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by Sawyer, Donna Drew

  Without Belle’s wise counsel, Lance might have believed the

  Frenchman’s words. Paris was certainly more diverse but for al

  of the Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité the French celebrated, it was 207

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  still a white man’s world. Negroes were not equal; they were

  just not as unequal as they were in America.

  “I hear she does things that make men lose control,” Walter

  whispered to Lance. “We should go.”

  When Lance finally did see Josephine Baker’s show at the

  Folies Bergere, her performance and the audience’s adoration triggered a feeling of discomfort that he had not experienced

  before. In Virginia he had been entertained by colored per-

  formers and never once thought about what their lives were

  like after the applause and accolades from an audience who

  reviled them. How did Negroes manage the duplicity of being

  lauded and disdained at the same time? Yes, the French loved

  La Baker; as a woman they desired her because they saw her, as his host that night at the jazz club explained, as exotic,

  “une sauvage.” They celebrated Baker’s body and sexuality and Eugene Bul ard’s brawn and heroism, but neither of them would

  ever be the equal of their audience. Their race would always

  marginalize them. What had Belle told him? “Anything but

  colored is acceptable.”

  La Baker further confirmed his decision to continue to pass as white in France and forever. For all anyone knew, Lance

  Henry Withers was and always had been a member of the

  ruling class. Nothing he had seen or experienced on this side

  of the Atlantic or the other would ever make him relinquish

  that privilege.

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  (III)

  Starting with the small investment he made with Walter and

  Nelson, and that he continued independently when they turned

  to other things, Lance turned the princely sum he controlled

  from his father’s estate into a more than comfortable living for

  the family. By 1936, when he was about to turn twenty-four,

  he was in every sense, his own man. Belle’s friends were now

  Lance’s friends. He became the friend of a friend everyone who

  came to Europe wanted to meet and spend time with.

  Now that he had the money to indulge in the same artistic

  pastime as his friends, he was still uncertain about what art

  to collect. Belle had tried to interest Lance in the antiquities

  and religious art that were her passion, but they just did not

  speak to him.

  In the summer of 1936, Nelson’s mother asked him to

  accompany her to London where she and a group of friends

  were looking for works to expand the collection of contem-

  porary art for a museum they had established in New York.

  The political climate in Europe convinced Mrs. Rockefeller

  that there was trouble on the horizon and she wanted to make

  several purchases because she didn’t know when she would

  have the opportunity again.

  “There is just so much art to love here. You can’t take a

  step without bumping into a canvas worth having,” she told

  Lance. She encouraged him to take advantage of the surfeit

  of well-priced contemporary and modern art available on the

  continent.

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  “How do you decide? Where does a collector start?”

  Lance asked.

  “With passion,” Mrs. Rockefeller said without hesitating.

  Elegant and regal in the way only truly wealthy women are,

  she leaned lightly on a carved walking stick, drifting into the

  painting in front of them. “When you lose yourself in a work

  of art, you will have found your passion.” She turned to face

  Lance. “Ignore the critics, the cognoscenti, the tastemakers;

  they only know what they love, or hate. I don’t even listen to

  my husband and he pays for my indulgences,” she said with

  a laugh, then turned serious. “Let your heart rule your head.

  Be it art or life, whatever touches you here,” she said, pressing

  her bejeweled fingers to Lance’s heart, “will always be right.”

  (IV)

  Lance met Wassily Kandinsky, a Russian artist living in

  Paris, at a gathering at Gertrude Stein’s apartment. He’d been

  a teacher at Germany’s famed Bauhaus school of art and archi-

  tecture until the Nazis raided the school in 1933. They displayed

  Kandinsky’s vivid experimental compositions, along with work

  by artist Paul Klee and others, as degenerate art, then burned it.

  Kandinsky fled to Paris and continued to work. Lance visited the

  artist in his studio and listened to him talk about his work. The

  artist’s complex and colorful compositions intrigued Lance. He

  gravitated to works that forced him to extract his own meaning

  from the canvas. He saw parallels between abstract art and his

  life. These works seemed to confirm for him that beauty can

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  be found within chaos and not everything is figurative and

  representational. He had seen abstract works before, but now

  he saw it differently. Perhaps Belle’s summer of immersion in

  the lessons of art and life had helped him mature enough to

  find the spark that he had been looking for. Lance developed

  an insatiable appetite for abstract art, particularly expression-

  ism, and he developed a nearly infallible eye for an artist’s best

  canvas, which he always secured at the most advantageous price.

  Lance bought and loved the more lyrical nature of these works

  by artists whose names were not as recognizable as Monet and

  Matisse. The bold works defined him—socially, culturally and

  financially, his collection was where Lance fully displayed his

  passion, it became the constant that helped him make sense of

  all that had happened to him—the loss of his father, his home

  and his identity. Like a hidden object in an abstract painting,

  Lance Henry Withers buried his secrets in his collection.

  The art world began to take notice of the Withers Col ection.

  His success in business complemented and supported his grow-

  ing art collection, obscuring who he had been before the art

  cognoscenti discovered who he was now. Lance’s popularity

  gave him the power to cull people, art and innuendo from his

  elite circle; he was in full control of his present and his future

  and, he had erased his past. Lance had taken the advice Belle

  gave him in Italy, he made his choice. Lance Henry Withers was

  now the collector—everyone and everything else was the art.

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  • 15 •

  Spring 1938

  (I)

  Maggie’s dream of hosting Lance’s friends

  never became a reality. She had worked hard

  to tastefully decorate their apartment to host

  the creative class. Instead, Lance used it as a warehouse

  for his growing collection. Canvases were carefully stacked

  against every wall in the apartment. He would return from

  trips to Italy, Belgium, Austria or Germany with crates of

  artwork then spend weeks in London on business deals.
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  When he was at home, he spent most of his time behind

  closed doors in his office in their apartment.

  Maggie’s world contracted in direct correlation to Lance’s

  expanding success. She never developed the stamina to keep

  up with Lance’s new life. The few times he would invite

  her to stroll the boulevards, visit the museums, or lunch in

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  the cafes now seemed to exhaust her and, after a while, he

  stopped asking her to accompany him. She suffered from

  recurring migraines, staying in her darkened bedroom for

  days at a time. Rather than go out, she preferred to spend

  time in the apartment’s grand salon, peering out over the

  rooftops of Paris wishing for the past. She refused to read

  the news about the Depression in the United States. It was

  her way of believing that everything was as she left it. All

  she had to do was return with her son to resume the life

  she once had. But Europe was now deep in the Depression

  and Hitler, Franco and Mussolini were aggressively mov-

  ing Europe to another war. Maggie was determined to go

  home. She gathered her courage and knocked on the door

  to Lance’s office.

  “Lance, we need to talk.”

  “Come in, come in,” he said, jumping up to escort his

  mother to a chair. “Tell me, what do you need?”

  “I think it is time to go home,” she announced in as strong

  voice as she could manage. She steeled herself for his opposition

  unaware that he had been thinking the same thing.

  “You’re right.”

  “I am? Oh that’s wonderful!”

  “Just one problem, where’s home? You can’t mean Richmond.

  You can’t go back to Virginia.”

  “It doesn’t have to be Virginia. If we could just return to

  the United States.”

  “What about New York. I own real estate there, Belle’s

  there and I have other friends and business associates who

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  will be great resources for us. I think New York would be the

  best place.”

  “Oh Lance,” Maggie jumped up and kissed him. “How

  soon—how soon can we leave?”

  “Let’s talk to Charlotte and then I’ll arrange for an apart-

  ment and plan the travel. You can be strolling down Fifth

  Avenue within the month.”

  Maggie ran from the room screaming, “Momma, Momma!

  We’re going home, we’re all going home.”

  (II)

  Charlotte surprised Maggie and Lance by agreeing immedi-

  ately to return to the United States. Charlotte’s lack of affinity

  for the French language put her at a social disadvantage their

  entire time in Paris. She managed only fleeting relationships

  with expatriate wives and widows and she was tired of the

  isolation. The Great Depression was beginning to ease under

  Roosevelt’s New Deal, it was a good time to go home. It was

  also time for her to permanently step down and let Lance

  take control of the family—he had earned the right. He was

  still young, just twenty-five but his success had proven him a

  more competent provider than her bank president husband and

  Margaret’s glorified janitor put together.

  Charlotte looked forward to being a New Yorker. Unlike

  her last attempt to penetrate Manhattan society, she knew

  Lance’s wealth and status in business and the art world would

  facilitate their acceptance. She would assume her role as the

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  family matriarch and enjoy the sumptuous life that she cre-

  ated. I could not have planned this any better, Charlotte thought, taking credit for her grandson’s success. It had been her idea

  to take the family to Paris. Her wise assessment of financial

  institutions had kept their inheritance safe. She was the one

  who convinced Belle Greene to make the introductions that

  led Lance to the people who would make him a success. Yes,

  she thought, it is because of me that we are enjoying this great triumph. Now it is time to go home.

  (III)

  Lance suggested his mother and Charlotte check into the

  Hotel Ritz so that he could have the apartment packed and

  shipped. He stayed at the apartment to supervise the move.

  Within two weeks they were in Le Havre boarding the ship

  for the voyage home. Lance had their luggage delivered to the

  ship so that all they carried aboard were their things from their

  stay at the hotel. When they arrived at their cabin there were

  only accommodations for the two women.

  “They’ve made a mistake,” Charlotte said, looking around

  for Lance’s stateroom.

  “There’s no mistake,” Lance said. “I’m not making the

  crossing with you. I’m staying in Paris.”

  “You can’t stay, you must come with us. There is no reason

  for you to remain here, not without your family. We are all each

  other has, Lance.” Maggie pleaded with her son.

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  “Maman,” as he now called her, “please, this is where I

  belong. I’ve arranged an apartment for you and Charlotte in

  the Murray Hill section of Manhattan. You will love it there,

  I promise.”

  “You are supposed to be with us. You have to come home!”

  “I am home. I don’t think I’ll ever live permanently in the

  United States again, but with both of you there and because

  of the business I’m doing in New York, I’ll be back and forth.

  Soon there will be airplanes that can fly across the Atlantic.

  We’ll never lose contact, you’ll see.”

  “Lance, how can you stay? Europe is a tinderbox. Leave

  now, everyone says so. The ship is full of Americans. Even the

  Europeans are leaving. You cannot stay here. Leave with us

  or we all stay!”

  “Maman, nothing will happen in Paris—the Germans wil

  never march down the Champs d’ Elysées. Please don’t worry, I am safe here. This is my home now,” he said remembering that

  he once thought of Richmond as home. He had outgrown and

  discarded the person and the persona that arrived in Paris in

  1931. Now he disdained the south and its culture. He had pushed

  the West End, Colonial Enterprises, Del, even his father so

  far into the past that he found it hard to recall the life he once

  had. It had not been easy to let it all go. His father’s journals

  haunted him. He had even tried to contact Del the year after

  they arrived in Paris. He wrote to her and gave the letter to

  Bel e to mail from New York, using the Morgan Library as the

  return address, just in case. The letter was returned unopened.

  He never attempted to reach anyone in Richmond again. Paris

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  was home and he was not about to leave. His mother and

  Charlotte were very much the same people they had always

  been, but he had grown to be a man. It was time to put some

  distance between them.

  “So you are abandoning us,” Charlotte said, exacerbating

  Maggie’s hysteria.

  “I am not aba
ndoning you. I’m a man now; it is time for

  me to live my life – not yours. I will always take care of you,

  no matter where I am. I’ve arranged everything in New York.

  A chauffeur will meet you when you dock, take you to the

  apartment. I’ve even hired staff to look after you. I wrote Belle

  and told her you’re coming. She will help with introductions

  so you can make new friends. All you have to do is relax and

  enjoy. Get to know the city so you can show me around when

  I come for a visit.”

  “And when will that be?” Maggie asked, trying to make

  him commit to a date.

  “We’ll see, Maman, we’ll see,” Lance said, wrapping his

  mother in his arms and kissing the top of her head. “You will

  heal better in the United States. No more migraine headaches,

  nothing to be anxious about. It will be easier in New York,

  everyone speaks English.”

  •

  Maggie clung to her son, showering him with kisses

  and tears until he was the last visitor to leave before the crew

  removed the gangplank. From the deck of the ship, Maggie

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  waved to Lance as he stood on the dock. Through tears, she

  blew heartfelt kisses that her only child playfully pretended to

  catch. As the ship slipped into the early morning fog, and the

  distance between them grew, she could no longer see Lance.

  She had lost the two most important people in life—her hus-

  band and now her son. Neither would be coming back to her.

  She had nothing left. Maggie looked toward the shore. She

  thought she saw the dock again and where Lance had been she

  saw Hank, standing tall and strong, beckoning to her.

  Maggie returned to the cabin where Charlotte was relaxing

  with a magazine and a cup of tea.

  “I had a feeling he was staying,” Charlotte said. “The ruse

  of checking us into the Ritz so we could not see what he was

  doing reminds me of something I would do. Your son is clever.”

  “I’ve lost him,” Maggie said.

  “You haven’t lost him, he’s just exercising his independence,

  Margaret. Remember when you did the same thing?” Charlotte

  said, reminding Maggie of how she had eloped with Hank.

  “Relationships between a parent and a child change with time;

  the boundaries of your influence diminish. You have to accept

  that. I did.”

  “Did you, mother?” Maggie asked.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Charlotte asked.