The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

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