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

“Not that long ago, we had none of them. How the world has changed.” Suddenly, Emma was overcome by a powerful melancholia and stopped in the recessed entrance of a milliner’s storefront. “It’s too easy to say I miss Tom—my feelings are much more complicated than that, but what would my life be like, if he never came back?” She looked over her friend’s shoulder, above the buildings, at the sparkling pinpoints of stars and chided herself for asking such a question—of course, she wanted him to return, but the possibility of his death frightened her, leaving her feeling helpless and alone in a world ruled by men, exacerbated by her conversation with Vreland and Everett, his contentious friend.

“I’m sure the French forces and the Red Cross will protect Tom to the fullest,” Louisa said and patted Emma’s hand. “I’m concerned as well, but Tom probably won’t be at the Front—he’ll be in some comfortable hospital far away from the battle. And the war will be over quickly now that we’re in it. He will be home before you know it. I promise.”

Emma took a deep breath. “Would you mind if we didn’t have supper out tonight? I would be happy at home with tea or, on second thought, a shot of gin. Will you join me?”

“Seeing how I’m a single woman in Boston with no better offer? Yes.”

As they left the doorway, Emma glanced down the street and spotted the dim profile of the soldier she had seen days before, leaning on his crutches, hunkering against a building, his left hand shaking the cup at passersby.

Louisa sniffed as they swept past him and whispered, “This is what we have to look forward to—the horrors of war.”

The evening, as soft and languid as the May air, held no comforts. She looked back several times at the soldier and wondered if he would ever find happiness. Her restless state of mind made her wonder as much for herself. First, Kurt, and then Tom. Her subdued passion ached within her like a spring bubbling to burst forth from the earth. Her obsession with Kurt, her predictable relationship with Tom, had led to disasters of the heart and she had to come to terms with both. Could she ever find peace?

* * *

She studied the drawing in front of her, brushing her hand softly over the page, feeling the smoothness of the paper against the mound of her index finger, tracing the face over and over until the lines were fixed in her mind.

If only . . . if only the process weren’t so difficult—to replicate the artist’s work into sculpture. Narcissus’ reflection stared at her as she sat at her desk—a face filled with vacant delight, the pool shimmering around it. The face should be sad in its preoccupation with its own beauty.

A palpable loneliness coursed through her, she a solitary figure in the upstairs studio in the late evening. Anne had gone to bed after clearing the dishes and the pleasant odors of dinner in the sitting room had been overtaken by the oily sweetness of paint and the earthy scent of clay. Logs crackled in the small fireplace, the light distended and orange, an ember flicking now and then above the flames. The light reminded her of the war so far away—of bombs falling and flames licking at their targets. She shifted her attention from the fire and looked again at the beautiful youth in the drawing.

There was nothing more to be done on the sketches. Work on the new sculpture could begin as soon as possible. Her lips puckered as she thought of Vreland’s tart Register review that would surely appear the next morning. Perhaps she wouldn’t read it at all, for to take in the words was to risk much. Skin is frail, but the ego is even more fragile. The slightest prick can wound permanently. She studied the few paintings stacked against the wall, an art she dabbled in when the mood struck her—chiaroscuro studies of faces, half-finished landscapes. How silly. All artists receive bad reviews. She considered that recovery from such an injury to her ego might take days, months, even years. But she needn’t worry about learning the outcome of Vreland’s column. Louisa, without fail, would herald any news—good or disastrous.

27th April, 1917

My Dearest Emma (from somewhere in France):

I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. Even though the trip was long and exhausting, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to see as much of France as possible, unlike some of the other men who slept the hours blissfully away. One never knows when God may call, so I try to take advantage of the present. You must forgive me; I don’t intend to be morose. But one sees so much—death.

The hospital is near XXXXX and is quiet for now; the calm before the storm. It is tiny compared with Boston’s major hospital. I’m not sure how much I can tell you. Suffice it to say the facilities are as modern as French and American know-how can make it. I would change a few things, but I’m only a surgeon, not the Directeur and by no means the Commanding Surgeon.

Last night, I was able to get away to the city square just before dark. I sat on a bench under a fragrant flowering tree. I’m not sure what it was (it smelled faintly of lemon), and when the breeze stirred, it showered white flowers around me. It was like sitting in a heavenly spring rain. And, of course, you came into my reverie, my visions of you sitting by the fire or perhaps curled up with Lazarus—please give him a pat and a hug from me. At one point, I thought I saw yellow flashes in the sky and heard exploding shells, but the disturbance must have come from a distant storm.

I haven’t heard from you. I assume it’s the post and not that you have lost affection for me! Perhaps