Katherine Keenum (24 page)

By the logic of the analogy, Edward ought to feel even older; but to the contrary, he threw off feeling his age at all. By the time the lunch was over, it was somehow assumed that Jeanette and Effie would spend the afternoon with him, shopping for his German relations, after which they were all due at the Rue Madame at five o’clock.

“I have serious toy purchases to make, Cornelia,” said Edward. “Where should we start?”

“That’s easy, and if it weren’t impossible, I’d come with you for the pure seasonal joy of it. Go to Au Nain Bleu on the Boulevard des Capucines.”

*   *   *

It was a large store, where it was a pleasure to look through the eyes of a child for a while. Jeanette assured Edward that any little girl would pine for one particularly elegant set of dolls’ china, and Effie was bewitched by a furry Puss-in-Boots with a long feather in his peaked cap. Edward ordered the china, the cat, and several other items on which they all agreed, to be gift-wrapped and delivered to his hotel. Afterward, as they strolled, it was a toss-up which were more worth noting: the crowds, the street stalls, or the window displays (Jeanette’s favorite was a jeweler’s gold-and-crystal Cinderella coach pulled by a pair of diamond-collared white ermines).

“Would it spoil appetites for tea if we ate an ice cream at Tortoni’s?” asked Edward. He could tell by their reactions that he had said something either very right or very wrong.

“Tortoni’s or else we know the most diverting little pastry shop,” said Jeanette. She told him the story of
Noggins
and Robbie’s idea of atonement.

“Sounds like the bounder deserves showing up,” said Edward. “Tortoni’s it is, and we’ll hope pistachio is on today’s menu.”

While they sat over their ice cream (as good as reputed), Jeanette told him how the idea for a series of articles for ladies’ magazines had sprung from Robbie’s delinquency.

“But, oh my, it’s harder than I thought,” said Cousin Effie, shaking her head. “We’ve had plenty of dandy ideas, but I just can’t seem to get anything on paper.”

“Instead of trying to be entertaining like Dolson,” said Edward, “why don’t you dwell on the practical side? Guide the American visitor.”

“Oh,
ouufff
.” Effie made a blowing noise she had picked up from Mme. LeConte. “There are plenty of wiser heads than mine for advice.”

“You could certainly write the book on how to find cheap lodgings in Paris,” said Jeanette.

Effie’s eyes became fixed on a distant point while her spoon dangled against her ice cream dish. “The Lady Artist’s Guide to Living Cheaply in Paris,” she rapped out slowly. She looked from one to the other, her eyes alight. “Living quarters, laundry, where to eat breakfast, where to buy supplies, how to hire a model, the omnibus system, where to see fine art for free.”

“Where to sketch outdoors safely,” said Jeanette.

“The Hôtel Druout for auctions, street markets,” said Effie, “where to find tea at wholesale prices.”

Edward made a few suggestions and Jeanette furnished illustrative anecdotes, but it was clearly Effie’s brainstorm. Later in the afternoon, when they had walked some more and it was time to head across the river for tea, Effie wanted to take an omnibus—“In the spirit of the thing”—but Edward overruled her in the name of Yankee pragmatism. They took a cab and stopped by Julian’s to pick up Amy and Emily.

*   *   *

At the Rue Madame, on the stairs to the studio, Edward suddenly found himself apprehensive, half afraid of disappointment. Until this moment, he had assumed that the medallions would delight him in the same way as the bust of Miss Richardson. He had never contemplated the effect of a failure—a dull portrait or an inaccurate one.

Sonja was waiting for them, a glowering Amazon. In her eyes, Edward realized, he was on trial. He suspected she was worried less about the quality of her work than about his ability to give it its due. He met her eye steadily as he unconsciously guided Jeanette. Jeanette was aware of his touch yet also felt utterly invisible as she sensed the tension between him and Sonja.

“Thank you for letting me come,” he said. “I have been looking forward to this day.”

“Come in. I show you the sculptures.”

“Shouldn’t we have tea first?” asked Amy.

“No, in which case, we sit around pretending to enjoy. We get worst over first.”

“You mean the best,” rebuked Jeanette. “But you’re right. We can’t wait.”

They gathered around the worktable where Sonja had propped up the medallions on crude wooden stands, covered by muslin veils. Two lamps were lit somewhat away from them. “You must stand there and there,” Sonja directed Jeanette and Effie, placing them so that each stood behind her own hidden portrait. Amy and Emily hung back. Without further ado or fanfare, Sonja pulled away the cloths.

A lump rose in Edward’s throat. It didn’t matter. If the onlookers saw him moved, they would consider it as a tribute to the artist’s skill, as in part it was. He looked from the portrait of Jeanette to find a hushed attention in her face. Effie was fidgeting, looking down modestly, overcome by embarrassment. Edward had foreseen that the pieces could be beautiful in themselves. What he had not foreseen was how much a portrait sculpture could communicate thoughts and emotions. When he first saw Miss Palmer’s image, it seemed to greet him with a sunny pleasure; but he also took in the air of quiet solicitude that enveloped the second portrait. Miss Pendergrast with her rabbity chin and old maid’s ways would be easy to mock, but Mlle. Borealska had done no such thing. She had revealed to him a dimension of Effie’s worth that he had not until this moment recognized.

“They are more than I knew how to desire,” he said, softly. “No wonder the Lord God chose to work in clay if mortal fingers can achieve so much. Are you sure you want to glaze them, after all?”

“Ah, yes,” said Sonja, earnestly. “They are made with glazed surface in mind. Half baked, they lose half their beauty.”

“Surely not half,” said Edward. “Already these have souls. It seems almost presumptuous to offer congratulations, Mlle. Borealska, but I thank you with all my heart. It will be a privilege to own such beautiful things.”

“Well done, Sonja!” said Amy. All this American emotion was beginning to make her uncomfortable. “Now if everyone will excuse me, I’m going to make tea. I’m famished. Emily, you can help cut sandwiches. Sonja, you did pick up a
gâteau
, didn’t you?”

“Of course, and pastries. On the table.”

Amy and Emily returned from the kitchen laden with a big cobalt-blue earthenware teapot, a jug of cream, and platters of finger sandwiches, tiny tarts, and an iced cake. Planks on trestles draped with a tablecloth already held silverware and a collection of blue-and-white cups, saucers, and plates, most of it fine porcelain (Meissen, Spode, some Chinese), though few pieces matched.

“I’m afraid everything is chipped or cracked, Dr. Murer,” said Amy, pouring out the first cup for him as the guest of honor. “I know it’s silly to collect broken china, but it’s great fun to find usable pieces in whatnot bins and pick them up for nothing.”

“Street markets, bazaars, and bric-a-brac shops!” said Jeanette, pointing a finger at Effie. Effie grinned back.

“Miss Pendergrast is going to write a guide to living cheaply in Paris for people like us,” Amy explained to Sonja. “She cooked up the idea this very afternoon.”

During tea, conversation became general. To illustrate his experiments, Edward brought out a couple of sample tiles from a flat leather wallet in his pocket. Only Sonja among them was doing any serious work in clay, but they were all interested. Effie especially, with her love of pretty things, caressed the smooth, glassy surfaces. For a while in the mellow semidarkness of the room, camaraderie lowered the barriers of sex and patronage to admit Edward into the group as one of them.

A knock sounded at the door. “That will be Robbie for me,” said Emily.

“Wee Willie Winkie!” they heard Amy say. “Come in, come in. The pot’s gone cold, but I can have another made in a jiffy. There’s lovely chocolate
gâteau
.”

“I can’t stay, I’m afraid, Miss Richardson. Dolson sent me around to pick up Emily, but I’m on duty at the hospital tonight.”

Mr. Winkham came to the studio door behind Amy, still in his overcoat and turning a shabby top hat in his hands. “Evening, all,” he said, and nodded specially to Edward, who had risen. “Dr. Murer.”

Emily was already on her feet, too. “It was a lovely afternoon,” she said, in a slightly constrained voice. “Thank you for including me. Sonja, the medallions are beautiful.”

“The medallions!” said Amy. “Winkie, it will only take a minute. You must at least come in and see them.”

Mr. Winkham held back, then changed his mind. “Ah, yes, well, I should like that.”

He sounded preoccupied but walked to the worktable where the sculptures sat, still lit by their oil lamps. He studied them in silence. “Remarkable,” he said. He gave Sonja an upward glance. “Good bones beneath the skin.”

Sonja clapped him on the back. “You will be the more glad I dismantle Mortimer when I do your portrait, Mr. Winkham—not your face, but every knuckle of your surgeon’s hands.”

“Oh, Winkie, you should let us all have a go at it!” said Jeanette. “Hands are so difficult.”

“Sit down and have a cup of tea, Winkie,” ordered Amy. “Eat a sandwich. Make Emily eat a few more, too.”

“Well, if you put it that way. Will you eat another, Emily?”

“If Robbie is expecting us . . .”

Winkie shook his head. “Said he had to see a man about a dog. You’re not to wait supper.”

“That settles it,” said Amy. “If I know you, you
will
wait—but not on an empty stomach, my girl. Nor will you go off to hospital without your tea, Mr. Winkham. Sit down.”

When the party broke up for good a quarter of an hour later, Winkie stood to one side with Edward. “I wonder if I could have a word, a bit of advice. None of my business, really, but Dolson sent me instead of coming himself because—Ah, well, no, as I said, none of my business. It’s just that I worry about Emily.” Winkie’s eye went to her across the room.

Edward remained silent and waited. He knew that those who needed to get something off their chest were more likely to keep talking if not interrupted.

“Not that she complains, not to me anyway. I try to keep an eye on her, but what with one thing and another . . .” As Emily approached, tying a scarf over her small felt hat, Winkie looked down at nothing in particular and muttered, “Ah, well, no. None of my business.”

“Nor mine, but if ever I can be of any service . . .”

Jeanette saw Dr. Murer listening to Winkie with grave attention. He was an observant man, she had told Sonja. As if to prove her point, he came across to her with the same inquisitive lift of an eyebrow that he had given her at the Odéon.

“You caught me,” she admitted. “I would have eavesdropped if I could—but, no, don’t worry: I won’t ask. Tell me instead how long will you stay in Paris after the firing.”

“Not even a day, sorry to say—I can’t miss any of
Weihnachten
.” His face changed. “Miss Dolson is lucky in her friends.”

A little quiver of pleasure ran through Jeanette; he meant her as well as Winkie.

“Well, now, I think we’d better be going, Jeanette,” said Effie, joining them.

“You will allow me to accompany you home, I hope, Miss Pendergrast.”

“Oh, we’ve taken enough of your time for one day, Dr. Murer. You’ve given us a lot of pleasure—I don’t know when I’ve been shopping for children like that!”

“I shall enjoy the company of the originals even more than of the medallions.”

When he left them at their door on the Rue Jacob, he wished them good night and a Merry Christmas.

“
Au revoir?
” said Jeanette.

“
Au revoir
,” said Edward.

Au revoir
, not
adieu
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Winter’s Cold, 1878–1879

D
r. Murer went back to Germany the day after the medallions came out of the kiln
, Jeanette wrote her parents on Christmas Eve,
and we haven’t seen Sonja since then either. She is all caught up in Christmas in the Polish community (which I find funny, considering Sonja, but Cousin Effie says is only natural). Amy has gone to England to spend the holidays with her father for the first time in three years. In fact, it is getting a little lonesome around here. I don’t know where the Dolsons are. Last week, I invited Emily to bring her brother to a party for waifs and strays that we are having at our
pension
tonight. She didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no, so I went by their apartment on the Île Saint Louis yesterday, but no one was home. I left a note at the stationer’s where she receives her mail, just in case.

In fact, the Dolsons’ porter had grumbled about rent cheaters, and the stationer said that the Dolsons had not picked up their accumulation of bills and duns for a couple of weeks. He complained that he hadn’t been paid his December fee and charged Jeanette a sou to add her note to the pile.

The tenants who were remaining at the
pension
over the holidays, along with a few other foreign students and neighbors who were alone, attended midnight mass together at the eleventh-century church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés around the corner. Afterward, they all returned to the Rue Jacob to share a traditional
réveillon
feast of twelve cold dishes and sweets. To be out so late among the many worshippers and families headed to similar feasts throughout the city felt very French.

The next morning, Jeanette presented Effie with a framed picture of Boots. Effie reciprocated with a white collar embroidered in her delicate stitches, which Jeanette wore in honor of the day when they attended the Christmas Day service at their own Protestant American Chapel on the Rue de Berri.

Back at the Rue Jacob, after a dinner provided by Mme. Granet, the landlady, they finally opened their Christmas presents from home. Judge Palmer, who had been told about the ginger jar, sent them a check to replenish it for January. He also sent an affectionate letter to Jeanette with the news that Adeline and Harold Vann would be traveling from New York to Paris in May.
It’s no good your leaving before they arrive
, he wrote;
you must stay al least until midsummer
. As far as it went, that was good news, but it jolted Jeanette to be reminded that she must do something soon to impress her father with the need for at least another full year. She could hardly begin on Christmas afternoon, so for the few hours until darkness, they went for a long walk in a quiet, closed-up Paris.

As they drifted homeward again at dusk, around the great fountain basin of the Luxembourg Garden, the sky beyond the broad steps on the western side was a smoldering red band beneath dark clouds. “I should have signed us up to serve dinner at a mission hall,” said Cousin Effie.

“Next year, we’ll plan better,” said Jeanette, determined to be there.

*   *   *

In Freiburg, far from being homesick or lonely, Edward was smothered in family. Under the cover of the many crates and boxes he had brought back from Paris, he smuggled in the medallions without having to explain them to Cousin Paul and Cousin Anna or, worse, put up with impudence from Carl. There were parties and music, peals of bells from the cathedral and other churches, a fall of crisp fresh snow to set off the dark evergreens of the Black Forest, and, most evocative of all for Edward, a hushed parade through the darkened house on Christmas Eve to the Christmas tree, twinkling with small candles on the dining room table. The ceaseless activity carried the danger of overwhelming a man who habitually required a certain amount of solitude, yet Edward threw himself into it with a show of willingness that fooled everyone else and felt genuine even to him much of the time. It was a true joy to have tastes, smells, and sounds confirm memories from his boyhood. In Freiburg, these had a fullness they had lost since he came home from the war to find Mutter dead. Yet as 1878 was rung out, 1879 rung in, and still they had not reached the feast of the Three Kings, he felt a headache coming on.

Inevitably, on the sixth of January, it felled him. He awoke to find Carl dressing by the light of a candle. He squeezed his eyes shut again and shrank against the pillow, unable to bear either the feeble flame or the motion of turning his head away. Recognizing the symptoms, Carl extinguished the candle. Downstairs, he explained to Cousin Anna that tea was needed. She said she would steep it herself and gave orders to the cook for toast.

A little later, Edward heard the tread of someone trying to be silent and a slight rattle of china. He knew he should ready himself for a maid but was in too much pain; he only wanted her to go away. To his relief, it was Carl carrying the bed tray. As a nurse, Carl had learned a calm matter-of-factness from his mother. It was not the same as Sophie’s deep, sympathetic understanding, but it sufficed. In response, Edward did not resist when Carl slipped a hand under his shoulder to raise him against the backboard. He eased the throbbing base of his skull gingerly into an extra pillow provided by Carl. He sipped the milky, sweetened tea uncomplaining, though he thought it tasted strange. Slowly, he chewed, stopped, and chewed again a small bite of toast; he let the dissolving pulp sit on his tongue; he swallowed.

“I’ll be all right,” he croaked, with his eyes closed.

When Carl checked back after his own breakfast, he found that Edward had eaten most of one slice of toast and drunk much of the tea in his cup. He was asleep again, and his brow was smooth, though in the semidarkness, his face looked sunken and chalky.

At midmorning, Anna knocked on the door of the sickroom. She brought a second pot of tea on a tray and poured him a fresh cup. With a weak smile, still recumbent (he was too used to being nursed to feign strength he didn’t feel), he asked her not to sweeten it this time. It was honey, she told him, and he would probably want it again, for she had infused good Friesian tea with willow bark against the headache.

Edward rubbed a hand across his closed eyes and fingered his left temple. His limbs felt flaccid; a tightness lingered against his skull; yet the worst pain, which had felt like stone being drilled, was gone. He struggled upright against the pillows and dutifully drank some more, then drowsed again. By lunchtime, he was up and around—drained by the aftereffects of his migraine but able to escape suffocating domesticity indoors by walking in the garden behind the house. Over the next couple of days, Cousin Anna’s knowledge of traditional cures gave them something to talk about. He thought some of her herbal concoctions worth noting down to test, but her remedies of garlic wrapped in red flannel to press against a sore throat and the like he dismissed as superstition.

Twelfth Night had come on a Monday. On Friday, he went back to the laboratory. It was drab and the gloom of the dark northern European winter oppressive. On the rare occasions when the sun shone clear, he took walks outside town where snow in meadow and forest was white. Clean cold air with a resinous tang did his lungs good; he breathed in deeply whenever he detected the right mineral iciness. But too much of the old city was choked by ever filthier, churned-up mud and ice; murky daylight could hardly make its way down past roofs to the streets. In the new industrial districts, factory smoke turned fogs an ugly sulfurous yellow; they stung the eyes and tasted nasty. The prevalent damp cold made his leg ache. Vague dissatisfactions and regrets kept him off stride, and through them crept tentacles of longing, longing for laudanum.

It would be easy to get. All he had to do was walk into a pharmacy or, for that matter, ask Anna if she had some in her medicine chest. Even if Theodore had warned Cousin Paul and the others against its dangers for him, surely no one would object to moderate use. Cousin Anna would probably enjoy administering carefully measured doses, just so, according to some strict regimen she would devise. It shook him to realize that submitting to a scheme of hers would probably be safer than trusting to his own diagnosis and restraint. Gritting his teeth, he set himself to abstain.

He kept doggedly to his experiments. He resolved to work out with Indian clubs at the
Turnhalle
regularly and kept to a schedule for a while. Once, he let Carl talk him into going back to Young Paul’s fencing club, the
Fechtverein
, instead. Carl and Young Paul knew nothing about his lessons in Paris and were impressed by his handling of a foil in their warm-up exercises; but from the minute they entered the building, Edward had disliked a smell of puerile aggression and arrant militarism that contrasted to the bonhomie in the sweat of M. Artaud’s establishment. A rising sense of savagery and futility in himself drove him to leave early.

Throughout this period, he left the medallions under his bed. The uppermost part of his mind clung to the belief that they would console or inspire him; deeper inside, he doubted it. Toward the end of January, when he finally put hope to the test, his fingers slid over their perfect creaminess. He balanced Miss Palmer’s portrait upright against his knee, and briefly his heart ached with pleasure at the trusting appeal in her sculpted expression. He set the piece down and picked up its gentle mate. As he studied them, their power ebbed; they were only clay images glassed over. Although he told himself that sculpture was more permanent than tintype, that these betokened flesh and blood very much alive in Paris, no distant vitality reached him. His spirits sank lower; he put the portraits away before disappointment spoiled them for him forever.

On a night soon after, Carl cursed when he came home: “Dash it all, it’s cold.”

“Italy,” replied Edward, hollow-eyed.

He had known one recent morning that he must get away when he found he was turning in at a pharmacy door. He had forced himself to walk on instead to the train station. Paris beckoned, of course; but Paris, too, would be cold and overcast. Cornelia was not there to call on. He had no errand. No, that was not true; he very much had an errand, one he shrank from pursuing. The last thing he wanted was for Miss Palmer to see him like this. He felt too seedy to think it through, but he knew he wanted warmth and light. He wanted color. He wanted to revive. Greece, Cyprus, Algeria all occurred to him, but all involved travel by sea. No relief could be bought at the price of seasickness. He inquired about trains to Rome.

“Italy?” asked Carl.

“Every educated gent sees Rome,” said Edward, trying to maintain the illusion of a light touch.

“But what about the
Hochschule
and chemistry?”

“You’re not sitting for a degree.”

Although Edward could not bring himself to plead aloud for help, his eyes did, and the circles under them. As soon as Carl understood that his uncle really meant to go, he jumped at the chance to be released from classes. “Leave it to me,” he said.

*   *   *

Paris was as cold and overcast as Edward feared—dark when Jeanette set out for school, dark when she came home. As she crossed from the Right Bank to the Left in the evenings, a weird, electric glow arched over the city behind her; ahead, gas streetlamps studded the murk like weak stars in a lower, brooding firmament, but none shone overhead. Snow rarely fell; rain often did—icy rain that slashed down hard or clammy drizzle that hung around for days. Yet there was also a silveriness to the fog when the sun shone pale behind it, and a luminosity in stone buildings under the city grime. Over and over again these beauties made up to Jeanette for numbed cheeks and chilled fingers. (
A muff
, she declared in a letter home,
is the greatest invention of man
.) She was blessed with good health; and although she caught a head cold from Cousin Effie in January, she shook it off in a few days.

Effie’s sneezes turned into a sore throat, which kept her housebound for more than a week longer. Mme. LeConte kindly brought up soups and lent her a charcoal brazier for their unheated room. As Effie convalesced, she fussed over three sample Lady Artist’s Guide pieces—how to find a studio, what to look for in a
portière
, and how to hire a model—which she planned to show Mrs. Renick when the family came back from Provence: “It was her idea, after all.”

“Not entirely—you thought of doing them as a Lady Artist’s Guide. But she might have an idea about a publisher.”

In the middle of January, Emily returned to classes, looking less hounded and underfed. She and Robbie had been in Belgium, she said, without spelling out any particulars. Whatever their errand had been, it must have solved their money worries; for she paid the high weekly fee to take her through the rest of the month, and her shy smile was almost exultant as she handed Jeanette a heavy envelope. It clinked with the weight of coins and contained a note:

My dear Miss Palmer,

Most dashing of collaborators—behold enclosed the well-earned reward for your talent and toil: five francs apiece for the Quarrelling Couple and the Rhino. In short—as bully Bottom would say—our play is preferred. Or should I say, our jests. We are in
Noggins
for February and March, dear lady! If you will but pen our handsome lad into a mad mannequin scene at the Beaux-Arts gates, we cannot ’scape April as well.