The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

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