“Your privacy as well as Dr. Morton’s will be assured by these documents.” The nurse returned the papers to her desk. “It’s important that you realize the gravity of your situation and the procedure practiced here.” She rose from her chair, looking down upon her. “There now, don’t look so glum . . . everything will be fine. You can change and then the doctor will see you.”
Emma found herself in a small room at the back of the building that smelled of rubbing alcohol and medicinal salves, tepid light filtering in through two frosted windows, allowing her to see only shadowy outlines outside. She wondered what lay beyond the glass—the street, an alley, perhaps a glimpse of the church, or a view of the mountaintop with its patches of scarlet and green. The room was dominated by a wide metal table covered by a white sheet. Two oak chairs sat against a wall, framing a wooden bureau laden with medical instruments and glass bottles.
The nurse handed her a gown. “Put this on. Leave your clothes on the chair. I’ll collect them after the doctor has seen you.”
“If I . . .”
The nurse looked at her, expecting Emma to finish her sentence, but then completed the thought for her. “Don’t worry—you won’t die. The doctor has never lost a patient. You’ll be fine.”
“Oh, my overnight case—I left it in the car.”
“I’ll get it for you. You won’t need it until after the procedure.”
Emma told her where the automobile was parked and the nurse left the room. She undressed and, shivering, pulled the gown over her head. Dutifully, she folded her clothes and placed them on one of the chairs. After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded at the door.
Dr. Morton tugged on his wire-rimmed spectacles as he entered, a frizzy mop of white hair crowning his head. His features were bucolic, Emma thought: a doctor more comfortable treating children for colds than for performing abortions.
“Good morning, Emma,” he said, and a smile unfolded. Holding a medical folder in his left hand, he extended his right for a handshake.
“Will I die?” Emma asked as she grasped his fingers.
His smile faded and a scowl a cross father would give a naughty child formed on his face. “Not in my office, young woman. I won’t let that happen. You should eradicate such morbid thoughts from your mind. If you’re like most, you’ve already punished yourself enough for deciding to seek me out.”
Emma looked away for a moment, shame filling her.
He cocked his head, released her hand, and turned to the bureau, where he opened a drawer, and took out a bottle filled with small white pills. “Take one of these.” He poured a glass of water and shook a pill into her hand.
Emma placed the white tablet on her tongue and drank.
Dr. Morton asked questions about her home life and her interest in art. After some time, she found herself flat on the table with her legs apart and her knees pointed toward the ceiling, the effects of the pill making her feel as if she were a drowsy actress in a slow, unfolding play.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, talking under her gown, his warm breath flowing against her legs.
She found it impossible to answer, her lips feeling sticky and rubbery. Soon, a strange pressure forced itself against her cervix, as if pointed sticks were holding her apart.
“You’re coming along,” he said.
A white blur opened the door, gathered Emma’s clothes and disappeared, then reappeared next to the doctor. The two stood like towers over her, uttering soft, soothing words, as he placed the wire-mesh ether mask and cloth over her nose and mouth. The drops fell onto the cloth and the world spun away in darkness.
She awakened to find herself covered by a blanket, her head swimming with confusion because of her strange surroundings. The light in the room had faded to a dull gray. Emma rolled on her side as nausea clawed at her stomach. Thrusting her head over the edge, she spotted a gleaming metal pan on the floor filled with a whitish liquid. With great effort, she swung her legs off the table, but her knees buckled when her feet touched the cold tile. Her stomach jittered as she clung to the table and lowered her gaze.
A pair of arms lifted her from the floor while words that sounded like a hymn she used to sing in church poured into her ears. The arms positioned her on the table and covered her with the blanket.
“Get my baby,” Emma pleaded as she clutched the cold metal, her words hollow and echoing in her head as if spoken in a cave. “Show me my baby!”
The white figure left, but soon returned with a bundle wrapped in a white cloth. “Here.” Emma couldn’t make out the face or where the voice came from—the room blazed with an intense light.
Her head swimming, she sat up, took the baby in her arms, and uncovered the infant, revealing an oval mass of pink flesh where the face should have been—a slight crease marked the unopened mouth, two small indentations buttoned the skin instead of eyes. The mass wriggled in her arms, and, screaming, she fell back on the table.
The nurse rushed in, followed by the doctor.
“My God,” she wailed, half out of her mind. “It has no face! No eyes, or nose, or mouth!”
The doctor bent over her, stroking her arms and repeating, “Just a bad dream . . . a bad dream . . . a bad dream. This can happen when you’ve been under. Everything’s all right.” He lifted her shoulders from the table. “Take deep breaths, in and out, for a few minutes—you’ll calm down.”
After a time, she relaxed and felt the heavy weight of sleep upon her. Before drifting off, she sobbed and thought of her baby and what it might have looked like had it been born—what it might have become.
The room faded.
When she awoke the next morning, she was flat on the table, a pillow under her head. Someone had changed the sheet and her gown and covered her with a fresh blanket.
Light burst through the frosted windows, but she felt cold and unable to move except to turn her head. The pain had disappeared, but the haunting memory of the faceless infant hung over her, along with the feeling that somehow she had come back from the dead.
* * *
The tears that fell before and after the termination were a testimony to the power of the face—the one she had envisioned and the one that haunted her—a memory more like a nightmare.
For more than two years, Emma stayed with her mother at the house, doing little but atoning for the sin she felt she had committed. The long summer days and interminable winter nights dragged by, with little entertainment but her books; she even delved into an English version of Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. The novel, with its blue cloth binding and gold gilt lettering, depressed her even further because she found many parallels in her own life to Emma Bovary’s.
Her drawings lay dormant under the bed, the charcoal pencil and pad relegated to the closet along with her hidden diary.
Kurt wrote no letters, although she wouldn’t have answered them anyway; she even refused to answer Charlene’s correspondence or her friend’s calls on the newly installed telephone at the farmhouse.
Only in the spring of 1911 did she emerge from her black mood, as the depressive cloud began to lift. Even Helen had expressed an interest in seeing her daughter, now a few months short of twenty-one, emerge from her self-induced seclusion.
“You need to circulate,” her mother said. “Time is growing short.”
Of course, her mother’s interests were her own, and not Emma’s, in the attraction of a husband, but only marriage with the “right man,” a tenet Helen had espoused for many years.
At the personal urging of Daniel Chester French, along with a few pointed suggestions from Mrs. Wharton, whose own relationship with her own husband continued to falter, Helen agreed to send Emma in April to the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. French arranged the weekend visit with the purpose of introducing Emma to Bela Pratt, a sculptor at the school. Her hostess for the weekend would be Louisa Markham, a friend of Boston socialite Frances Livingston.
Despite her misgivings, Emma boarded the train in Lee, b
ound for Boston, while her mother lectured her on how to conduct herself. “Stand up straight, don’t look down, be aloof but approachable, drink no more than one glass of champagne, if any.”
After a time, her mother’s instructions sounded like bees buzzing around her ears. She kissed Helen on the cheek and stepped aboard the heated car, settling in for the four-hour trip. The dawn had been obscured by clouds. As the train traveled east through the hills, the overcast thickened until it seemed a great fog had enveloped the landscape. Snow fell in spits through the mist, and the slick, naked branches of trees shivered in the wind.
Upon her arrival at the Boston station, she breathed in deeply, as if emerging alive from a coffin. The cutting air reddened her cheeks and forced her to quicken her step as she called out for a hansom cab. The crowded streets of suited gentlemen holding on to their bowler hats, smartly attired ladies clutching parasols, vendors shouting above the wind, and more automobiles than she had seen in her life filled her with an excitement she hadn’t experienced since she’d first moved to the farmhouse. The vibrant city charged her with energy, shocking her with a new enthusiasm.
The cab dropped her off at an address on an elegant street just a few blocks away from the Charles River, its rippling waves flashing between the brownstones, its dove-gray waters melding with the color of the sky.
A lady’s maid answered the door and led her to an ornate parlor with wide windows where a blazing fireplace filled the room with warmth.
The maid took Emma’s coat, scarf, and gloves. “Please have a seat. Miss Markham will see you shortly.”
She took in the luxury of the room—the most opulent she had ever seen, even surpassing those she had visited in her childhood. The parlor glowed in the radiant heat from the burning logs, the light scattering from the ornate gold frames of paintings to the arms of gilt chairs, sparkling upon the metallic threads in the curtains. The painting over the fire depicted a grand sitting room in splendid detail—not the same as Miss Markham’s but certainly one of similar taste. Living here was like living in a golden cocoon, Emma decided.
A sudden case of nerves brought on by the unfamiliarity of her surroundings struck her. What would Louisa be like? The arrangements had been made through Daniel Chester French, and although she trusted his judgment she had no idea whether she would enjoy the next few days. She grasped the silken arms of her chair and focused on the street. A few automobiles chugged by. Teams of black and white horses pulling carriages clopped past, but she found herself staring at a landscape of brick buildings that, despite her childhood, seemed as foreign to her as any place she’d ever visited.
“Enjoying the view?” asked a confident and relaxed voice.
Emma rose from her chair to face Louisa Markham, a young woman not much older than she. Her hostess was tall, elegantly thin, with dark hair coiffed in waves around her head. She wore a gold silk dress, cinched at the waist and accented by a red stripe that circled just above the knee. A braided black-and-gold, waist-length sweater complemented her ensemble.
“Please, sit.” Louisa glided into the room, never taking her eyes off her guest, lowering herself into a chair opposite Emma. “So you are Emma Lewis—of the Lewis Tea fortune.”
Emma blushed, feeling as if she had been ambushed by a woman who knew much more about her than she knew about her hostess. She clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. The ‘fortune,’ as you put it, was used to purchase our house in Lee and the horses. My father died several years ago, so my mother and I—”
Louisa leaned forward, signaling Emma to stop. “My dear, if there’s one thing you need to learn about Boston society it’s that everyone dissimulates about one’s personal circumstances.” She waved her hand in a circle near her head. “Everything you see here is artifice. It’s paid for, but the paintings, the furniture, are trappings—used for impression. They sparkle, they shine, but they are lifeless . . . dead, really.” She adjusted a curl near her face. “So from now on—at least in the time you are with me—you are the heiress to the Lewis Tea fortune and a student of Daniel Chester French—that’s all anyone needs to know.” Louisa smiled, showing perfect white teeth, and reached for the bell pull hanging near the curtain. “You must have tea before we’re off for the evening.”
Refreshment came, served in a gleaming silver pot, accompanied by an assortment of finger sandwiches and cookies. Having eaten nothing since breakfast, Emma devoured as much as she dared without seeming to be a glutton. She studied the woman across from her as they talked about a variety of topics, including Emma’s love of horses, the few friends who made up her world, her studies with the sculptor, and her desire to be a sculptress. Something about her hostess struck Emma as they conversed—a liveliness, the mark of an unpretentious soul under the richness that led Emma to believe they could be friends, if she could just break down the glittering façade.
“If anyone can assure your future it’s Mr. French,” Louisa remarked after Emma had finished her fourth finger sandwich. “Tonight you’re going to meet the cream of Boston, but don’t be intimidated or swayed by anything you see or hear. Remember, it’s all artifice, people desperate to make an impression.”
Emma stiffened in her chair, her nerves kicking in again. “Can you tell me who’s going to be there?”
Louisa leaned back, and lifted her arm casually. “Well, for one, my good friend Mrs. Frances Livingston, who lost her husband not that long ago. She’s a devoted patroness of the arts—get on her good side and your success is assured. Singer Sargent and Mrs. Jack may be there, but I’m not sure—both of them travel so much.”
Emma was amazed. “John Singer Sargent—the painter?”
Louisa nodded with a smug look.
“Who is Mrs. Jack?” Emma asked.
Louisa cocked her head. “Why, Mrs. Jack . . . Isabella Stewart Gardner . . . she makes Frances Livingston look positively bourgeoise. I mean no offense to Frances, of course.” She grinned like the Cheshire Cat and rang for the maid to take away the tea. “I have to rest now, and you must freshen up. Lydia will show you to your room.”
Her hostess left as silently as she had appeared, leaving Emma alone with the young maid, who spoke not a word until spoken to. She sat quietly as Lydia cleared the service, rearranged a few things in the parlor, and then stood awaiting her instructions.
“You’re to show me to my room,” Emma said uncomfortably, not used to this kind of upper-class treatment.
“Certainly, Miss.” Lydia led the way up the stairs to a bedroom on the front of the house—another grand space filled with antique vases, silver candlesticks, sparkling paintings, and centuries-old English furniture. The maid placed Emma’s bag on a mahogany stand. “The cab will be here at six o’clock sharp to take you to the reception. Your bath is at the end of the hall.”
Louisa appeared in the doorway. “Miss Lewis . . . I forgot to tell you. I’ll be introducing you to one other person tonight—someone who has a special place in my heart—a man by the name of Thomas Evan Swan.”
Her hostess bounded off as Lydia closed the bedroom door, leaving Emma alone and feeling much like she was living in a dream.
* * *
The smartly appointed carriage, with oil lamps and leather seats, arrived precisely at the appointed time to take them to a building near the Museum of Fine Arts on Huntington Avenue. As they rode, Emma tried to make small talk with Louisa, but the conversation seemed forced and stilted with the hostess much more interested in her appearance and the proper curve of the sable coat she was wearing than the fortunes of her guest.
Emma found herself fighting an anxious tide rising in her stomach, feeling much like a country girl thrust into a situation for which she was totally unprepared. Louisa, for her part, seemed unaware of Emma’s discomfort and again lectured her.
“Let the staff take your coat, let me make the introductions. When the conversation runs out, look to your right or left, as if you’ve spotted someone you know, excuse
yourself, and be on your way. I’ll be there to guide you lest you fall.”
The words gave Emma little comfort, for she wondered what on earth she would have to say to these people. Would they judge her when she stepped into the room? Who was she trying to influence to make a good first impression? Her clothes were presentable, but certainly not of the latest and finest fashion like Louisa’s. Everything about the evening seemed wrong before it had even begun.
By the time they arrived, a number of carriages had already parked along the street. The air smelled damp—the possibility of snow hung in the air. The coachmen stayed near the rigs, their horses shaking their heads and snorting frosty breaths. The sky, still holding a feeble gray light, hid the setting sun.
Louisa, assisted by the driver, alighted from the carriage first. Emma followed. The imposing structure of the Museum, with its ionic-columned entrance and massive stone wings, towered over them. The building to the west, where the reception was to be held, was smaller and much less impressive.
The interior was rather stark and plain, and Emma was grateful that this building lacked grandeur. The simple walls, tables, and chairs, made her feel more at home. A tuxedoed gentleman took her coat while she looked around the room. Thirty people or more were in attendance, all dressed in evening wear. She looked down at her rather plain black dress and shoes and felt dowdy in comparison.
Louisa took her arm with a gloved hand and led her in a circle through the crowd. The introductions came fast and Emma struggled to keep up with the names and faces. Mrs. Livingston reminded her of a bird on a branch as she hopped from table to table in her cheerful manner. Singer Sargent and Mrs. Jack were nowhere to be seen. No sooner had she been introduced to someone, and exchanged a few words, than Louisa dragged her on to the next until she’d met the entire crowd. Her hostess explained in a whisper that no one besides Mrs. Livingston should matter. All the others were minor donors to the Museum and the School, she offered.
“I won’t remember a single name,” Emma said, after the introductions ended.
The Sculptress Page 6
