The Sculptress V.S. Alexander (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📖

way the equivalent of our Savior’s baptizer,” John said, glaring at her.

Emma smiled. “One doesn’t need to attend church to discern that.”

John inhaled and puffed smoke at Emma. “I can see we’re going to get along famously. How serious are you about this work, Mrs. Swan?”

“Deadly.”

He stared at her for a moment, inhaled again, and stiffened his back against the chair. His demeanor shifted from irritation to solemnity as a sudden flatness, as if he was deflated by the topic, spread across his round face. “You will see enough of death, Mrs. Swan, I can guarantee you. Death is easy enough to handle—it ends in cremation or in the ground as rot. It’s your commitment to life I question. Can you deal with life?”

“Of course,” Emma said, and her response struck her as absurd. Everyone must deal with life and death. What an idiotic question from a doctor. Irritated, Emma looked past him to a bookcase crammed with medical volumes and bric-a-brac. A young girl, dark hair curling down from the crown of her head to her temples, stared at her from a photograph, an angelic sweetness infusing her face. All children had that sweetness until they grew older and then were tainted, shunned, or spoiled by life. She shifted her gaze away from the child but just as quickly remembered the boy in Saint-Nazaire whose father had been killed.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Swan?”

“Who is the girl in the photograph?” Emma asked, trying to disguise her discomfort.

“My niece. Why?”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Yes.” John smiled and then puffed on his cigarette. “I understand your difficulties more than you think. Your husband informed me of your critical reception in Boston—your problem with faces. I know that’s one of the reasons you’re here—to study, to learn.”

Emma nodded. “I would be lying if I told you ‘no.’”

“Mrs. Swan, your life in Paris will be very different from your life in Boston. There will be no mucking about with Parisian society. No dainty hours playing with clay or counting the spots on your smock. No gay parties, expensive cigarettes, or champagne.”

“I don’t smoke and I’m hardly used to—”

“Work, work, and more work. Toil from dawn to the wee hours, until you want to crumble to your knees. Life for these men holds a completely different meaning from the existence you’re accustomed to. You must stomach the most pathetic of stories, the most grotesque of faces.” He rose from his chair, rummaged in the bookcase behind his desk, took out a black leather-bound volume, and placed it on the desk in front of her. “Go ahead,” he said sullenly. “Open it.”

Emma knew he was judging her expressions, her ability to be strong.

“Go ahead.” He glowered at her, scratched the bald pate running down the center of his scalp, and then stuffed his cigarette into a crystal ashtray brimming with butts. “This is our work.”

She opened the book and leafed through the pages, each filled with photographs of facially mutilated men. Had she not been prepared, in her own way, she might have been shocked by the pictures. The faces were disturbing: many without noses; some with huge gashes that had torn away cheeks and pieces of the skull; eyes blinded and clouded by the devastation of war; mouths reduced to thin slits or gaping holes; jaws crushed, broken, or grossly distended by grotesque wounds. Each photograph was followed by another showing the repairs the doctor had performed—in many cases the transformation was miraculous, in others the deformities showed through despite the best medical efforts.

“This is our work,” he repeated. “It’s our job to give these men back their lives, their self-respect, and their dignity.”

Emma closed the book. “If you’ll allow me to speak, Mr. Harvey?”

He nodded.

“I’m not the delicate flower you may have presumed. Perhaps my husband has painted the wrong picture of his wife . . . but that I cannot imagine.” John raised his hand to protest, but Emma continued, “I am as dedicated to my art as my husband is to his surgery and saving lives. I have fought for my right to create my own life, free from bad memories, the constraints of critics and certain men for longer than I care to remember; and, my husband, gentleman that he is, has supported me in that endeavor. Still, my life has hardly been an endless round of parties or a vacuous holiday with silly women concerned only with the latest styles of clothes and hair. I have fought for my work, dodging barbs and prejudice along the way, and I will continue to do so regardless of our outcome here.

“However, to say my work in France, and for the war effort, is entirely altruistic would be false. I abhor this war, all who started it, and all that it stands for. But, I’m here to learn and I hope our work will make me a better sculptress—one who earns the admiration of critics and my fellow men alike.”

“All noble sentiments . . . but we shall see, Mrs. Swan. The task is enormous.” He picked up the book, returned it to the case. “Would you care for a drink? I do have a nice brandy knocking about somewhere.” He offered his hand.

Emma shook it and nodded. “I could do with something to eat as well.”

“I can find my way around a kitchen as competently as Virginia.” John smiled and motioned to the door. “I’ll show you to your room. Mrs. Clement, the housekeeper, is not here until tomorrow morning. You are staying the night, of course, and you are welcome to stay as long as you wish, or until you find your own quarters.”

Emma was surprised, but she rose from her chair and lifted her bag. “I’m grateful for your hospitality, John.”

They were about to leave the office when they were interrupted by a vigorous knock, which reverberated through the downstairs hallway.

“Damn,” he said, “I don’t know what I pay that confounded woman for—retired at this hour, while I’m still working. Excuse me,