Our stop in Paris was brief, and I was absolutely enchanted by the city. I had the chance to sneak away for a few hours and visit Notre Dame. The venerable Cathedral never looked so formidable, or as welcoming, as it did on a Sunday evening when I climbed to the top, to stand amongst the eternal gargoyles and look out over the shimmering silver city. A mass was being said below. The sun was setting in the west, near the Eiffel Tower, and its rays cut through a bank of purple clouds which dripped rain over the arrondissement. The view brought chills to my spine and I wished you were here to see the enchantment as well.
I do miss you and Boston. Enjoy the spring days—you know how precious they are. Take a walk with Lazarus along the river. His name always reminds me of spring and eternal life.
I will write you as soon as I arrive at my destination and tell you as much as I can.
Give Anne my best wishes. Have her bake something special for you—something light for the warmer weather. Soon you will be able to drink lemonade in the courtyard with Louisa.
By the way, how is the faun coming along? I know you were pleased with what you had accomplished so far. I believe it’s your best work to date, especially the face. I fully expect to see it in bronze by the time I return. Hopefully, deadlines will be set for both—completion of your work and an end to the fighting. Most of all, I hope your gallery showing of Diana goes well. I know it will. Have faith in your talents.
Your husband,
Tom
Emma refolded the letter and dropped it in the basket. Not once did he write, I love you. The thought struck her that he missed her and Boston equally, perhaps Boston more. The same feeling had filled her the night before he left for Europe. Later, as she watched the endless stars pass beyond their bedroom window, she tossed, sleepless, but still wondered, why the concern? Would separation be so bad? Their marriage was as worn as an old shoe. She was the trusty book and Tom the trusty bookend. However, one without the other would ruin the pair.
Now that he was gone, she strove to remain placid, resolved not to break under the fear of a distant and bitter war. She shook off a burst of anger about his absence and felt ashamed. Tom was a noble man performing a noble deed, she the sacrifice that he had made in the grand plan to make the world safe. At least he supported her art. For the moment, that was all that mattered.
* * *
The evening’s rain passed and the next morning fled as quietly as a moth on wing.
The day was sunny and clear, but chilled by a northwest wind. In the afternoon, Emma began her preparations for the gallery opening. She and Tom had stipulated a bathroom with hot and cold running water for their home. Anne drew hot water in the claw tub, and Emma took her time, soaking up to her neck. In the bath, she paid particular attention to her hands, scraping the clay from under her nails, polishing them with a buff, and washing her fingers with a bar of oatmeal soap. After, she picked out a simple black dress, jacket, and hat from her closet and finished the outfit with a mauve scarf.
Anne ushered Louisa into the sitting room promptly at six, as Emma relaxed with a cup of tea. Louisa was dressed smartly as usual, attired in a dark coat with an ermine-trimmed collar. The few open buttons of her outerwear revealed an emerald green dress of layered folds accented by a platinum leopard pin studded with silver and black diamonds.
“Where should we eat?” Louisa asked in a chipper voice.
“I hope you won’t be too upset, my zephyr, but I’m in no mood,” Emma said.
“To eat?” Louisa stepped forward and placed a hand on Emma’s forehead in mock concern. “I’ve never seen you too sick to eat. You’ve the constitution of a horse, and the appetite of one as well.”
“Thank you, but I’m too nervous about the opening to eat. I’m worried about what the critics will say.”
“Nonsense. Just a slight case of nerves. Nothing to get worked up about. You must eat.” Louisa slipped out of her coat and settled into the wing chair near the fireplace.
Emma took another sip and then replaced the cup in the saucer. “When I meet a stranger, I tell them about my zephyr. You are like a warm breeze comforting me—a woman of impeccable social standing wrapped in current fashion. Everything I’m not.”
Louisa laughed. “Should I be insulted? No, I think your assessment is fair—and you have hit upon my loyalty.” She tapped her fan against her knee. “You do need to get out of the house more often, Emma. Many days, I worry about you in a practical sense. I know you’re making your mark and I admire you for that; but as much as I respect your passion for art, there are other things in life.”
“I’m quite aware of that. Sometimes I feel stuck in the last century and I wish I could rid myself of the classical references. I’d like to stop thinking in those antiquated terms because they are quite limiting. After all, the world has entered a new age.”
“Hardly an age of genius,” Louisa said with a raised eyebrow. “But you, my dear, are an exception, despite any outmoded conceptions you might have. Your solitary pursuits may confine you, but Boston depends on women like Emma Lewis Swan to lead the way—out of the kitchen and into the world. However, I would never ask you to relinquish the classics. Where would we be without the Greeks and the Romans?”
“Perhaps not in this horrific war, considering their propensity for battles.”
“Speaking of . . .” Louisa leaned forward, rustling the folds of her dress. “Have you heard from Tom?”
“Yes. He’s on the way to a hospital somewhere in France.” She looked at her cup. “Would you like Anne to bring tea?”
“I do hope he’s in fine form—no tea for me. I’m quite content.”
“As fine as can be.” Emma looked at her friend. “All in all there’s not much to say about the whole matter. He can only tell me so much, and I can only go about the house, continue my work, and wish the whole mess would be over. He told me in a letter how much he misses Boston, and how you and I should drink lemonade in the courtyard.”
Louisa shifted her gaze and stared into the shadowy space beyond the French doors. “Is that your faun?”
Emma rose from her chair and walked to the threshold.
“That was my faun,” she said, “before I let nature destroy it.”
Louisa waved her hands in a gesture of dismissal. “Well, I didn’t much care for it anyway—something seemed off about the face.”
“It was that evident?” Emma asked.
Louisa nodded. “Well, before we become too morose, I think you need a lift. Rather than hail a cab, let’s be adventurous and walk to the gallery. Afterwards, we can stop at Grover’s for a bite.”
“I truly do have a case of nerves.”
“You’ll be fine. Everyone will love your work.”
“Well, I see you’ve settled the matter,” Emma said. “Let’s be off.” She strode to her friend and offered a hand. Louisa rose gracefully from the wing chair. After saying good-bye to Anne, they walked arm in arm out the door after Emma suggested a route by the Charles River.
Evening, like a deep-blue blanket, descended upon Boston. In the west, the sun dipped toward Cambridge, casting angular patches of light on the city across the Charles. To the east, toward the Atlantic, the Back Bay row houses formed a horizontal line against the deepening twilight. Ducks, with their young, paddled near the river’s shore, while gulls soared on white wing. A stiff breeze pushed at their backs as they passed by the few walkers out for a stroll. Emma was quiet while Louisa chattered about her Commonwealth Avenue neighbors.
When they arrived at the Fountain Gallery on Newbury Street, they joined a small crowd inside. The gallery walls were hung with brightly colored paintings, many in compositional forms Emma had never seen before. Her sculpture, Diana, sat on an onyx pedestal near the center of the exhibition. Emma spotted Alex Hippel, the owner, talking to a prospective client by a painting on the back wall. She disengaged herself from Louisa and edged toward the two men.
“It’s rubbish on canvas,” she overheard the man say as
she approached. “As ridiculous as what those French maniacs produced at the end of the last century.”
“No, not so,” Alex insisted. He repeated this sentiment over and over, each time shaking his head and wagging a finger at the man. “Wait . . . wait and see. This painting will be among the great works one day.” The man scoffed and strolled off. Alex turned.
Emma forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Alex. These old-fashioned patrons don’t understand what you’re trying to do.”
“Ah, I feel sorry for them. They’re cursed in Boston.” He waved a hand toward the painting. “Only New Yorkers understand true art. Someday this bold brushwork, this powerful rendering of form and color will be commonplace.”
Emma studied the canvas, but squelched her desire to reach out and touch the bold geometric shapes that disturbed yet intrigued her. The odor of fresh oil paint wafted over her.
“Is there a point to this?” she asked Alex.
He sighed. “Of course. Can’t you see the woman’s form in the chair? Or the bouquet of flowers on the table next to her?”
“Not really, but you know what a classicist I am. Sometimes I’m afraid the world has left me and my art behind.”
“I’m afraid sculpture is no different. I recognize your figural talents, but art is headed in a new direction. However, there is room for both. You wouldn’t be in this show if I didn’t believe in you.”
She felt a finger on her shoulder.
“You must come,” Louisa whispered. “A crowd has gathered around your statue.”
“A moment, Alex. . . .”
“Don’t be disappointed,” he cautioned her.
The crowd, unaware of Emma’s presence, murmured as she approached. Sniggers and muffled laughter burst forth as well. She broke away from Louisa and stood behind the man who had argued with Alex about the painting. He was listening to another man with a profuse shock of gray hair, who held a notebook and pen. She studied them both, the former a bit hunched at the shoulders, dressed in a somewhat tattered navy jacket, the latter attired in an impeccable black suit looking like a lion defending his territory.
“I must say,” the lion said, holding court while he scribbled notes, “this statue is the best piece in the show—if only the artist had the talent to display emotion on any level. Look at the face.” The group bent toward the bronze of a kneeling woman with the bow in her hand. “Do you see any expression? How can we tell if Diana is overjoyed or distraught at the prospect of killing the stag? The sculpture is devoid of true feeling. However, I regard this piece with more affinity than the other works in this heinous gathering.”
“You are quite correct, Vreland,” the fawning man next to him chimed in. “Of course this is the effort of a woman.” The appellation dripped with acid. “Women should know better than to attempt an art clearly intended for a man. They can dabble, but never succeed.” The women gathered around Emma’s bronze tittered—only one looked embarrassed about the comment of the middle-aged man in the navy jacket who stood so close to Vreland.
The name sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. Vreland—the esteemed art critic for the Boston Register.
Emma looked at her Diana. It had taken two years to complete. The bow, the grasp of the fingers on the archer’s string, the knee and leg resting on the base: all took monumental effort. Despite her struggles with the work, the balance of the legs, the proportion of the hips, the abdomen’s slight plumpness and the soft curve of the breasts had been easier for her than the face.
“I may be a failure as a sculptress, but I’m not a failure as a woman,” she said to Louisa, while directing her comment to the group.
“Now, Emma,” Louisa whispered.
The two men turned to stare.
“So, you are Emma Lewis Swan?” Vreland asked. “I’m sorry we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Yes. Perhaps I should retreat to the middle of the last century where I could sculpt as Ellis Bell or some other pseudonym satisfying to men of your ilk.”
“My pleasure,” Vreland said and bowed. The man next to him nodded stiffly. “I meant no offense,” he continued, “but in my capacity as a critic for the Register, you are aware I must make artistic judgments.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Emma said, sizing up the man. “You are the Mr. Vreland, the critic who has savaged artists before me.”
“Savaged is a strong word, Mrs. Swan,” Vreland said, “and I honestly don’t remember seeing any of your work before now. Pity.” His gray eyes swept over Emma with a fierce intensity. “My newspaper pays for my artistic opinions. The editors, and the public, I might add, see worth in my judgments.”
“Despite your failed memory, many have been on the poor side of your judgments previously. I’d hoped this opening might prove differently, but I’d been warned.”
“I’m afraid not.” He paused and slowly pointed a finger at the statue. “One . . . only has to look. Warned . . . it must have been someone with little artistic taste.”
Emma’s cheeks flushed and she bit her tongue not to mention Bela Pratt’s name.
“Still,” he said, “I reiterate my feeling that your sculpture is the best piece in a mediocre show.”
“Damned with faint praise,” Emma responded. “I shall bear that in mind when I read your words tomorrow—if they are literate.” The disagreeable man next to Vreland hissed at Emma.
“And who are you?” Emma asked, barely containing her anger.
“Mr. Everett—an admirer of good art.”
Louisa tugged at her arm. “Alex is waving to us.”
“Until we meet again, Vreland,” Emma said, with mock sincerity. “Good evening, Mr. Everett.”
Louisa pulled her toward Alex. “Are you mad? You’ll catch more ants with honey than vinegar. Vreland will rip you to shreds.”
“I couldn’t care less.” Emma disengaged herself from Louisa and reconsidered her attitude. “Oh, that’s a lie. But, really, consorting with a clod who believes sculpting is only for men . . . what nonsense.”
Alex strode toward them with his hands clasped tightly. “The verdict?” he asked Emma. His light-brown eyes flashed with curiosity.
“Not good, I’m afraid. Fortunately, Louisa came to my rescue before I made a complete ass of myself.”
“There are worse enemies than Vreland, but, at the moment, I can’t think of any,” Alex said and then kissed Emma on the cheek. “Sometimes our enemies are inside us, and if we defeat ourselves we’re doomed despite what anyone else says. Art will change, society’s perspective will shift, and Vreland and his associates will remain mired in the nineteenth century. I’m certain his review of this show will be positively scathing.”
“I’m sorry, Alex,” Emma said. “I should have controlled my feelings.”
“Artists and women have done so for far too long. Don’t give Vreland another thought—although I’m not sure how long I can continue to sustain this gallery in the face of unabashed criticism. Either the critics or the war will be the end of me.”
Louisa sighed. “Don’t be silly. You’re the only breath of fresh air in Boston. Your supporters will rally. Long live the Fountain!”
“You really are beginning to sound like a reactionary,” Emma said to her friend. “Come, we should leave and allow Alex to pursue his clients. I’ve done enough damage for one night.”
Emma said her good-byes to Alex and a few others in the gallery, lingering for longer than she would have liked. When she passed her now deserted sculpture, she patted it on the head.
Dusk had deepened the shadows to indigo when they stepped onto Newbury Street. The encroaching darkness battled with man-made lights, some soft and warm, some muted by emerging spring leaves, others glaring electric white in shop and apartment windows.
“Can you imagine a world without electricity?” Emma asked Louisa.
“Of course not. Soon the world will be ruled by the automobile, electric gadgets, and the flying machine.”
“Not that long ago, we
had none of them. How the world has changed.” Suddenly, Emma was overcome by a powerful melancholia and stopped in the recessed entrance of a milliner’s storefront. “It’s too easy to say I miss Tom—my feelings are much more complicated than that, but what would my life be like, if he never came back?” She looked over her friend’s shoulder, above the buildings, at the sparkling pinpoints of stars and chided herself for asking such a question—of course, she wanted him to return, but the possibility of his death frightened her, leaving her feeling helpless and alone in a world ruled by men, exacerbated by her conversation with Vreland and Everett, his contentious friend.
“I’m sure the French forces and the Red Cross will protect Tom to the fullest,” Louisa said and patted Emma’s hand. “I’m concerned as well, but Tom probably won’t be at the Front—he’ll be in some comfortable hospital far away from the battle. And the war will be over quickly now that we’re in it. He will be home before you know it. I promise.”
Emma took a deep breath. “Would you mind if we didn’t have supper out tonight? I would be happy at home with tea or, on second thought, a shot of gin. Will you join me?”
“Seeing how I’m a single woman in Boston with no better offer? Yes.”
As they left the doorway, Emma glanced down the street and spotted the dim profile of the soldier she had seen days before, leaning on his crutches, hunkering against a building, his left hand shaking the cup at passersby.
Louisa sniffed as they swept past him and whispered, “This is what we have to look forward to—the horrors of war.”
The evening, as soft and languid as the May air, held no comforts. She looked back several times at the soldier and wondered if he would ever find happiness. Her restless state of mind made her wonder as much for herself. First, Kurt, and then Tom. Her subdued passion ached within her like a spring bubbling to burst forth from the earth. Her obsession with Kurt, her predictable relationship with Tom, had led to disasters of the heart and she had to come to terms with both. Could she ever find peace?
The Sculptress Page 10
