“The first of June, if you wish.” Alex turned to Emma. “The owner has made a very generous offer because he owes me a few favors. Linton can have the space for five dollars a month.” Alex added with a wink to Emma, “The details of our business proposition shall remain undisclosed to all.”
“Always,” Emma said.
“Then, it’s settled,” Linton said. “The space is mine as of June. I already know where I’ll set up my easels. Perhaps a sofa and some chairs. My table and work counter will be there.” He pointed to a dusty corner on the south side of the room. “Now, I only need to retrace our steps, so I can find my way home.”
“Come then,” Alex offered. “I have an appointment after lunch with a potential buyer.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Swan would be glad to escort me home,” Linton said. He took no notice of Alex, but stared at Emma with his dim eyes.
Alex smiled curtly as if overpowered by the two and tipped his hat to Emma. “Who am I to dissuade creative minds from their artistic pursuits?” He shook Linton’s hand and then placed the key in his palm. “Hold on to it. I’ll deliver the good news personally to the landlord. I know he’ll be pleased. Good-bye, Emma. Linton . . .” Alex brushed his hands against Linton’s and then he was gone.
“I wish there was a place to sit,” Linton said, backing away from Emma. He waved his right hand in a broad circle. “Is there any furniture?”
“Unfortunately, no. Not even a footstool. But we won’t be here long.” She hoped she didn’t sound too disingenuous because, in actuality, she wanted to linger in the studio, breathe in the electric air of possibility.
“Thank you for coming today, Mrs. Swan,” Linton said, and returned to the windows. “It would have been harder to make up my mind with just Alex accompanying me.”
“Why?” she asked. “And, please, call me Emma.” She stopped behind him as he peered through the dusty glass. He stood, his hands planted against the casement, the contours of his shoulders and back showing beneath the suit jacket.
“Because Alex would have forced the issue,” he replied. “He wants me to paint—to take this space no matter what. Even though I’m blind, I’m no fool. I’m an asset to him as long as I make money.”
“That’s rather cold thinking.”
He looked over his shoulder for a moment. “Not at all. Art is a business as well as a vocation. Think what financial straits Alex would be in if he made no sales at all. The Fountain is barely scraping by as it is. He needs artists who sell.”
“Unlike me,” Emma said with a touch of bitterness.
“I didn’t mean to imply that. Please don’t extrapolate upon my argument . . . Emma.”
He turned toward her and the light created a soft sheen upon his black hair.
“Diana has not sold,” she said. “I often wonder why I remain in this business—a sculptress unloved by the critics, with so few sales to my credit. It’s hardly worth it. My husband and my friend Louisa are great supporters, however.”
“You sculpt because you love it—because you were born to. It’s in your blood.” He faced her, and then, as if he had come too close, strode away.
“Is something wrong?” Emma asked.
He shook his head. “No, but I think we should be going. I was about to say something that perhaps I shouldn’t have.”
Emma came up from behind and placed her hand on his shoulder. His muscles contracted with her touch and a sudden tension filled the space between them.
“I was about to say I could be one of your encouragers as well,” he said. “But that is stupid and forward of me. We’ve only just met.”
Emma joined arms with him and walked toward the door. “I think it’s very nice of you to say so. Yes, we’ve only just met, but we can be . . . friends.”
“I would like that,” Linton said.
When they reached the door, Linton opened it and Emma locked it with the key. Linton shadowed her, his hand upon hers so he could learn how the lock worked.
“By the way,” he said as they descended the stairs, “when Diana sells, you or Alex must give it a good cleaning for the new owner. My fingerprints are all over it. I think it’s a beautiful statue.”
“Thank you,” she said as they reached the landing.
As they stepped out of the dark entrance into the light, Emma added, “I have a favor to ask and I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me.” She shuddered a bit, knowing she had crossed a threshold.
He touched her hand lightly and smiled.
“I’ve decided to begin work on a new sculpture. You would be the perfect model for it.”
“Really? Nothing that would upset Vreland, I hope?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Alex is right: we shouldn’t care what he thinks anyway. The subject is Narcissus, studying his visage in a pool. I’m trying to portray the vanity of man, the preoccupations that ultimately lead him to his own destruction. It’s a sculpture of its time.”
Linton frowned. “Are you implying I’m vain?”
“Don’t be disingenuous. How many women have told you that you’re handsome?”
“A few.”
“And? Did you believe them?”
Linton slowed, and as he stood before her, his face sagged under some unknown difficulty known only to him. They stood near the triangle at Columbus Avenue where bicyclists rode alongside horse-drawn carts and motorcars sputtering exhaust.
“For all my faults, I’ve never been accused of false modesty,” Linton said. “Yes, a few women have told me I’m handsome, and I keep my body in shape to prove it. I can’t really see how I look, having had this condition for nearly three-quarters of my life, but I take them at their word. I’ll admit I’ve used my face and body to my advantage. People have been kind to me in ways I’m certain they wouldn’t have been, if I had been ugly or in some other way deformed. But despite that, life has not been easy . . . I’ve had to work for everything I’ve gained.”
Emma reasserted her hold on Linton’s arm and continued their stroll. “I assure you I do not consider your eyes a deformity, or your looks . . . but I must admit, I was taken aback when I met you this morning. You reminded me of a man I once knew. Not so much in the physical, but in—how shall I say it?—in the realm of the romantic. He was strong willed and not without his faults.”
“Then we are hardly similar, for I have no faults.” He chuckled. “I take it your relationship ended badly.”
“The timing was wrong for both of us.” Emma stopped on the sidewalk, resisting the temptation to touch his cheek. “But you have a perfection of face he could never attain. That’s why I want you to pose as Narcissus. We could start in Roman dress, if that’s suitable for you. I could retain another model, of course, if you wish to decline.”
“When would you like to begin?” he answered.
“Well . . . we could start as soon as possible. Shall we say in June, after you’ve had a chance to occupy your new studio? Perhaps you can spare a few hours a day to pose, before or after you paint.”
“Perfect,” Linton said.
“I must warn you—I’m not good with faces. That’s why I want to do this statue—to realize the perfect face. I understand the importance of this work, its strength, its power, as surely as I can see it in my mind. After I’m finished, Vreland will beg for more.”
“Please leave him out of this. It will be better for both of us.”
Emma laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
When they reached the Public Garden, Linton indicated he could find his way home and said good-bye. At the last moment, she remembered the studio key and took it from her jacket and pressed it into his palm. He grasped her hands firmly and his warm touch lingered on her skin as he walked away, working his way down the path without a stumble or falter.
Emma rubbed her hands together as she approached a bench near the pond and watched children playing near the water’s edge. She imagined Linton looking into the pool, studying his reflection, ignoring the car
es of the world, concerned only with his own thoughts. A child threw a pebble into the water and the ripples, as they spread toward the bank, destroyed the vision in her head.
Entry: 20th May, 1917
I’ve had a few days to think about my project with Linton. I find the prospect exciting and at the same time daunting—for a number of reasons. Our meeting was brief, but something about Linton touched me. Perhaps it was his inherent sensuality, his courage, his obvious tenacity—all qualities I admire. Our walk was refreshing and he, as we glided under the trees, opened up something in me, a vibrancy I haven’t felt in years. I have given away so much of my time, my energy, and my life to my marriage and my art—and for what? To sit at home like a lump? I’ve wondered recently if I would ever feel again. Now, the possibility has arisen; however, I understand my situation. I’m a married woman with obligations and a husband. . . . Well, that’s where the argument breaks down. A husband who wants no children because there isn’t time for a “little one” in the house. A husband who provides financially for every need, including my art, but eschews the bedroom. But I cannot deny Tom his love of medicine and healing. What he does for others is beyond measure. And, for that, I love and respect him.
I must be cautious with my emotions. After I said good-bye to Linton I noticed a butterfly skimming, soaring on beautiful black and yellow wings, through the Public Garden. I have always loved them for their fragility and, at the same time, their strength. They are small with translucent wings, yet able to overcome the storm and travel thousands of miles to fulfill their destiny. I must emulate the strength and beauty of a butterfly.
“So, who is he?”
Emma smiled and settled into the wing chair opposite the French doors of the sitting room. Lazarus curved in an oval at her feet, his black snout propped upon his paws. She looked past Louisa into the courtyard, loving the play of afternoon sun, flooding the stones with light and then plunging them into shade, as the orb toyed with the scudding clouds. The late May wind swept into the room in bursts as the fir trembled in the breeze.
“Don’t smile at me,” Louisa scolded. “You know perfectly well who I mean. I haven’t seen you beam so since you met Bela Pratt.”
“You know me too well, Louisa.”
Anne brought a pot of tea and placed it on the center table.
“Thank you, Anne,” Louisa said. “At least there’s one woman in this house with common sense.”
“Ma’am?” Anne asked with chagrin, startled that Louisa would address her outside of domestic duties.
“Oh, never mind.” Louisa waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s not important.”
“Don’t move,” Emma told Louisa as Anne departed. “How do you expect me to finish this little drawing of you if you don’t hold still?” She paused. “And you shouldn’t tease Anne like that.”
“I’m ready to take off this damnable chapeau.” Louisa fussed with the white plume that stuck like a feathered quill out of her black hat. “And I’ll speak to domestics as I please—I’ve had years of experience.”
Emma studied her friend. She was not beautiful; however, she was elegant, refined in a way that might be termed handsome. Her hair was darker than Emma’s but only by a shade. Her eyebrows were prominent and black, belying her Italian heritage, but pleasing in line. Emma had often thought of her as a model for one of her sculptures; her face, long and angular, would lend itself easily to the sculptural form. Emma considered her own too round and soft as witnessed by the several self-portrait busts in clay she had begun in past years. She had destroyed each of them, dismayed by the ugliness of the work.
“Singer Sargent will fall over himself when he sees this,” Emma said. Her pencil slid softly across the pad in her lap. She concentrated on the plume, the jaunty form of the hat, and the dark hairline of the right side of Louisa’s face.
“Nonsense. Mrs. Isabella Stewart Gardner has him wrapped around her matronly ring finger. It’s highly doubtful we should ever see Mr. Sargent outside of Izzy’s house. You would have to present your drawing personally at Mrs. Jack’s.” Louisa fiddled again with the plume. “Although, I must admit, he was quite respectable to me the last time we met. I think his sincerity grew from the fact that I never asked him to paint my portrait.”
Emma smirked. “He passionately hates you society matrons.”
“I am not a matron, and I will club to death any woman who dares refer to me as such. I am, and always will be, a mademoiselle.” Louisa reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup. “And you are avoiding my question.”
Emma threw down her pencil. “You are insufferable. All right . . . Linton Bower.”
“The blind painter?”
“The same.”
“I saw him at the Fountain the night of the opening. He cuts quite a handsome figure.”
“I missed him that evening—I was so perturbed.”
“Alex told me Linton has sold quite a few paintings, despite his modern style. He considers him one of his rising stars.”
“I’d like to use him as a model,” Emma said.
Louisa sipped her tea and then leaned forward. “You do know he’s a homosexual.”
Emma’s breath caught for a moment as she stared at Louisa, flustered that her friend blurted out something so personal, so insidious, a rumor so potentially damaging to Linton. Of course, such a revelation, if it were true, would mean the end of any romantic fantasies she might harbor, quashed like a fire splashed with water. She chastised herself for letting her feelings get so far out of hand so quickly.
“Why the glare, my dear?” Louisa asked. “There are far worse things than being a homosexual. Alex will tell you so.”
“Really, Louisa.” Emma straightened in her chair and dropped the drawing pad beside it. Lazarus cocked an eye, snorted, and then returned to his nap. “Have you any proof? I would never take gossip at face value—I mean, Alex is one thing. . . .”
“Yes, a homosexual. Alex likes to keep his gentlemen friends. But I have no proof about Linton—after all, I’m not a man. . . .”
Emma sighed. “You are impossible. It makes no difference to me, anyway.”
“I can see that it doesn’t,” Louisa said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Perhaps we should just ask him,” Emma said with an agitated flourish of her hand. “Let’s forget this dreary drawing of you and take a walk. Yes, let’s stroll straight to Linton’s and ask him if he’s a homosexual.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Louisa asked, smoothing the folds of her black dress.
“No, but I can find out.”
“Now who’s being impossible? You’re making absolutely no sense. No sane person would ever ask that question of another human being.”
“I intend to.”
“Then you will be the first—but that doesn’t surprise me, considering the way you tend to stand up to men these days.”
Emma was prepared to respond that her words at the Fountain were merely self-defense, but Anne appeared in the doorway with a letter in hand. “I’ve just picked up the mail, ma’am. This came from your husband.”
“Good,” Louisa said. “A needed breath of fresh air from France.”
Emma took the small brown envelope in hand. It looked rather ordinary—the censor’s mark on the outside, the postage meter, Emma’s name, and the Boston address written by Tom. Despite the number of letters she’d received from him, each new one filled her with trepidation. What if something was wrong—perhaps he was sick, or worse yet, badly injured? She ripped open the letter, read the first page, and then dropped it into her lap.
“My goodness,” Louisa said with alarm. “What in heaven’s name is wrong?”
Emma heard Louisa speak, but it made no difference what her friend said. Louisa’s words vanished in the air as her mind raced. She had to have time to consider, she had to think Tom’s proposition out.
“Tom wants me to come to France.”
Louisa looked at her with a questioning glance and then lowe
red her teacup silently to the table.
* * *
The fire died in the studio. Embers crackled under the grate. Emma wished she hadn’t instructed Anne to make it for the evening was too warm. Normally, the flames soothed her confused mind, but this one had little effect on her nerves. She held the letter up to her face in the dim light, scrutinizing the words for every nuance.
20th May, 1917
My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):
I have such good news for you. I received your letter today and I couldn’t help but write you as soon as I could. I’m sorry your opening was less than stellar, but I hope you’re holding up—don’t stretch the truth on my account. I’m sure Louisa will eventually fill me in on your true state of mind, if she writes me. However, like an epiphany, your letter prompted a wonderful idea on how you can aid the war effort and also utilize your skills as a sculptress.
She reached for a book on her cramped shelves. This one, in folio size by a French engraver, hissed when she cracked open its red leather binding. Near the middle of the book she found more references to her project, including a series of engravings entitled The Three Fates of Narcissus. The first showed Narcissus as a child. His mother bathed him in a pool surrounded by alabaster statuary as he caressed the flower that bore his name. The second portrayed him as a man standing in a Greek temple, a loose garment draped over his torso, staring at his reflection in a handheld silver mirror. The third showed him morphing into the flower, his arms and legs crackled and vein-like, his face partially swallowed by the petals of the Narcissus. Emma considered rethinking her ideas for the sculpture. The youth staring into the pool was, after all, a cliché. However, a man obsessed with his reflection in the ruins of a temple would be more to her theme. She visualized Linton in his studio, draped in an arabesque cloth, staring into a mirror—the silver one bequeathed to Tom by his father, part of his dressing set.
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