading to the Seine and he wondered if he could find that very location during his stay. Taylor’s grandfather, who never boasted about the financial success of his corporation, was validly proud of his acumen in art speculation. His crowd had challenged one another to build their own collections and to become benefactors for museums, especially the Art Institute of Chicago. They had followed the lead of Bertha Honore Palmer, a charismatic socialite and philanthropist and the widow of real estate developer and hotelier Potter Palmer. She had been instrumental in bringing art to the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893, and is said to have returned from her European tour with eleven Renoirs and twenty-nine Monets, one of which was eventually purchased by her friend Addison Woodmere.
The Paris Exposition was housed along the shores of the Seine, and unlike many previous world fairs in outlying areas of a city, this one molded itself into the existing urban landscape. New buildings mixed with existing edifices to house the attractions. On the site of the old Trocadero, the new Palais de Chaillot was constructed, with a portico of over one hundred and fifty columns. People would enter the grounds through the space between its two massive wings, which curved as if they were holding the entire fair in a maternal embrace. The fair extended from the Place du Trocadero along a wide-open esplanade to the Eiffel Tower, which, itself, had premiered at the Paris World’s Fair of 1889.
But underneath the serene beauty of the fair were undercurrents of a world on edge. In this tumultuous year of 1937, the pavilions themselves seemed to symbolize the rising tensions among European nations. The towering buildings for the Soviet Union and for Nazi Germany, both huge and grandstanding, faced one another across the walkway pond, posed as if not only ideological, but also military battles were already underway. They each looked like colossal trophies. At the summit of the Soviet building, two enormous sculptured figures, a worker and peasant by Vera Mukhina, held the hammer and sickle in a triumphant stance; atop the Nazi Ge
rman roof, perched a huge, arrogant metal eagle.
As he followed Francois through the fairgrounds to the major art exhibit, Taylor was struck by the diversity of the crowd. Nationalities were easily identifiable by their attire. Here was a stereotypical Parisian, bereted and goateed, dressed as if he had just walked out of his studio on the Left Bank. And there was a frumpy, cheery, rosy-cheeked mother of three, chasing after her enfants, as if they were still at their farm in the Loire Valley. The businessmen were easy to spot. Walking in groups, holding briefcases or notepads, they pointed and nodded in waves of agreement and switched directions like schools of fish.
When they finally entered the Petit-Palais, Taylor could not decide which way to look. He was drawn first to one artist, and then he would turn and the vibrancy of another display would call to him. Continually, he exchanged glances with Francois, who was finally allowing him to enjoy the art at his own pace, and he could sense that his fervor was entertainment for the man.
The hall was large and well stocked and people were in lines of two and three deep, barely moving along as they rocked slightly in place with the rhythm of small boats tied at the shore, captured by the ebb and flow of the waves. First, they would walk close to see the artistry of the work, and then pull back, because an Impressionist painting was best viewed from a distance, when the vibrant individual brush strokes would suddenly become cohesive and the scene would be revealed. He was reluctant to become part of the main lines and so he stood almost in the middle of the room surveying the entirety, perhaps finally following Francois’ advice, slowing down, getting an overview of the presentation.
And that was when he came upon it, when he first saw the painting, Jeune Fille à la Plage by Henri Lebasque. It called to him with an extraordinary voice. It was not, however, identified as one of the artist’s major works hanging on the gallery walls. It had been leaning in front of the director’s desk in the middle of the room, among a secondary group of paintings available for sale. Taylor had, literally, stumbled upon it as he backed up to view an enormous landscape on an adjacent wall.
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