He sighed and sank back in the chair. “Studying, studying, and more studying in order to get into law school. My father will disown me if I don’t get into Harvard. I consider it an almost impossible task, but he won’t take no for an answer. There are more things to life than putting one’s nose in a textbook. I couldn’t wait to come here to get away from home . . . and books.”
Emma turned her head toward the fire and looked at the red embers that glowed so evenly across the stone hearth. “So, you haven’t had the time to write? I thought I might at least get a letter.”
“Well, my studies got in the way.” He paused and with a casual motion grasped the wingchair’s arms. “Also, my father beat it into my head that you should never be too attentive to a woman. They lose interest if you are. ‘I’ve got a tip,’ he’s told me more than once. ‘Never get married. You’ll be much happier.’”
Instinctively, she objected to that reasoning, but the thought of her parents’ arguments caused by their clash of wills flashed into her mind. “Your father sounds like he’s unhappy.”
Kurt thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t say he’s unhappy. He makes his own way.”
Emma wanted no further explanation of what that happiness might entail. “You pay attention to your father, don’t you?”
“Yes. Do you pay attention to yours?”
Emma looked toward the Christmas tree in the corner, silver beading glinting, the starched crocheted snowflakes and fragile glass ornaments shimmering in the fading firelight, the fragrant aroma of pine needles filling the room. Her parents had gone to great trouble to get her to the Vermont farmhouse, even going so far as to rent a carriage for the round-trip. She wondered if they were resting comfortably at home, or whether another argument had broken out. Were they happy beside each other on this cold night?
“I pay more attention to my father than my mother,” Emma replied, looking back at Kurt. “No one makes me happier than my father. He has encouraged my art while my mother, at first, was less supportive.”
“Art?”
“I’m studying with Daniel Chester French?”
“You don’t say,” Kurt said with enthusiasm.
Emma nodded.
“Who’s he?” A sly grin broke out on his face.
She would have thrown a book at him had one been available. Instead, she plucked the magazine off his lap, whacked him across the shoulder with its rounded form, and tossed it back. “He’s the most important sculptor in America.”
Kurt’s grin faded. “Really. . . .” He scooted closer toward her as if his interest had been piqued. “He must be a very rich man.”
“Is that all that matters to you?” she asked. “Money?”
“Money’s important—probably more important than anything else. How can you be happy without it? Who wants to be poor? I’ll have to support a family, make a good living, but I’m not sure law is the way to go. I’m eighteen now and able to make my own decisions.” He cocked his head. “You must be over sixteen.”
“Yes, and able to make my own decisions.”
He guffawed and then covered his mouth with his hand. “Don’t make me laugh—I’ll wake up Charlene’s parents. You’re lying. Your mother rules the roost.”
Kurt was right—her mother did make most of the family decisions. In the past year, Emma had begun to realize that having a mind of one’s own was a useful characteristic for a woman. She only hoped that when the time came to fully utilize this trait she would use it in a more positive manner than her mother. If nothing else, she had learned from her mother and Daniel Chester French that a woman was not to be trifled with.
“I’ve been studying anatomy as part of my instruction,” Emma said casually.
Kurt’s eyes flickered. “Another surprise.”
“I’d like to sketch you before we return home.”
He smiled and extended his feet until the tips of his toes touched her legs.
She didn’t back away.
He moved his hands to his waist as if he was about to remove his sweater.
“Not tonight . . . when I’m ready.”
He stopped. “Sure. I’m game.”
“On my terms.” She rose from her chair and returned it to its place. “When the time is right.”
His eyes flashed and the grin returned, as she left him sitting in front of the fire.
I have him exactly where I want him. The thought occurred to her, as she trod up the creaky wooden stairs, that perhaps she was more like her mother than she realized. That idea didn’t encourage sleep. Even as she was buried under the covers to fight off the frosty air, she found herself thinking of her parents and her art, looking past the open curtains, through the glass to the brilliant winter stars and slivered moon that cast a soft, pale light on the snow gathered in the eaves.
* * *
The sketching session that Emma envisioned never occurred in the way she’d hoped—privately, with Kurt acting as her model in some form of undress. The days and evenings were taken up with Charlene and her parents. Finally, the last night of the stay, as they all sat around the fireplace, Emma was able to draw them in an informal pose and setting. She was somewhat reluctant to show them the finished charcoal sketches for fear that her inability to completely capture their faces might lead to disparaging remarks, but Daniel Chester French had told her that she would never be an artist unless she opened herself to critical barbs no matter how hard they stung.
She passed the first of her drawings to Kurt. He was somewhat amused, but from his careful scrutiny there must have been something on paper that pleased him.
Charlene was the most effusive of the group. “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, holding her portrait in her outstretched arms.
Charlene’s father said he would find “three nice frames” and mount the drawings “prominently” on the staircase wall. After a brief initial look, the subject was dropped for other topics until everyone grew tired and said good night.
* * *
Emma departed the Vermont farmhouse before New Year’s Day, 1907, with Kurt still on her mind. One of her Christmas presents was a small diary given to her by her father.
“You can draw in it and give free rein to your thoughts,” he told her.
Emma loved the rich smell of the green leather case, the gloss of the brass lock that kept the diary’s contents hidden, and the small golden key that unlocked its secrets. She always kept the book secured but in sight upon her desk. The key, when not in use, was tucked behind a fitted panel in her closet. The concealing seam was so flawless and unobtrusive, Emma knew her mother would never find it, even if she dared to search her room. In the cold months of January, February, and March, Emma started the diary and fell in love with the peace that filled her as she poured out her feelings. Writing became a habit as constant as the rising sun. She also corresponded with Kurt, writing mostly of schoolwork, her interest in art and sculpture, and her hope to see him again. Never did the words, “miss you,” or “lacking your affection,” enter the letters. Two could play the game of muted interest, she decided. Surprisingly, he managed to send a few letters in return, which, upon their receipt, elicited her mother’s scowls.
“Who is this boy?” Helen asked one March afternoon as the sun, weakened by high clouds, shone upon the still snow-covered yard. Emma sat on the living room couch reading a schoolbook, Charis stretching across her lap. Her mother waved the letter in the air in a threatening manner. “This is the second one from K. Larsen that you’ve received.”
“He’s Charlene’s cousin,” Emma said, looking up from her book. “I told you he was visiting in Vermont when I was there.”
“How well did you get to know him?” her mother asked.
“Mother . . . really . . . I know how to behave.” How often would she have to resort to such an argument?
“Don’t toy with me. I was against this relationship with the sculptor from the beginning. Your father has allowed ideas about the body into your head. And now you�
�re seeing boys. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking and what you’ve been taught. Taught, indeed! We will have to have a talk soon.”
Emma sighed, not wanting to anger her mother, but also acknowledging that her mother’s scolding contained some kernels of truth. The human body was much more familiar to her now, and she enjoyed it, not only the beauteous curves of the female that Daniel Chester French taught her to appreciate, but the firm, muscular, hardness of the young male—referenced by the gods of Greek and Roman mythology. She now considered herself advanced beyond her years in those areas of learning. There was no need for a talk with her mother. She already had learned everything good, bad, pleasing, and disgusting about sex through anatomy books, conversation, or titillating innuendo with her girlfriends. Charlene was particularly adept at making innocent jokes that had a dirty feel to them.
“We’re friends—that’s all,” Emma replied.
Helen tossed the letter to her, and it landed upon Charis, who sprang from Emma’s lap as if touched by fire. Emma laughed to herself—not at the cat’s misfortune, but at the surely innocuous and noncommittal contents of Kurt’s letter that would shock no one.
* * *
Daniel Chester French returned to Chesterwood in the late spring, some weeks after Emma’s seventeenth birthday. The time to renew her training had come again upon school’s dismissal for the summer.
“I’m coming with you,” her father said on the first day she could visit the sculptor.
Emma was happy because the time they spent together was rare. As her father worked with the horses, she sat on the porch admiring the last of the fragrant lilac blooms and the first buds of the summer roses; the lawn and nearby hills shimmered in coats of lavish green.
The carriage horses hitched, they departed for the ride to Chesterwood. Emma knew something must be on her father’s mind for him to make the trip—one she normally made alone on horseback.
She sat uneasily for a time waiting for him to speak. When he finally did, they were well away from the house. “Mr. Ford has a marvelous new invention and I’ve put one on order.”
Emma turned to him unsure of what he meant.
He saw her confusion. “It’s a horseless carriage—an automobile—one of the first in the county. I haven’t told your mother yet, but I think it will make life easier for all of us.”
“An automobile!” She clapped her hands, her excitement pouring out. “Mother probably won’t like it. It’ll be too hard to operate, or too confusing, or make too much noise. She’s not in favor of anything new unless it’s something she wants.”
Her father scowled and adjusted the reins. “Be fair. I’ve noticed a rift between you and your mother lately. God knows, we’ve had our differences, but she’s a good, decent woman—just a little headstrong. You’ve inherited some of that from her.”
The day was warm and Emma took off her hat. The wind blew through her hair and ruffled her dress. The sun striking her face and the heady scent of the fresh grass made her skin prickle with life. “Papa, sometimes I want to scream she smothers me so. A little headstrong? She is always right—no one else is—with the possible exception of Mrs. Wharton, whom she slobbers over.”
“The move from Boston was hard for her. She’s never gotten over it, but it was the right thing for us to do as a family. I will tell you this, dear one, because you’re old enough now to understand—your mother will deny it—but she doesn’t have the constitution for the city. It was consuming her and would continue to consume her were we still living there. For your mother, life was all about possession and accumulation. I think we would have gone broke had we stayed. Fortunately, Lewis Tea was prosperous enough for me to take us away from Boston.”
Emma laughed. “I’ll never forget the first day when we moved in and Mother found the bathtub in the kitchen. I’ve never seen her so angry or mortified. Remember what she said? ‘I’m not taking a bath here. This is obscene!’”
Her father chuckled but beneath the veneer of amusement sadness bubbled, a despair born of ever hoping to satisfy his wife, Emma sensed. “Yes, for six months we had to heat water and bathe behind the screen. I became a water boy and bathing attendant until I completed the heated bathhouse outside.” He urged the horses forward with a few clicks of his tongue.
The heated bathhouse still was not enough for her mother. The small wooden building was subject to variations in the climate—often too hot or too cold in the winter, the same in the summer. Still, it was private and relaxing when the weather was good.
They passed between two hills rising near Chesterwood. “There’s another matter I have to discuss with you,” her father said, his gaze drifting toward his feet. He looked there, then at the wooded countryside and the horses before speaking. “Your mother should have a talk with you now that you’re a woman. I would do so myself, but I feel it’s a mother’s place to handle such matters.” Wrinkles furrowed on his forehead below his flat cap. “Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
“Yes,” Emma said, “but I know the facts of life. Isn’t that what they’re called these days?”
“The facts of life.”
“She needn’t worry. With my studies, I’ve learned all there is to know about the anatomy of both sexes. And, if you can keep a secret from Mother, the girls at school talk about it all the time.”
Her father kept his concentration on the reins and the horses. “That’s the problem, Emma. There’s much more to it than anatomy and talk—sex and love are separate and distinct, but it’s best when it meshes. Emotions are part of it, too. Sometimes love is confused by sex, and vice versa, and tragedies can result. We—your mother and I—don’t want that to happen to you.”
She fell silent knowing her father was right, but feeling confused by his words. Were the emotions she felt when she saw Kurt—excitement, desire, and longing—wrong? Was there so much more to be learned?
“Yes, Father, I know,” she said, hoping she spoke the truth.
Chesterwood with its gleaming windows appeared. The time for conversation was over until the ride home.
After a volley of handshakes and exchange of greetings, Emma and the sculptor walked to the studio, as her father went off to spend time in the garden.
“I don’t need to be entertained—this beautiful day is joy enough,” George told them. Emma thought he looked flushed and out of sorts, but her father had always enjoyed his nature walks and horseback rides, and his time alone in the beautiful Chesterwood gardens would be no different.
She, under the sculptor’s tutelage, spent two hours drawing and working with clay. He complimented her on her progress, although she felt the face she was working on was still too crude to commit to bronze or marble.
“It will take time,” he said, pulling a gold pocket watch from his jacket. “It’s nearly four and I must be getting back to the house. We have guests coming for dinner.” He returned the watch to its resting place. “I’m surprised your father isn’t here.” His face crinkled with concern.
“I’m sure he’s lost in thought. I’ll find him.” She walked past the broad studio doors, left open to let in the air, and into the nearby garden. She called out for her father, but there was no answer. To her right, the carriage stood near the barn where the horses rested. Ahead, the lovely garden, with its flowering trees, geraniums in standing vases, marble columns, and bubbling fountain, extended north from the studio.
She spotted him, sitting in the sun on a circular stone bench across from the fountain, his head slumped against his chest in sleep, his hands clasped together in his lap.
“Papa, it’s time to leave,” Emma said gently for fear of startling him.
He did not move.
She drew closer, and, as she did, her anxiety grew. Her father didn’t look well: parts of his face and hands had turned a bluish-purple, his body rigid against the bench.
“Papa!” She ran to him, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him, grasping his hands, the skin cool to the touch. Her effor
ts to awaken him were of no use, no breath went in or out of his body.
Emma cried out and fell to her knees in front of him.
She had no recollection of how long she was in front of her father, or of Daniel Chester French lifting her from the ground and leading her away from the corpse.
* * *
Emma wanted to blot the whole afternoon from her mind: the parade of men who arrived at Chesterwood; the minister, the police officer, the undertaker; the tiring explanation of how she found her father, the long ride home with the clergyman after the body had been taken away, the house growing larger in the twilight as her mother stood nervously on the porch wondering why they were so late.
Before anyone else could, she told her mother that her husband was dead. Helen hissed at the news, the sound reminding Emma of a scared animal as likely to bite as to flee from danger.
Her mother’s eyes turned as dark as the indigo sky in the east. “Leave me.”
The minister attempted to say a few words, but he was ordered away as well.
Full of fear and pain, Emma plodded up the stairs to her lonely room, where she placed her head on the pillow and cried as she had never cried before. Her father’s face floated behind her closed eyelids, more a ghost than a comfort, and Emma wondered how she could go on living with a mother whose love was doled out by whim—when it suited her. This was the pattern that Emma had grown up with, arbitrary affection at holidays and special occasions, a calculated coldness when her mother’s demands weren’t met.
I will make my own love.
I will make my own love.
Entry: 24th June, 1907
My father’s funeral was a disaster, thanks in large part to my mother and the weather. The day started off cloudy and then what little light remained was obscured by clouds so gloomy and thunderous that the dark seemed to overtake the earth. My mother stood in black, a like-colored umbrella in her hand, rigid in her grief and anger. A sudden downpour turned the dirt she was to throw into the grave into mud. Somehow I felt this symbolic act of nature appropriate and I had little sympathy for her. Her words to me, after my father’s death, outside of a snarl, have been hateful and belittling. She’s never blamed me directly for his death (a heart condition most likely, according to the coroner), but from her looks and actions I know that I’m to take the full brunt of her rage. I’m sure she thinks his death never would have happened if my father and I hadn’t traveled to French’s home together. Knowing her propensity for anger and coldness, I doubt my mother’s forgiveness will be quick to come.
The Sculptress Page 3
