“Of course.” Linton led her to the couch and sat beside her. His hand slid to her right calf and then to the front of her leg. “Your stocking has a pattern on it,” he said in amazement.
“Yes, they match. Women buy them that way,” she said and gently pushed his hand aside.
“And undergarments?” he asked without flinching.
Emma shook her head. “That, for modesty’s sake, I will not describe.” She laughed again and clutched his hands. “Linton, are you all right?” She caught sight of the sparkle in the pale blue eyes.
He leaned back against the couch and stared at the windows. “I’m perfect. I’m happy you’re here—in my studio. My cares dissolve when you’re near me.”
His happiness cheered her, but gave her pause. When they were together, time was distended, stretched, as if torn from the clock. His touch lingered, his smile shone, and the emotions they invoked were pleasurable. How could this attraction develop so quickly, she kept asking herself. For his part, Linton seemed perfectly happy, as content as Lazarus before the fire on a chilly night. She had to admit she was scared and wondered if she could distance herself enough from Linton to maintain their artistic relationship. That was the only way. No good could come from any other possibility—even though her heart was teetering on the edge of falling in love.
Emma smiled and touched his hand. “I’m glad you’re happy.” And she knew once the words were spoken she meant them sincerely.
Linton responded with a contented sigh.
“Perhaps we should be serious and get to work,” Emma said. “I don’t want to waste the afternoon.”
“I’m ready. Where would you like me to sit—or stand?”
“Stand, please. Here in front of the couch. I’d like you to face three-quarters toward the windows. I’ll start with a sketch. You’ll need to hold your right arm out at times. It may be tiring.”
Linton rose and took his position as Emma instructed. She made her way to the table, flipped open her sketch pad, and then rummaged through the bag. “I’m sure I put a charcoal pencil in here.”
From across the studio, Linton said, “I haven’t touched anything.”
“I suppose I forgot it, so—” She turned, her words stopping at the sight. Linton stood partially disrobed, his trousers drooping at the waist, shirt dropped like a rag over his shoes. It had been months since she had seen a man—her husband—in any state of undress. Linton’s body captivated her; yet, it stoked a hot flush of embarrassment that washed over her.
“Linton . . . Lin . . .”
“I’m sorry. Have I shamed you? If so. . . .” He placed his hands discreetly over his crotch.
“A bit.” Emma regained her composure. “Why would you assume I want you to take off your clothes?”
“I studied mythological art in drawing classes. I remember our teacher telling us most images of Narcissus are of a naked youth staring into a pool. If you prefer me in Roman garb, we’ll need to get the costuming.”
Emma found the pencil, retrieved her sketch pad, walked past him without a look, and sat on the couch. There, she studied the lean muscles of his back, the curve of his buttocks beneath the low-slung pants, the sinewy line of his legs.
“Actually, the image I had in mind was of a young man partially draped. The silks you have in the studio are perfect. I can see some benefit in having the statue naked, except for a well-placed obstruction in the front, perhaps a partial column. Narcissus—naked to the world, absorbed by his own vanity, oblivious to mankind’s disasters—it’s ideal.”
Linton faced her and removed his hands from his groin. “I suppose this was a forward, perhaps sinful, thing for me to do. But I hope you won’t think of my nakedness that way. I only do it for your art.” He pushed his pants and shorts to the floor and stepped out of them.
For once, his striking face wasn’t the sole object of her attention. Linton’s chest, belly, and legs were lightly coated with black hair. His penis was uncircumcised, resting below a thatch of dark pubic hair, his chest and abdomen as sculpturally defined as Michelangelo’s David. Emma sensed the soft fire smoldering in his body. He was as handsome and as erotic as a dark god, so different from Tom, who had approached their sexual relations as if they were clinical studies.
“Linton, I don’t think . . .” Emma set her drawing materials on the couch, stood, and walked toward the windows. He quivered as she passed. She placed her hands on the casement, thought for a few moments, and then turned to him. “You’re such a beautiful man, but I’m uncertain whether we should go ahead with these sessions.” She detected a stirring in his groin.
“Why not?” Linton asked quickly, his brows furrowed.
“It’s rather obvious, don’t you think? I’m married. You’re not. We’re working intimately together. Surroundings such as these may lead to temptation.” She pointed to him. “I should have asked you to disrobe, rather than you taking it for granted. It’s not proper.”
“I won’t surrender to temptation, Emma. This is our art. Remember, you’re a sculptress.”
Emma returned to the couch. “May I ask you a question?”
Linton nodded.
“Are you a homosexual?” She cringed at her effrontery, but she had to know the truth because of the answer’s impact on their relationship.
Linton froze for a moment and then pulled his shorts back up. “My God, not that rumor again. It’s hard enough for a man in my position to meet women, to carry on any kind of decent relationship, but . . . that lie has dogged me for years, as it does many male artists. Who told you that?”
“I shan’t say. Apparently, it’s widely held gossip.”
His jaw clinched. “It’s Alex’s fault. Our association has tainted me. . . .”
“Don’t blame Alex,” Emma said. “He’s been the best mentor and friend you could wish for. Am I right?”
Linton sighed. “Yes, but sometimes guilt lives by association. I have no quarrel with homosexuals, but I’m not one. The only hand I’ve placed on another man is to shake his.” He crept toward the couch as if ashamed of his reputation and sat timidly next to her. “Please. I live for art—it’s all I have to keep me going. We can create a beautiful statue. I know it. We can inspire each other to work.”
A sense of relief traveled through her, with Linton’s admission. Perhaps there’s hope for passion yet, bliss, a child in our lives, if it would work out. And yet, those thoughts frightened her. She had no right to think of Linton as a lover, no right to break her vows to Tom for an immoral affair that would be the talk of Boston.
She looked at the beautiful man next to her and, buoyed by her sense of right, picked up her pad and pencil. “All right then, there’s no time for sitting, Mr. Bower. Please resume your position—but appropriately draped.”
Linton dutifully obeyed Emma’s request, grabbing the large scarves from the couch, arranging them on his body as she ordered, and turning in a three-quarter profile toward the window.
As the afternoon light flooded the studio, Emma sketched, working and saying little as Linton held his pose perfectly. Only when Narcissus, gazing into the mirror, appeared on the pad fully formed did she stop. As the shadows grew longer, Emma put down her pencil and ended the session, satisfied with her drawing.
She thanked him as he dressed, and looked back at the windows as they left the studio. Steel-blue clouds splotched with crimson covered the city as the sun lowered in the west.
The afternoon had been the most glorious and productive that Emma had known in months. Despite the day’s warmth, a chill swept over her as she and Linton walked toward their homes. She thought of Tom and his long hours in the French hospital, operating on wounded and dying men, while she once again enjoyed the passionate vigor of the work she loved. The session with Linton had freed her in a way she had not known since her beginning days at art school.
She marveled at the two extremes in her life—the chance to work with a man who inflamed her artistic and emotional sensibilities,
a conflagration waiting to happen; or an equally fiery end to her marriage. The day was too beautiful to waste on morbidity. For now, she would enjoy the walk with Linton and the joy that nearly swept her off her feet.
* * *
The evening air rushed through her studio window. The clop of hooves, the chug of automobiles sounded in her ears like a distant symphony, a reminder that life existed outside the haven of her work.
She sketched other imaginative possibilities for the sculpture using the afternoon’s drawing as her guide. Linton’s body took form on the page: the triangular cut of the deltoids, the pleasing oval of his calves, drapery added to the figure for effect. Unhappy with the first sketch, she put it aside only to redraw it entirely. Four hours later, she had completed three drawings: those being the front, side, and back of Narcissus. But the muddy face, always shadowed or clouded by impressionistic slashes, never in full profile or face on, dismayed her.
Lazarus’s bark jolted her from her work. She rose from the chair and looked out the window. The street noise had ebbed, almost silent, as lightning flared in the distance. She walked softly downstairs to the sitting room. The clock was about to strike midnight; Anne was surely tucked away, fast asleep. The hackles on Lazarus’s back rose as he centered his attention on something in the courtyard. Anxious and eager to get out, he wagged his tail and circled her.
Emma opened the French doors, the dog raced into the courtyard, and she cautiously followed. The wind whirled in eddies around her legs, the flashes of the far-off lightning illuminated the zenith.
As Lazarus snuffled in a corner, Emma spotted the object of the dog’s concern. A bronze sundial Tom had given her one birthday had toppled in the wind and crashed onto the stone. The sun’s smiling face, bent from the blow, felt rough and scarred in her hands like so many of the faces she had drawn. Emma wiped the moss from the dial and replaced it on top of its marble stand. Moments later, when the rain fell in heavy drops and thunder sounded from the sky, the bronze face looked as if it were crying.
10th June, 1917
My dear Tom:
Last night, the sundial you gave me fell in a storm. It was damaged, and the effect was a bit overwhelming. The accident reminded me of your absence and the distance between us. The rain looked like tears on the sun’s face and it nearly made me cry. I admit every now and then I feel blue, but then I remember your strength—a strength that took you away from me. I wonder sometimes if I have that kind of fortitude. If I do, it must be in reserve.
I hope you won’t think me too much of a woman (a tiresome little thing who can’t make up her mind because you know I’m not!), but I’ve made no decision about coming to France. I’d like to know more about this doctor and his technique. How does he help these men? What is the process? I have such trouble with faces I’m not certain I’m up to the job. On the other hand, a change from Boston might do me good. I admit the prospect of working with facially disfigured men would be challenging, and, in the end, life must be an adventure, I suppose, or why live it?
I’ve begun working on my next project, Narcissus. I found a suitable model for the work—Linton Bower—one of Alex’s artists. He is a blind painter, believe it or not, and paints the most extraordinary canvases of bright geometric shapes and colors. And, yet, they have traditional meaning. Perhaps you’ve met him at some point. Boston is a very small city. Vreland, the Register critic, is doing an article on him.
Well, I’m sorry my letter is short tonight, but I’m tired and must go to bed. Please let me know if you communicate with the Englishman. I shall await your reply.
Anne asks for you constantly, as does Louisa when she is not consumed by some society event. That’s a candid, but accurate, assessment of her character. She is a dear friend, but she tries my patience at times. Still, she lifts me up when I need it. I will pat Lazarus for you. He is fine as well, but seems less active since you departed.
Your wife,
Emma
She placed the pen on her studio desk, folded the letter, and wondered whether she shouldn’t have written, Your loving wife. She hesitated while addressing it to him care of the Red Cross in France because she was aware of her own deception. She had no plans to leave Boston until she could understand the raw, deep emotions stirred by Linton—in the meantime, she had to remain responsible and mature enough to preserve her marriage. However, the painter offered her more than charms and flattery. He was younger than she by four or five years, she surmised, and he was to be admired for so many reasons: his striking features, his talent as an artist, and his attentions paid—Linton’s qualities uncovered a buried vein of romance that ran through her and invited him into her heart. But when she carefully considered the relationship, she discovered something else.
She had never consciously thought of Linton as damaged or wounded, but it was clear he looked to her for help, relying on her for emotional support as a blind man, for artistic inspiration, and, worst of all for her, a source of companionship. Her maternal instincts were blossoming, and Linton, in his current state, was hard to resist. An unpleasant choice would have to be made in one direction or the other. Was she to fulfill her marriage with her husband or begin anew with Linton?
As she placed the letter to Tom on top of a stack of books, she pictured Linton standing naked, the perfect model for Narcissus.
* * *
A few days later, Emma, in a restless mood from sketching all morning, planned to surprise Linton by taking an afternoon walk to his studio. He, instead, surprised her after lunch by arriving at her home in a hansom cab. Anne answered the door as Emma watched from the sitting room. Linton strutted into the hallway like an aristocratic gentleman, as animated in gesture and complexion as Emma had ever seen. He handed Anne his gray woolen jacket and asked her to call for her mistress. Lazarus barked at the surge of activity in the normally placid house.
“She’s right down the hall,” the young housekeeper said.
Emma was well within earshot. “What a surprise, Linton. I’m coming.”
Linton’s already wide smile, deepened. He ruffled his right hand through his black hair like a stallion shaking his mane. “It’s a perfect afternoon for a ride. I wish I could have obtained a couple of horses, but I hired the next best transportation I could.”
Emma peered out the door. A mustachioed driver in top hat, dress pants, and long coat stood next to a silky black horse reined to an equally shiny cab. Linton had spent time and money acquiring the perfect driver and carriage.
“I appreciate the extravagance, Linton, but you . . .”
Linton stopped her with a touch to her arm. “Appreciate the moment, Emma. It’s not often I splurge. And I should—I mean, while I have the money. Don’t you agree?”
She could only smile at his infectious attitude.
“So, grab a jacket and let’s start out. I have the cabman for two hours. The breeze is refreshing, and I’m anxious to see the city.” Linton laughed heartily and she joined in at his self-deprecating joke. He retrieved his jacket from the housekeeper as Emma gathered her light spring coat from the hall tree and then said good-bye to Anne and Lazarus.
“I thought you would be working today,” Emma said, as the driver offered his arm for support as she climbed into the carriage. Linton made his way around the horse to the other side of the cab as the man again offered his assistance. Linton settled next to her, his right leg achingly close to her left.
“No, the day is too beautiful to waste. You have to take advantage of precious days like these. There’s plenty of time for work on a rainy summer day, or through a dreary fall and a cold winter. Besides, we have our project to discuss.” He placed his hand upon hers as the driver climbed into the concealed seat elevated behind them.
Emma was tempted to move her hand to her lap but instead kept it in place.
The cabman flicked his riding whip and the horse stepped off at a leisurely walk.
“How is your work coming along?” Linton asked as they moved down the
street. The row houses, the sun reflecting off the windows, glided past them.
The late spring air swirled into the cab; the earthy smell of the animal mixed with Linton’s soapy, fresh scent. “I’m satisfied with several of the drawings. I think after a few more weeks of working on the sketches, I’ll be able to start the maquette. The real modeling sessions will begin then.”
He patted her hand. “I’m ready any time.”
“And how is your work—and Alex?”
Linton turned away for a moment and looked out the carriage window. The flesh on the back of his neck quivered before he turned back to her, his mouth drawn at the corners. “Honestly, I don’t know if the studio was a good idea.” He tapped the fingers of his free hand on his thigh. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but when I’m alone I stare out the windows into the light as if there’s something out there I can’t reach and must have.”
She nodded.
Linton smiled weakly, seeing, or sensing, her movement. He grasped her hand tightly. “Can you understand this? It’s as if my success has brought on too much pressure. Now, instead of creating art for my pleasure, my edification, I’m creating to satisfy the public. I feel stifled—in more ways than one.”
The cab turned west toward the Charles River. In front of her, snaking lines of pedestrians strolled the Embankment, the river reflecting glittering diamonds of light along its length as it stretched south and west through Cambridge. She inhaled deeply and thought, This is a chance to be happy! Now, in this time, she had her best possible chance at happiness. But hadn’t she felt the same with Tom before they were married? No! Tom was different—he was security and sensibility. How could she desert her husband and the life they had built—for pleasure—for the vagaries of passion and bliss? In the end, wouldn’t the pleasure and intensity of any relationship fade into sameness and the familiarity of failure? How could two artists, with the fluctuations and whimsies of gallery sales, support themselves, especially Emma, who had yet to achieve any kind of fame or self-sufficiency? Linton felt different to her, the bud of romance coming to bloom; but she hadn’t sorted through the complexity of her feelings.
The Sculptress Page 14
