What Alice Knew

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “I assume you are here because you have an interest in something that my father has to sell,” she continued. “That’s generally why gentlemen come to dinner. We are not yet at the stage where our visits are purely social. Except for Mr. Sargent, and even he has an interest in us as exotic specimens, though of course we are also great friends.”

  With the mention of Sargent, William suddenly realized where he had seen the girl before. It was at a gallery show in Boston the year before. It had been Sargent’s first American exhibition and had featured some two dozen paintings, mostly portraits of dowagers and society debutantes, but with a few Italianate scenes and one of a striking young woman in Persian costume, now identifiable as Ella Abrams. He recalled at the time staring raptly at that painting, until his Alice pulled him away, saying that she was growing jealous of the model. He had assured her that it was the brushwork that intrigued him—only John could do so much with the color black—and had even convinced himself that it was true. But now, looking at the woman in front of him, he realized it was the face that had mesmerized him on canvas as it now did in life.

  She was wearing a dark blue velvet gown, very simple but well cut, with a sapphire necklace that matched the dress and accentuated the sweep of her long neck. She turned to take his arm and lead him into the dining room, and he was aware of the pressure of her fingers and the proximity of her body to his. Every fiber in him seemed alert to her presence and her touch. They walked through the drawing room, then through a long hall, lined, William vaguely noted, with a collection of the new impressionist painters—Asher Abrams’s taste was obviously for the new as well as the old—and into the dining room, where once again, he was dazzled by the spectacle that confronted him.

  If he had been struck by Sargent’s painting of Ella Abrams at the Boston exhibition, he now saw the same effect multiplied. On the walls of the spacious room, in which a large table had been elaborately set for dinner, were five life-size portraits of the Abrams family, all unmistakably by the brush of John Singer Sargent.

  “It is a bit extreme,” admitted Ella when she saw William’s expression as he gazed at the collection of paintings around them. “My father believes that without a dramatic showing, we are likely to be swept under the carpet. As it is, although we may be accused of questionable taste, we cannot be ignored.”

  William felt the force of this statement. It was not just the number and size of the paintings that were arresting. It was also the unique appearance of the subjects and the unconventional way in which they had been painted. The Abramses had not held Sargent to the standard of propriety favored by most of his clients. Perhaps they did not understand that standard or did not like it. The figures represented in each of the paintings had vibrancy and color that seemed excessive. These were unruly, possibly indecorous people, though the paintings also made clear that they had a great deal of money and life.

  The family members were all present in person as William entered the room, so that the relationship between the paintings and their subjects was immediately thrust upon him. Ada and Greta, the Abramses’ eight-year-old twins, who had been rendered by Sargent with their dog, as though they were three small animals playing together, were quarreling obstreperously under the table. Fiona, sixteen, was fidgeting near her seat, dressed in an extravagant evening gown of gold silk that accented her unaccountably blonde hair, the dress similar to one that her likeness was wearing on the opposite wall. Sargent had painted her in a double portrait with Ella. The two girls, their arms around each other’s waists, stared boldly at the observer, a study in dark and light. Alfred, the son and heir, who stood looking bored in the corner, had been portrayed holding a palette and brush (Sargent had mentioned that he was a painter, or at least an aspiring one). The red lips and supercilious expression on both portrait and man branded him the petulant aesthete. Esther Abrams, the matriarch, appeared in person precisely as she had been painted: a small, straight-backed woman in black with an expression of what could be described only as fierce timidity. She gave William a quick, frightened smile and turned to whisper something to her son.

  In the midst of this tumultuous scene, in which life and art seemed to be vying for priority, stood the patriarch, Asher Abrams, directly below his own portrait. Sargent had painted him in the formal evening dress he was wearing now, but in the painting he held a ledger book as if to emphasize that, though a gentleman, he was never beyond the call of his business. The image, like the man, exuded power and cunning, a combination that William supposed was precisely the way Abrams wished to be portrayed. As Ella led William over to meet him, Abrams’s canny eyes surveyed his guest much as he might appraise a piece of good furniture or a fine picture.

  “This is Professor James, Father,” Ella said, “the man Mr. Sargent wrote to you about.”

  Abrams nodded, as if he had already taken his guest’s measure. “A friend of John Sargent’s is bound to be someone we will like,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “And we are pleased you have chosen to come to us this evening. It happens to be our Sabbath. We are not strict practitioners of our faith, but we hold to its basic rituals, which I hope you will find of interest.”

  William murmured that he was more than happy to be included, and Abrams motioned for him to take a seat beside Ella. “Mrs. Abrams will now light the Sabbath candles and say the barucha, the prayer to commemorate the beginning of the day of rest,” Abrams explained for William’s benefit.

  “Not that we rest,” muttered Fiona, clearly at odds with her family’s decision to maintain a footing in the Old World. Ella darted her sister a disapproving glance, and Fiona bowed her head.

  Esther Abrams moved forward with a large taper, pulled up her shawl so that it draped over her head, lit the candles, and recited the prayer in mumbled Hebrew. William noticed that the twins were kicking each other under the table and that Ella had to pinch one of them to stop.

  “We start with a chicken consommé with egg noodles,” said Ella, taking over the narration from her father and motioning to the maid to bring the soup. “I hope you like chicken consommé.”

  William said he did, though he found he had little appetite. The atmosphere around the table was not serene. A good deal of fighting was going on between the twins, and a dispute had erupted between Fiona and her father over her curfew that evening.

  “You will be home by ten,” pronounced Asher Abrams. “You are only sixteen, and this is London, where Professor James will tell you that it is not wise for young ladies to be gallivanting late at night.”

  “I won’t be gallivanting,” protested Fiona petulantly. “I will be with Billy Sassoon.”

  “So much the worse,” said Asher. “Boys of that type are entirely untrustworthy.”

  “Billy’s mother was Jewish,” protested Fiona.

  “Yes, but she has forgotten it. We have not.”

  Fiona pouted, obviously wishing that they had.

  “It is very difficult, Professor James, to raise a child in our circumstances. I want my children to be English, but I do not want them to forget their ancestors. Can you understand that?”

  William said that he did. There had been a similar kind of balancing act in his own home, where the intellectual aspirations of his father had rubbed up against the more mundane social realities of their wealth and position. The result of this dual pressure had not been entirely successful, if judged by the condition of his younger siblings, not to mention certain facets of his own mental health.

  A brisket with apricots and crisply fried potatoes had made an appearance, along with greens and haricots verts. The food was served in the American style, he noted, which might well be the Jewish style. Ella had passed him the potatoes, and his hand had brushed hers; his skin seemed to burn at the touch. The idea was ridiculous, yet he found himself unable to turn his head to look at her.

  Mrs. Abrams, whose presence had been inconspicuous, suddenly spoke. “Do you have a family, Professor James?” she queried.

 
William noticed what he sensed from the portrait—that she had, beneath her timidity, something of the same shrewd perspicuity as her husband.

  “I do,” said William, looking down at his plate as he spoke. “I have three children. A fourth was lost to us three years ago. Otherwise, a healthy brood, I’m pleased to say, like yours.”

  “And your wife joins you here?”

  “No,” said William, wondering if he was speaking with more emphasis than the question demanded. “She is at home with the children. Our youngest is barely two and therefore in need of her care.”

  A bread pudding arrived, followed by coffee and liqueur. Alfred, who had pushed away his food and leaned back in his chair, announced that he wanted his father to contact a dealer in Paris on his behalf.

  “You can contact him yourself,” said Abrams irritably.

  “But he won’t listen to me,” retorted Alfred.

  “He’ll listen if he thinks you have talent.”

  Alfred’s face hardened. “That’s hogwash.” He spoke scornfully. “Everyone knows that success in the art world is about money. Get someone rich and powerful to back you, and everyone concludes you’re a genius.”

  “I beg to differ with you,” said Abrams. “Success as an artist requires talent and work.”

  “And I beg to differ with you,” mimicked Alfred. “What do you know about art? You know how to buy and sell things, I admit. You know what will bring a good price and how to wrangle it from your clients. But you wouldn’t understand a work of originality and vision that has not acquired a niche in your marketplace. So don’t start giving me lectures on my career. If you want to help, contact your friends on my behalf. If not, keep quiet. I don’t need your philistine advice.”

  There was something so harshly denigrating in this speech that even the formidable Asher Abrams seemed cowed. “I’ll make some calls,” he muttered, at which Alfred rose abruptly from the table, kissed his mother perfunctorily on the cheek, and left the room.

  Watching this embarrassing scene, William was reminded of how cruel life inside a family could be. Alfred Abrams might seem, to the untutored observer, to be spoiled and ungrateful, but he knew how a formidable father could sap the manhood and confidence from a sensitive son. The scene disturbed him, because he knew that blame could not be neatly apportioned. Both parties had suffered, and both had inflicted injury.

  After Alfred left, the twins clattered to be excused, and Fiona, after some additional quarreling about her curfew, also took her leave. Mrs. Abrams began supervising the clearing of the plates, and Abrams was diverted by the entry of a bespectacled young man who seemed to be relaying information regarding the framing of some paintings that he was putting up for sale. Business did not wait, apparently even for the Sabbath.

  In the midst of all this activity, William felt he should turn to Ella and make conversation. It was something he profoundly wanted to do, yet he had avoided turning his head to look at her during dinner. Her beauty and intelligence unnerved him and made him feel like he ought to say something important or brilliant. Looking at her now, however, he saw that the sharp, inquiring expression that had infused her features earlier in the evening had been replaced by a soft, dreamy look. He guessed that she had gone off into a reverie during her father’s unpleasant exchange with her brother, and she had not yet returned from her escapist dream. The expression made her look distant but also vulnerable, and he felt more emboldened to address her. “Do you study philosophy?” He hit on this as a way to begin, since she had spoken so knowledgeably about his work earlier in the evening.

  She met his eyes, and he felt her seriously considering her reply.

  “I don’t know that I study,” she finally said, “but I read.”

  “Isn’t it the same thing?”

  “I don’t think so. Study is a concentrated activity in which the subject matter is allowed to take precedence over everything else. I don’t have the luxury of that. I spend most of my time in more practical occupations.” She motioned vaguely to the room around her. Whether she was referring to household management or to the paintings on the walls was not clear.

  Abrams, who had finished his consultation with the bespectacled young man and seemed to have caught the tail end of this reply, directed a look of pride and affection at his eldest daughter and clarified her response. “Ella is my trusted assistant,” he interjected. “My son has relinquished that role in the hope of becoming the next Whistler…or Monet; his style changes so often, it is hard to tell. But Ella serves in lieu of a son. That is, until she is married and settled.”

  Ella gave a slight grimace, but Abrams appeared not to notice. He lit a cigar and took a contented puff, settling back in his chair. He then gave William another appraising look. “So tell me, Professor. What can I do for you?”

  William had placed his satchel, which contained the De Quincey volume, under his seat, and he reached down to take it out. He almost regretted having to get to the point of his visit; it meant that it would soon be over. The meal was done, though, and it was clear that Abrams expected to do business.

  As William took the volume out of the satchel, Ella, who had bent her head to look down at what he was doing, suddenly moved quickly back and straightened in her chair.

  “I wonder if you know anything about this volume?” He handed it to Abrams, who gently rubbed his fingers on the binding, opened it, and examined the inside cover, where the imprint of his shop was stamped.

  “It passed through our hands, obviously,” he murmured, “but I see so many things. Ella, do you recognize it?”

  Ella seemed hardly to glance at the volume. “I don’t know,” she said abruptly. “It’s probably part of a set we got years ago. I don’t recall seeing anything in red leather recently.”

  “There was the Coleridge,” said Abrams ruminatively. “And that set of Dryden. Both were red leather.”

  Ella shrugged. “I can’t say I recall.”

  Abrams looked at the book again. “If you’re looking for a set of De Quincey, I can put word out and see what I can find.”

  “No,” said William. “I want the particular set associated with this volume. I have my reasons.”

  Abrams examined the book again, and William could see him riffling his memory as Ella shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I remember,” Abrams said finally with decision. “It came with the Coleridge and the Dryden from that Cheshire estate sale a year or so back. I remember it because it was an American edition. I hadn’t seen a full set of De Quincey before and was surprised the Americans had put one out. Don’t you remember, Ella, you were especially eager to acquire it?”

  “No,” said Ella curtly. “I really can’t say I do.”

  William leaned forward inquiringly. “How might this volume have found its way into a Whitechapel bookstall?”

  Abrams shrugged. “There, I can’t help you. I buy only complete sets. A collector wants completeness, whether in china or etchings or books; it represents a level of control. If a set is dispersed—and a missing volume is all it takes—the items become virtually worthless. I can surmise only that we sold the set to someone who was careless with it. It’s not uncommon for an unscrupulous employee to lift a volume and then conspire with a confrere to sell it back to the owner for a substantial sum. Perhaps the thief in this case misplaced the merchandise, got sidetracked, or was sent off to prison. We can certainly tell you to whom we sold the set, if that would be helpful. Abrams & Son—or rather Daughter—keep excellent records, don’t we, Ella?”

  “We try,” said Ella, her voice uneasy.

  William glanced at her. He could tell she was undergoing a disturbance that the book had initiated. It struck him as both unsettling and intriguing. What could the volume possibly mean to her? “I would greatly appreciate knowing to whom the set was sold,” he said to Abrams.

  “Then you must visit the shop Monday morning and have my clerk review the records. You will have only to tell him that we have spoken, and he will be sur
e to accommodate you.”

  Out of the corner of his eye William could see that Ella had regained her bearings and was sitting less stiffly in her chair. “I would be glad to assist Professor James,” she announced lightly. “It would give me the opportunity to continue our discussion of philosophy.”

  “I should like that,” said William, realizing that he would like it more than he wished to admit.

  She gave him a quick sidelong glance and removed a card with a gold border and black script from her waistband. “Here is the address of the shop. I shall see you Monday at eleven.” She rose, a cue for him to do the same. “Be sure to send my regards to Mr. Sargent. Tell him I shall be over next week to dress as a Persian princess, as he requested.”

  Abrams laughed and added, “You can tell your friend Sargent that he must paint me again as well. He’s already represented me in the proper costume of an English gentleman.” He motioned to the portrait behind himself. “Now I should like one in the more splendid accoutrements of a Venetian doge. We could place it in the shop, don’t you think, Ella? It might encourage trade.” He laughed again, and William thought that the cunning businessman was perfectly aware of how he was perceived by the society in which he lived. He would play the expected role, but he would not be a dupe to it or pretend to take it seriously.

  Chapter 27

  It was past ten p.m. when William left the Abrams home on Connaught Square, and it was a beautiful night. In general during his visits to London, the weather was foggy or rainy, a contrast to the refreshing climate that he associated with his own country. But tonight was an exception; the gray limestone of the buildings, so different from the bold newness of Boston’s red brick, shimmered under the soft moonlight.

  He considered hailing a cab and then decided that he would walk to Henry’s flat across Hyde Park. It was not a long walk, and he felt energetic and ebullient as he strode under the lush autumn foliage. He knew, the habit of self-scrutiny being well developed in him, that his high spirits were the result not only of the weather but also of the feelings engendered in him by Ella Abrams. Her vibrant beauty had impressed itself upon him forcefully. Even her unease with regard to the De Quincey volume intrigued him, suggesting something withheld and secretive that added to his fascination with her. He was a husband and a father, a devoted one on all counts, a man who would never dream of wandering from the path of righteousness, yet he felt, as he strode into the park, that there was no harm in the feeling of attraction he was experiencing. So long as it was not to be acted upon, it was a natural sort of thing. Ella Abrams, with her dark eyes and full mouth, her darting intelligence and humor, her exoticism and mystery, stoked his imagination and made him feel vital and glad to be alive. He would see her again on Monday, and the thought pleased him—that was all there was to it. There was a degree of self-deception in his thinking—he knew that—but he did not care.