The Sculptress

with Emma within earshot.
However, Emma’s practice of drawing, at first relegated to the barn, allowed her to go inside herself, to lose track of time, to fill the vacant hours in her room with something that amounted to fulfillment. Drawing gave her pleasure. She stashed finished sketches under her bed where her mother would never condescend to look, leaving Matilda to find them and compliment her on her talent.
“You mustn’t tell Mother,” she told the housekeeper. “It will be a secret between us.” Matilda was more than willing to keep secrets as long as no one, most of all Emma, was harmed.
The dense clouds still hovered over them by the time they boarded the carriage shortly after one in the afternoon. Their legs covered by a wool blanket to stave off the damp, Emma and her mother sat in back while George took the reins in front. On the hour trip to the French home, they passed hills clothed in green, stony blue lakes, and tilled fields.
Emma grew more excited as they neared their destination, thinking that perhaps Matilda was right—meeting such a famous man might be an honor—and that the experience of a new artistic form awaited her. They arrived at the imposing stucco residence to find the sculptor waiting for them in the lane behind his home.
“I’ve never seen so many windows in a house,” Emma whispered to her mother. “It’s very grand.”
“Don’t be gauche,” her mother shot back. “You’ve seen plenty of magnificent homes in Boston. Remember your breeding.”
The horses whinnied to a stop and George jumped down from the carriage to shake Mr. French’s hand.
Emma studied the sculptor’s face as if she would sketch it. What struck her most about Daniel Chester French was his affability, a kindness she gathered from his countenance despite his preference to keep his lips distant from a smile, as if some spiritual level of artistic seriousness guided his consciousness. He was balding, with the hirsute remains of his youth covering only the sides of his head, along with a few wispy strands crossing his pate; a full, brushy mustache streaked with gray covered his upper lip to his nose; the eyes were cleanly set, dark and reflective; the ears large with pronounced lobes. He wore a gray jacket and pants and a high-collared white shirt fastened with a striped bow tie.
“Welcome to Chesterwood,” Emma heard the sculptor say above the chatter of introductions.
George opened the carriage door, releasing the footsteps, and assisted his wife from the vehicle. Emma followed, holding on to her hat, as she descended the steps.
“A pleasure to meet you at last,” her mother said as the sculptor extended his hand. “Thank you so much for your invitation to tea.”
“I’ve always been fond of Lewis Tea,” he said, “so when the occasion arose that we might meet, I had no hesitation.” He paused and pointed to a large building not far from the house. “My studio. We often entertain visitors there, on the porch; unfortunately, on days like today we must keep inside.... I’m sorry my wife won’t be able to join us, but I’m afraid the damp weather has brought on a summer head cold. She conveys her regrets.”
The luster in Helen’s eyes faded a bit at the news. “I was so looking forward to meeting her . . . perhaps another time.”
“Of course. I’m sure there will be other opportunities.”
He led them across the spacious yard and through the tall studio doors into a room that towered over Emma’s head. Never had she seen such grand space, such sculpture in abundance: plaster casts, bronze works, animals greater than life-size, cupids, marble busts, mythological figures, all on display before her eager eyes. An ecstatic excitement buzzed inside her; she wanted to shout. How wonderful it must be to bring the lifeless materials of bronze and marble to life, a kind of divine magic akin to birth!
The sculptor noticed the look of wonder in Emma’s gaze and leaned toward her. “After tea, I want you to do something for me.”
Helen’s eyes widened, while Emma’s heart beat fast in anticipation of the mysterious request from the great man.
He led them to a room at the north end of the studio. They sat in Chippendale chairs at a table near the marble fireplace and drank Lewis Tea and ate iced cake and vanilla cookies. The conversation veered from her father’s history with the company, to their purchase of the Lee homestead, to her mother’s activities as a wife and homemaker.
“I would like to do more for the church,” her mother told the sculptor.
Emma suppressed a smirk, for her mother had never once indicated a liking for the church members, their groups, or their activities. Helen was content to sit at home and think of things for George to do while complaining about the lack of conveniences since leaving the city, the paucity of cultural life, and the absence of any intelligent friends.
The sculptor appeared to pick up on the meaning beneath her mother’s words. “We often get wrapped up in our own lives.” He turned to Emma. “I hear you’re good with a pen, young lady. That was one of the reasons I invited your family here.”
Her mother flinched and her father stiffened in his chair.
“Wherever did you hear that?” Helen asked.
“News travels in the Berkshires like lightning on a stormy day,” he replied.
Emma knew there could be but one answer. Matilda.
George’s cheeks puffed out, his face blanching with the exposure of his secret encouragement.
“I’d like you to draw for me,” the sculptor said. “I urge young people to learn about art. I sometimes teach . . . and if you display talent, you might study with me.”
Her mother stopped in mid-sip and put her teacup down. “I’m sure Emma has no such interest, Mr. French, although it would be a great honor to study with you.”
“We should let the artist decide,” the sculptor said, his eyes alighting on Emma.
Her father nodded.
Helen tilted her head in defiance. “George, really