Authors: Belva Plain
“I heard from Sally Dodd. She was delighted with your dress. And now they've asked you to make some more, I hear.”
“Yes, but these are the last. Painting is my work. I need to get back to it.”
“You said you'd let me see it sometime, you remember?”
“Yes, of course. After lunch. I hope you're hungry.”
“I hope you didn't fuss.”
People who lived beyond themselves, who could never seem to do enough, read enough, hear or learn or see enough, always had things to talk about. And so once the customary opening remarks were over, their dialogue sped along. Hyacinth contributed from what she had stored up in the attic of her mind; it was old stuff, all of it, since of late she had not been garnering anything new. But of course Will did not know that. And from the lively interest in his eyes, she knew that he was enjoying himself.
After a while, though, she saw—with that famous sixth sense—that he was nervous, though perhaps
nervous
wasn't the right word. Tense, then? Ill at ease? No, certainly not that. He was as fluent as he had been at their two other meetings, yet not as casual, more
hurried
. Yes, that was it, more hurried, as if he wanted to finish the unimportant preliminaries and get to something else.
Over the homemade apple tart, he paused and almost apologetically inquired about the divorce. This might have been the subject he had been wanting to approach.
“Tell me. Are you getting near the end of your troubles?”
“The law moves like an iceberg, by inches.”
“More painfully, though. Not that I've had any personal experience. The closest I've come—since we're going to know each other, I might as well tell you—is a love
affair I had with a married woman. She was going through a divorce. It was awful for her, and maybe even more awful for her children. They were all still in their house, and fighting the whole time. I must make clear that I was not the cause of the divorce. The husband didn't even know about me. I say I was not the cause; what I meant was, not in any sense known to the law. But I was afraid that in the moral sense, the emotional sense, I might be partly to blame. And so I stepped out. And that, I can tell you, was painful.”
Why was he telling her all this?
“You see, I really knew that they should stay together. There were things I had been told, things I felt, that led me to believe they could work things out between them if they tried. I think people are far too casual about divorce, especially when there are children.”
He was waiting for Hyacinth to make a comment, but she was unable to make one.
“I'm not trying to present myself as a saint, Hyacinth. God forbid that I should be such a fool. I'm not a prig, or a prude, either. But I have certain feelings, and they led me down the right path that time because”—Will smiled—“they got together again. They've even had another child.”
Deeply moved, Hyacinth was hoping that her eyes would not fill as she replied, “I honor you for those feelings. But they do not apply in this case. We shall not get together again. Ever.”
Why had she spoken so firmly? It would be better for him to think otherwise, so he would never come back.
“That makes it easier for you, then, doesn't it? Especially since you have no children.”
Why did she sit there toying with the apple tart, for she had no appetite, and say nothing? In all honesty, she ought to speak out. But then he, or anybody, would naturally ask about them. For is it not very, very strange when, after two fairly long sessions of conversation, a woman makes no mention, not the veriest hint, of the fact that she has children?
It was her turn to say something. It must not be too obviously a change of subject—rather, an easy glide away.
“Yes, may it be over soon. But who knows? In the meantime, I concentrate on painting. I don't mean to sound important, but it's hard to find the right words without seeming to puff oneself up. The fact is that painting is the most important thing in my life. Does that sound too puffed up?”
“No, not at all. Don't you think that Zuckerman would say that about his violin? It's great that you're so enthusiastic. How about showing me something now?”
They started upstairs. Taking an idea from her old home, Hyacinth had lined the staircase with photographs, although so far there were only two, those of Jim and Francine. Will stopped to look at them. He missed nothing. Like me, he is curious, she thought.
“You're like your father,” he remarked. “He must have been a quiet man. Was he? Gentle and serious like you?”
At the top of the stairs, a strong light poured into the
hall, and under it his scrutiny caused her to fill a sudden uncomfortable pause with the first words that entered her head.
“I can't tell about myself, but yes, he was rather quiet. My mother is different. She's the family beauty, as you can see.”
“The family beauty, you say? The only one? No, not at all. If I had to be the judge, I would choose you. The face in the photo is certainly beautiful. It has perfect symmetry. But your face is interesting. Spirit shines through it. One wants to look again at splendid eyes, perhaps a bit too large for the face, and a beautiful mouth, a chin perhaps a bit too strong—but lovely together. Yes, one wants to look at you again.”
Pleased, surprised, and a trifle embarrassed at the unusual comments, she murmured her thanks and led him toward the paintings. Personal compliments might be embarrassing, but compliments to her work were eagerly and unashamedly awaited. So allowing art to speak for itself, she stood quietly while Will walked slowly around the room.
He paused before the portraits: her old favorites of Jim in a lounge chair and Francine in a white evening dress. He looked carefully at her last year's favorite of Moira's fat little son, in which she had cleverly arranged shadows so as to make him look thinner. He moved to the landscapes: a couple in a rowboat on a dark lake, and snow scenes in blizzard and sunshine. Slowly and carefully, he lingered before each, tilting his head or stepping back, the better to see. Here was no ordinary, polite
acquaintance who, having no interest in art, would say the right things to the artist. And as the minutes passed now, a thrill of expectation mounted in Hyacinth's chest.
Last was one of her best, the still life of carrots and marigolds tossed in a gardener's basket. The oranges and yellows, some blending and some clashing, resembled Matisse's way with colors, she liked to think. A kind of daring was in it. You thought, when you put them all together, that it wouldn't work, but it did.
“At one of the charity art shows in town, a benefit,” she said, concealing her pride, “somebody wanted to buy that one, but I wouldn't part with it.”
“Have you sold many?”
“Well, maybe a dozen.” Mentally she added up her sales. Arnie had bought two. “Mostly to people I know. I haven't had any real exposure yet,” she explained and continued, “but I intend to get some. It's all I want to do with my life.”
When he said nothing, she was surprised. He had turned back to the carrots and marigolds and—how strange it was!—she thought he looked sad.
After a moment, he asked a question. “Do you go to art museums very often? I know you mentioned that you used to work in one.”
“Not just at present, but I've surely been in enough of them, the best of them. It's what I dream about. Walking into a museum someday in the future and finding something that I've done hanging on the wall.”
“In the Metropolitan or the Louvre?”
Hyacinth stared at him. Was he being serious? “Well
no, not exactly. How many people ever can expect that? You have to be a genius.”
“Well then, where do you see your work?”
“I hope to see it in a gallery, where people who know good art go to buy good art. On Madison Avenue in New York, for instance, or on the Left Bank in Paris.”
“That's a tall order,” Will said with a dubious shake of the head.
“What are you telling me? That you don't think I can do it?”
“Well, I only mean that—oh, in any field it's some-times—it's not wise to aim too high.” Hesitating, he repeated, “Too high,” and he smiled.
Something was wrong. Suddenly she realized that he had not shown any admiration, hadn't spoken any praise, during his slow walk around this room. Such a thing had never happened to her before.
And she decided to be forthright. “You don't like any of the pictures. Tell the truth. I won't mind.”
He looked doubtful for a moment before answering only that he was hardly an art critic, but merely a lover of art who had done a good deal of reading—still far from an expert—
The evasion was both irritating and troubling. She had sensed enough about him to be sure of his honesty, and now she demanded it.
“Please Will, the truth, I know you're hiding it from me.”
“All right. I don't think you'll like it, but I'll say it because I like you very much, Hyacinth. So here it is:
whether it's money you want, or honors, or both, this work won't get either one for you.”
She was stunned.
“You've wanted this badly, and you've deluded yourself, or other people have deluded you. Everything you have here is imitative.”
How dared he! Boldly, he stood there, sure of his judgment. Cruel and merciless were his words.
“Plenty of accepted art is imitative, that's true; goodness knows, there must be thousands of brand-new Impressionists floating around. But even they have the ‘something’ that's hard to define, but that you recognize when you see it. It's the difference between someone who plays a Mozart nocturne recognizably, and the concert performer who plays it.”
She was devastated. If she could conceivably have ordered him out of the house, she would have done so.
He continued. “You have everything here from Norman Rockwell's barefoot farm boys to Turner's pale sunsets over London. You have great skill. But that's not enough. You—” And then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he broke off. “Oh, I'm sorry, Hyacinth! I don't mean to hurt you. Only to help you. In the short time I've known you, I've seen that your life is troubled, more troubled than you want to admit. So I don't want you to waste your hopes and your energy getting nowhere. I wouldn't speak this way if I didn't understand how much the work in this room—it must be several years of effort—means to you. Today is our third meeting, and on each of them you have talked so passionately about art, and that's why I'm telling you
this so passionately. I would never, never hurt you, Hyacinth.”
“So what is it all good for?” she demanded. “Shall I simply stuff it into the trash can, or shall I burn it up? What are you telling me to do?”
“Keep it for the children and grandchildren you'll have. Keep it as a hobby. Or you can probably sell this kind of thing to a department store that has an art section. There are plenty of people who buy pictures to go with the furniture.”
Bitter, shamed, and furious with Will, even though it was she who had pressed for an opinion, she could not help thinking of Arnie and what he had so generously paid her for some pictures to match his upholstery. He, at least, had a heart….
Will really needn't have rubbed it in like this, as if he actually enjoyed being harsh. Yes, she was furious.
When he moved to touch her arm, she drew away. And then it was he who drew away, walked to the end of the room and back, threw up his arms, and lamented.
“I should be taken out and shot. Look what I've done to you! That's what comes of speaking your mind or spilling everything out without taking thought of results. When am I ever going to learn? I'll say it again, I meant well. You know I did, Hyacinth. In your heart you must know. Why would I want to make you as miserable as you are now? Why? Listen to me. If you want a career, and I don't even know whether you will want to after the divorce, you've got one at your fingertips, literally at your fingertips. Look how they've gone crazy over that dress! You need to go—”
“That was a copy, too,” she said scornfully.
“With clothing it doesn't matter. They're all copies. Copies of copies. Saris, or lace fichus from the eighteenth century,” Will answered with equal scorn. “What you need is design school. Learn how to cut and fit. The color sense you've got, that's plain.”
“Easy as that? Maybe I should take up ballet dancing instead.”
Will gave her a rueful smile. “Okay. You're entitled to some sarcasm. But when you take time to think it over, I hope you'll forgive my rough tongue.”
She said suddenly, “It's all very well to talk about design school. Even if I wanted to do it, and I don't, it's too late.”
“Of course it isn't. If you were sixty years old, it wouldn't be too late. Nothing's ever too late.”
“Let's go down,” Hyacinth said, moving toward the stairs.
From behind her came Will's question as he followed: “Who taught you to sew?”
“My grandmother.”
“She taught you well. Sally Dodd says you have golden hands.”
“Funny. My grandmother said that, too.”
“Well, they're both right.”
In the downstairs hall, Will hesitated as though he were waiting to be asked into the living room.
People do not usually have lunch at somebody's house and depart fifteen minutes after they have eaten. Hyacinth knew very well what he expected. But he was not going to get it.
“Very nice having you,” she said correctly, and turned toward the front door.
“Hyacinth, I know you're furious. I understand it. But listen to me once more. I want to see you doing something with your life. Learn fashion design. Do it now.”
“No, you listen to me. The dress was a freak success. It means nothing. It's worthless. I have no ideas.”
“You'll have ideas, just as you did with art. You already know how to sketch. Put into cloth what you did on canvas, and I predict you'll make a new life.”
“A new life,” she repeated, not caring to hide her bitterness.
“Yes. You haven't said much about your troubles, but it's plain that something has hurt you very deeply.” Will looked about. “This house—to be in it alone must be like inhabiting a tomb. You need to leave it behind and make a new start.”
She was unable to answer him. He had taken her only support away, had robbed her of purpose and confidence, of the very little she had left of either.