11. The Sculptured Head
That evening a few of Peg’s artist friends came in to talk shop, and Jean found her old-time favorite teacher, Pop Higgins, among them. He was about seventy, but erect and quick of step as any of the boys, with iron-gray hair, close-cut and curly, and keen brown eyes. He was really splendid looking, Jean thought.
“You know, Jeannie,” he began, slipping comfortably down a trifle in his chair, “you’re looking fine. I think your studies here have done something to you. How is it going?”
“It’s going beautifully, but much too fast. I’ll have to be going home soon, I’m afraid. There are only a few weeks left in the course.”
“That’s all right. Anything that tempers character while you’re young is good for the whole system. I was born out west in Kansas, when the West was still pretty wild. I used to ride cattle for my father when I was only about ten. And, Lord above, those nights on the plains taught my heart the song of life. I wouldn’t take back one single hour of them.”
“Did you paint then?”
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that made Mrs. Moffat smile at them. “Never touched a brush until after I was thirty. I loved color and could see it. I knew that shadows were purple or blue, and I used to squint one eye to get the tint of the earth after we’d plowed, dull rusty-red like old wounds, it was. First sketch I ever drew was one of my sister Polly. She stood on the edge of a gully hunting some stray turkeys. I’ve got the painting I made later from that sketch. It was exhibited, too, called Sundown.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Jean said. “The land is all in deep blues and hyacinth tones and the sky is amber and the queerest green, and her skirt is just a dash of red.”
“The red that shows under an oriole’s wing when he flies. She was seventeen then. About your age, isn’t it, Jeannie?”
He glanced at her sideways. Jean nodded.
“I thought so, although she looked younger.”
“I—I hope she didn’t die,” said Jean anxiously.
“Die? Bless your heart,” he laughed again. “She’s living up in Colebrook. Went back over the same route her mother had traveled, and married in the old home town. Pioneer people live to be pretty old.”
“It must have been wonderful,” Jean said. “Mother’s from the West too, only way out West, from California. Her brother has the big ranch there where she was born, but she never knew any hardships at all. Everything was comfortable and there was always plenty of money, she says, and it never seemed like the real West to us, when she’d tell of it.”
“Oh, but it is, the real West of the last sixty years, as it has grown up to success and prosperity. If I keep you here talking any longer to an old fellow like myself, the boys won’t be responsible for their actions. You’re a novelty, you know. Bruce is glaring at me.”
He rose leisurely and went over beside Mrs. Moffat’s chair, and Bruce Pearson hurried to take his place.
“I thought he’d keep you talking here all night. And you sat there drinking it all in as if you liked it.”
“I did,” said Jean flatly. “I loved it. I haven’t been here at all. I’ve been way out on a Kansas prairie.”
“Stuff,” said Bruce calmly. “Say, got any good dogs up at your place?”
“No. Kit wrote me she picked up a stray shepherd dog, but I haven’t seen him yet. Why?” Jean looked at him with sudden curiosity.
“Nothing, only you remember when you were moving from the Cove, Tommy sold me his Cocker pup?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“We’ve got some swell puppies. I was wondering whether you’d take one home to Tommy from me if I brought it in.”
“I’d love to. Tommy had his twelfth birthday the other day and I couldn’t think of anything to get him so I just sent a birthday telegram. The puppy will make a perfect belated gift,” said Jean, her face aglow. It was just like Bruce to think of that, and how Tommy would love it. “I think we’ll name him Bruce, if you don’t mind.”
Bruce didn’t mind in the least. In fact, he felt it would be a sign of remembrance, he said. And he would bring in the puppy as soon as Jean was ready to go home.
“But you needn’t hurry her,” Peg warned, coming to sit with them. “She hasn’t been here long, and I’m hoping if I can just stretch it along rather unconsciously, she’ll stay right through the term, the way she should.”
Jean felt almost guilty, as her own heart echoed the wish. How she would study, if only it could happen.
On the following Saturday afternoon, Jean left Beth to go browsing through the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She had little time left in New York, and wanted to revisit some of her favorites before she had to go back to Elmhurst.
Beth drove her up to the station and waved to her as she boarded the local. “Call me before you leave, and I’ll pick you up,” she called as the train started to move. Jean nodded, walked back into the car, and found a seat.
After settling herself comfortably, she opened her bag, and found a letter from Ralph that had been in the day’s mail. She had not had time to read it before she left. She opened it now and read.
Jeannie darling,
Your last letter sounded so enthusiastic about your work, that I know you must be having a marvelous time. It’s too bad you can’t stay there longer.
But who’s this Aldo guy that’s been squiring you thither and yon, all over New York? You needn’t be so nice to him just because he’s a friend of your cousin Beth’s. Too bad that I’m not there to look after things. You better not go falling for him with all his foreign airs and old-world charm. I know that type of smooth operator, for I saw a bunch of them when I served with the army overseas.
You’ll say I’m jealous. Well, what if I am? After all, I saw you first.
Write me, my darling, immediately and say these fears of mine are completely unfounded. I’ll be waiting anxiously for your sweet words of comfort and encouragement. If I don’t receive them, I’ll hop the next train and see for myself what the score is.
Buzzy and I are working hard as usual and life goes on in its unaltered and unalterable course. We will probably leave here in April, instead of waiting until June. I want to be in Elmhurst in the spring with you.
Dearest love,
Ralph.
Jean was greatly amused by his letter and laughed to herself over the “villainous character” who was taking her away from Ralph. Of course Aldo had been very nice to her, taking her to lunch and all that. But he was only a good friend.
She spent a pleasant afternoon wandering through the art galleries of the museum. She revisited many of her old favorites—paintings she had stood before many times when the family had lived on Long Island. Then she found a special exhibition of paintings by modern American artists.
Jean spent a long time looking at these. Some of the artists’ names were familiar to her, others were new. In one corner of the gallery she came upon the sculptured head of a woman. Her face looked old and the lines in it were the lines of extreme hardship and pain. The forehead was high, the nose long and sharp, but the mouth was quite different. It was smiling, “in spite of everything,” Jean thought to herself. Although everything else about the head characterized utter disillusionment, the mouth looked gay and carefree.
A step behind her made Jean turn suddenly and there stood Aldo.
“Like it?” he asked briefly.
“Why, yes—no—I don’t know.” Jean hesitated, confused. “It’s so strange. I can’t reconcile the mouth to the rest of the head—”
“I’ll tell you about her, then maybe you’ll understand. She is an old Italian woman. Her husband and three sons were killed in the first World War, but undaunted, she raised her youngest son alone, although she was very poor and it was hard. Her son married and had two sons of his own. He became a successful lawyer. Then the second war came. Her home was demolished, her son’s entire family was killed, and yet, in spite of everything she has been through, she manages to smile that way, the smile of a young girl. I think it’s the best thing my father ever did.”
“Your father? I didn’t know—I mean—I never looked at the nameplate.”
“Yes. You see, I brought it with me when I came. Then, when I heard they were having this exhibition here, I entered it in his name. I think he’ll be pleased when he hears. He never exhibited anything in this country.”
The two stood and gazed at the head awhile in silence. It was Aldo who spoke first. “Look, are you doing anything now, could we go somewhere and have supper?”
“I think I could. If you’ll wait until I call Beth, so she won’t worry.”
They went back to the small Italian restaurant where Aldo had taken Jean before. It was almost empty when they walked in for it was still quite early. After they had eaten, Aldo said suddenly, “I’m going back to Italy next week.”
“Oh, I’m sorry you’re going so soon,” replied Jean. “But we wouldn’t have seen much more of each other anyway, I’m going home too.”
“Perhaps we will meet again someday, in Italy. Then I will show you all the beautiful places I love that I have told you about.”
“Perhaps,” said Jean doubtfully. It seemed so far away, like having a star for a goal and she was bound to hit the fence post.