“I see.” He did not press her to tell him more, and she felt the tension between them begin to dissolve and quite float away. They talked of the doctor’s clinic, of the mountains, the lakes, the tumult of London and the bustle of Rome, and Emily could see his mind begin to close from her and turn for home. When he began to gather his belongings, putting money in the saucer and reaching for his cloak, she said, “Dr. Cooper, I have never had the opportunity of thanking you adequately for all you have done for me.”
“It was an honor,” he said. “I hope you never have need of me again, but if you do, you know precisely where I am to be found.”
MISS CAROLINE TRELAWNEY
TRELAWNEY HOUSE,
RICHMOND, SURREY
ROME
September, 1863
Dear Caroline,
I am so grateful to have heard from you. Sorrow sharpens everything I find. Thank you for your kind words. I endeavor to continue with the pattern of life.
I am rising early and going to work on a particular view of the city through trees that is very dear to my heart. I paint out of doors in the morning light and am often finished before eleven.
After that much of my time is taken up in the company of my dear friend, Augusta, who as I told you has returned to Rome for her confinement—although at present she is very much abroad, immersed in preparations for the arrival of her infant. I had no idea there could be so many things to buy. She has recently changed her rooms from the initial apartment I found for her—I feel not a little responsible for the inconvenience, but she will not hear of it, declaring that she and Mr. Harper are far happier to choose their own nest than to have it provided for them—and furnishing it also keeps her happily occupied.
It is exciting but somewhat peculiar to watch her embark on this new part of her life without a backward glance, and I wonder whether she will remain in Europe for much longer after the confinement. She talks a great deal of her father and of Boston life and I do not think it will be long before she departs. For the time being I am more than happy that she is here after so long a separation.
Please write and let me know how you do. I should hate to feel you were out in the world acting and thinking and I am ignorant of it!
The closeness of death has made me value all the more the people who remain dear to me.
Affectionately,
Emily
In this light it was all memory that threatened to overwhelm her. Real bright life receded quite, and her peculiar, taunting, gold-suffused visions were in command. She could sit for hours quite idle on the loggia, looking at the vista of Rome without seeing it or taking it in. There would be a book upon her knee but she did not trouble herself with it. All there were were visions from the past or fears for the present and future: her dear friend wounded, her dear friend captive, her dear friend dead. It did not do to pine and dream and become submerged in dreaming, but she could not rouse herself.
One evening, laying her chin upon her hand and leaning on the balustrade, she remembered Major Lindsay’s words, written clearly on the paper folded in her bureau drawer. Paint me a portrait. Those had been his written words a long long time ago, words written in a confident, bold, hurried script, the ink now fading. She considered this. It was true that she had embarked on a study of a Madonna and child. But that was different. She thought about his words for several days; they kept reverberating in her head. She should like to be able to paint a portrait of Major Lindsay himself from memory, but while on occasion she could recall his face quite clearly, on others he remained in shadow, just out of reach, somehow blurred.
He had wanted her to make use of the colors he had given her. He had wanted her to paint a portrait. In London she had kept his present as a reminder of him, but used only the materials William had bought. In Rome she had availed herself of the resources Miss Drake had at her disposal in the studio, preferring to keep Major Lindsay’s box out of sight, precious and buried at the bottom of her clothes chest. It was imperative, she felt now, to find the paints and use them, and after much musing she resolved to paint herself.
A self-portrait was one of the most time-honored and reliable ways an artist could explore his technique, use his skill—but also, she knew, attempt to convey an innermost quality, the light in his own eyes. It would be a hard task, but she wanted to attempt it; not only for her long-ago Captain Lindsay, but for herself.
The decision made, she felt she could stand up straighter, that there was less shadow around her, the light had sharpened again. At first she must decide where to place herself. She wanted it to be in the open, where she felt most at home, on the loggia with the city and its heavens behind her. The background need not be detailed, but it must be inferred—she had the temerity to portray herself as an artist in the city of artists, an ambition that frequently made her want to laugh, but did not deter her. One cannot merely talk of one’s grand plan, she thought to herself. One must execute it.
With the aid of her looking glass she took careful sketches of herself, trying to be as dispassionate as possible about the cast of her own features and the expression in her own eyes. You look like a person who has known a great deal, she said to herself once, and smiled at this hard-won knowledge. You are no longer a girl. Nor did she look like a lady, with her sunburned skin and her loosely arranged hair. But amid all the changes in herself, she saw much of that first eagerness in her expression, all the old curiosity, a courage that—truly—she had never known she had.
She wanted the light to be soft on the features, not only illuminating but extrapolating, almost as if she stood like a young tree in the breeze. Working on the portrait absorbed her totally. She would spend all morning at her easel, concentrating utterly on her purpose: to convey what she saw of herself into the finished portrait, to use all the discipline and technique she had learned, and by examining herself so closely, lose herself in it and shake herself free. In the afternoons she frequently walked down the hill and into the city, feeling a curious lightness and adventure in her step, delighting in the taste of it on her tongue: the sight of the sinewy feral cats and the scavenging dogs, the markets and the stinking debris that was left of them, the sound of water running in the gutters and out of the fountains, the sight of washing strung along balconies and children playing in the streets. If she wanted to escape the light and noise she had only to go into a church or chapel to feel and see a different, far danker glory, look up at the arches and domes that reached out to God.
She adored tasting the city—not only its air, either sweet-smelling or rank, but its ice creams and granitas and cakes and all the manner of delights the cafés offered. She had no fear of sitting alone with her book and her coffee; she was a foreigner; she could be as peculiar as she pleased, and beyond greetings and appreciative words, she was left to herself. She did not mind that at all. She did not feel alone. She was working.
It was all the freedom of flight she had once imagined—more. Her solitude was not painful. Her absorption in her work was company enough.
Emily completed the portrait as the autumn descended. It was a satisfying piece of work. She was proud of it. It was complete. The balance of light and shade were as she had intended; the color, both lustrous and muted, blended as she had planned, and the expression, of openness and lack of pretense that the look in her dark eyes gave the onlooker, was peculiarly arresting. She would not have been able to manage such a work even six months previously. But now she had the means to accomplish what she aimed for, the technique born of discipline and study. Looking at herself she felt she had created a creature with both fearlessness and tenderness in her eyes, and a kind of pride. It was finished. She felt almost at peace.
That autumn and the following spring, Emily began to paint portraits of the young ladies and gentlemen who came to the studio. There was a little money in it and this was a source of another kind of pride.
She painted Augusta and her baby and gave her the portrait when she left for Boston. She painted Miss D
rake, who hung the picture in her studio; and Anna and Paulo—they wrapped theirs carefully and took it home.
MISS B. NORTON
SOUTH KENSINGTON ART SCHOOL,
LONDON, SW
PALAZZO ———
April 25th, 1864
Dear Miss Norton,
It is a long time, I know, since I wrote to you to tell you that I was well-settled at Rome. But as I am still here, and far more contented than even I could have imagined possible, I thought it a fine idea to write to you to acquaint you of my progress.
In my early days here I struggled hard with being healthy enough to help our mutual friend Miss Drake with her business in her studio, but little by little I became stronger, and worked hard on my technique until I have acquired some skill at taking portraits. I cannot say that I have frequent commissions, but sufficient to occupy me. In my spare time I continue my attempts at painting landscape outside amid the movement of light and color. The work is a tremendous joy to me. And I have found not a little society here—amongst Romans and visitors—to also keep me amused.
In short, your kind action in writing to Miss Drake when I appeared dripping and distressed upon your doorstep has resulted in a not unsuccessful life for me in this blessed city. For that I am eternally grateful, and feel quite appalled that it has taken me so long to write to you and inform you of the fact.
I hope the school continues satisfactorily. Miss Drake begs to be remembered to you. She asks me to convey that should you have occasion to make a visit to Rome, we should both be delighted to receive you.
With all very best wishes and salutations,
Yours truly,
Emily Hudson
In May of that year, Emily and Miss Drake traveled to the Amalfi coast, and investigated the ruins at Pompeii and Paestum. Emily was overjoyed at the blue of the Mediterranean.
“It is so sparkling and happy!” she cried. “It makes the ocean at home seem so very humorless and earnest.”
“Oh, really, Emily,” said Miss Drake, “only you could describe an ocean as humorless. In any event, all seas have their own qualities. You will come to know that by and by.” But she laughed. They laughed together.
Through the insistence of time Emily became accustomed to her visions of Major Lindsay as of her other familiar dead, mingled with the life that surrounded her, welcoming them to her heart as her friends.
EPILOGUE
ROME
APRIL, 1865
Telegram to Miss E. Hudson, Palazzo ———, Roma:
RELEASED UNHARMED STOP PEACE AT LAST STOP
MAY I COME TO YOU LINDSAY
Telegram to Major J. C. H. Lindsay, Boston, Mass:
WITH ALL MY HEART STOP EMILY
Miss Caroline and Mr. Thomas Trelawney, Miss Mary Cornford, Mr. and Mrs. Richard Harper and Miss Drake all gathered at the little chapel at Rome for the wedding of Major James Charles Lindsay and Miss Emily Anne Hudson. They all remarked that they had never seen a bride laugh so much nor a bridegroom look more overjoyed.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First I would like to thank the great team at Little, Brown; especially my editor, Caroline Hogg, for her enthusiasm, energy and determination, and Emma Stonex for her excellent copyediting; all at Conville & Walsh, particularly my agent Clare Conville; at Penguin USA, my editor, Pam Dorman, for her commitment to the book; and at HarperCollins Canada, Iris Tupholme. Thank you also to my sister, my parents, friends and beloved family.
I am indebted to The Penguin History of the USA by Hugh Brogan (Penguin, 2001) and the brilliant London in the Nineteenth Century by Jerry White (Vintage Books, 2008) although any factual errors are, of course, entirely my own.
Emily Hudson Page 29
