The Shadow Portrait (21 page)

“Oh, he’s not here, and you need to hear some of the new music.” She took one of the disks from Cara, then moved over and put it on the Victrola. “Now listen to this,” she said after winding it up and carefully placing the needle on the disk.

A tinny voice filled the room with rollicking song.

“What kind of a song is that?” Cara asked, staring open-eyed at the large flared horn perched on top of the music box.

“Oh, it’s the biggest song on the market. That’s what they sing at all the baseball games now. It’s become kind of a theme song. But listen to this one.” Mary Ann removed the disk and, moving quickly, replaced it with another. This time it was a man’s rather fruity voice as he crooned,

Mary Ann played the song twice more, each time moving around the room in an imitation dance, holding her arms as if she were embracing a man.

Cara laughed outright as Mary Ann spun around the room. “You’re crazy,” she said, “and that song is absolutely silly.”

“It’s not silly at all!” Mary Ann pouted. She stopped and removed the disk, saying, “It’s sad. Here’s this man who’s had a sweetheart once, and now for some reason she’s gone, or he’s gone, and he’s thinking about her. He’s wondering if anybody’s kissing her.”

“Is that all you’ve got to think about, kissing and hugging?”

“Well, don’t you ever think about things like that, Cara?” Mary Ann asked quickly, then her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

Cara put the sketchbook down and folded her hands. The thoughtless question by Mary Ann had touched something in her. She sat there quietly staring at her hands, and Mary
Ann came over and sat down beside her, putting her arm around her.

“I’m sorry, Cara. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right, Mary Ann. Most women do think of things like that, I believe. I should’ve given it up years ago, thinking about kissing and men.”

“Then you do think about them!”

“Yes, who could help that? But it can never come to anything. I’ll never get out of this room. I’ll die on this bed, I suppose.”

Mary Ann flinched at the bitterness in Cara’s voice. Her older sister had always been to her such a tower of strength. She never complained and always managed to put the best face on things despite all the disappointments she had faced because of her illness. Mary Ann saw an emptiness in Cara’s eyes that shocked her deeply. “You mustn’t think that, Cara. God can do wonders. I know it’s hard for you, and it’s been such a long time. But we mustn’t give up. We must keep on praying.”

Cara’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and she dashed them away, saying, “There, you see, you’ve got me crying. Now I’ll have to drink some of that awful ale that Father insists on. Every time I feel sorry for myself and think of people more fortunate, I think of people who don’t have to drink that ale.”

“Why don’t you just pour it out and let Father think you drink that awful stuff?”

“I couldn’t do that.”

Mary Ann said defiantly, “
I
could!” Her eyes grew bright, and she added, “I’m not going to stay here always, Cara. I’m going to get out of this place. I’m going to marry George, and I’m going to Africa with him, and we’re going to serve God there on the mission field.”

Cara sat there listening, and compassion for her younger sister filled her heart. She knew the life and the longing for something different that existed in Mary Ann. She was happy that it had turned toward serving God instead of to the world,
but at the same time she knew how unlikely it would be that Mary Ann would ever marry George Camrose.

“I want you to do something for me, Cara,” Mary Ann said abruptly. Plumping herself down on the bed, she reached out and took Cara’s hands, squeezing them firmly. “I want you to ask Father to let me go to George’s church instead of our church.”

“Why, he’ll never agree to that!”

“He will if you ask him. He loves you better than anybody else. Sometimes I think you’re the only one he does love.”

“What an awful thing to say!”

“I know it, and I didn’t mean it quite that way. But he’s got a special feeling for you.”

“I know. Sometimes I wish he didn’t,” Cara said wearily. “It won’t do any good for me to ask him. He’s got his mind made up, and you know how stubborn he is.”

“But will you try?” Mary Ann pleaded. “Just ask him.”

“All right, I’ll try, but don’t get your hopes up.”

It was impossible for Mary Ann to be depressed. She had a hopeful spirit, and there was an effervescent quality to her that pleased everyone except, perhaps, her father. He thought it was silliness and did not hesitate to say so. Now, however, she got up and said, “Now, we’re going to play some more. This one is fun. It’s called, ‘The Glow Worm.’ ”

“ ‘The Glow Worm?’ What an awful title!”

“The salesman told me that it comes from the Germans and everybody’s singing it. It goes, ‘Glow little glow worm, glimmer, glimmer. . . .’ ”

Oliver Lanier entered Cara’s room, walked across the floor, and stood towering over her. “How do you feel today, my dear?”

“Very well, Father. And you?”

“Oh, I’m all right.” Pulling a chair up, he sat down and
leaned forward. “What have you been doing with yourself all day? Any new paintings?”

“No, I haven’t done anything lately.”

A frown creased Lanier’s forehead. “You haven’t painted for several weeks now. What seems to be the trouble?”

Cara wanted to tell him that it was not her health, but her new dissatisfaction with the things that she had always done that troubled her. She had not been able to paint flowers again, for Phil Winslow’s admonition,
You have to paint life, Cara—life is more than flowers,
had been ringing in her mind ever since he spoke it. She had defended herself, sometimes almost speaking out loud.
How can I paint life? The only life I have is here in this room that I’m so sick of. You can go out into the streets, and in the fields, and see what life is like. But I’m a prisoner here in this room!
She did not say this aloud, of course, for her father would never understand. “I am just, perhaps, waiting for a good idea for a really good painting.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well. I’m very proud of you, Cara. I wish the rest of your brothers and sisters had the dedication that you have.”

Cara wanted to defend her family, but she knew that it would be useless. She started to speak when her father suddenly pulled a newspaper out of his inner pocket and said, “I wanted to read this to you.” Pulling a pair of spectacles out, he settled them on his nose firmly, then began to read. There was a triumph in his voice, an obvious pleasure about the article he was reading.

“
Whoever calls this art?
That’s the name of the article,” he said. “It was published in the newspaper last Sunday. I don’t suppose you read it?”

“No. I didn’t see it, Father.”

“Well, you’ve been so taken with this new style of painting that I wanted to let you know what the world thinks about it.” He straightened his back and began reading more loudly than necessary. “ ‘The new group of painters that have emerged from the New York scene has been aptly named. They are
called the Ashcan School. Indeed, it would be difficult to find a better title, for the product of all of these men comes from the ashcan school of mind and deserves to be, literally, in the ashcan of the streets.

“ ‘Led by Robert Henri, the small group of supposed artists have been spawning pictures that are at the same time vulgar, ineffective, and poorly done. They not only are badly executed, but they certainly have the wrong subject matter. George Luks’ latest atrocity is a representation of two men, sweaty, muscles straining, and obviously not a fit painting to be hung in a decent and respectable home. Who would want a portrait of two thugs adorning their living room or parlor? Another one of the group, John Sloan, has for his masterpiece a painting of McSorley’s Old Ale House over on East Seventh Street. It is a typical saloon with a fixed house rule against women. The picture delineates men getting drunk at a bar and a barkeep in a striped shirt feeding a herd of mangy alley cats. The alley cats, in some ways, have more dignity than the drunks lining the bar.’ ”

Looking up at Cara, Lanier squinted. “What do you think of that? It goes on. I’ll leave it with you. I want you to read it carefully.”

“It’s very . . . interesting. Have you seen any of the pictures?”

“Certainly not, and I don’t intend to! You have the right idea, Cara. There’s beauty in this world, and it’s the artist’s duty to portray it. Art is supposed to uplift. How can anyone be uplifted by a picture of a group of drunks at a Lower East Side bar?”

Cara had long ago learned that trying to argue with her father was like arguing with the Rock of Gibraltar. To her knowledge he had never changed in the least, and now she was certain he would not. “I’ll read it,” she said. “Thank you for bringing it.”

“That’s not all. There’s a final note. I’ve marked it.”

Cara looked at the article and saw a small paragraph with
a circle heavily bordering it. She read aloud, “ ‘Another one of the Ashcan School is a young man named Phil Winslow. Winslow has real talent, but he is throwing it to the winds by painting slums, scenes of degradation that would be better left in the dark. Wake up, Winslow! The world has no place for the kind of filth that you are putting on canvas.’ ”

Cara’s throat closed, and she looked up to see her father smiling at her triumphantly. “There,” he said. “That settles that!”

It did not settle it in Cara’s mind, but she determined to change the subject.

“Father, I want to talk to you about Mary Ann.”

“Mary Ann? What about her?”

“She very much wants to attend George Camrose’s church. I wish you’d give her permission.”

“I certainly will not!”

“But why not, Father? He’s a most admirable young man. You said so yourself when you first met him.”

“I may have said that, but that was before this nonsense about going off to Africa.”

“You think taking the gospel to those who don’t have it is nonsense? Father, you can’t mean that!”

“Well, perhaps not,” Lanier said. He unwittingly had backed himself into a corner, for he was not against foreign missions. He had, in fact, given large sums of money, but his own family had not been involved then. “George Camrose has a bright future here. I took pains to talk to some of the leaders in the denomination. They all speak highly of him. With help from some of us who have influence, he could get a fine church right here in New York. Why, he had an offer from Faith Church before he went to that small church—if you can call it that—where he is now.”

“He felt the people there needed him more, Father.”

“He has talent, and God expects every man to use his talent to the utmost. He could be ministering to hundreds of people, maybe even thousands. It’s not unlikely. He has the
appearance, he has the delivery, and he’s sound theologically. Yes, he is a likable young man. I’ve told Mary Ann all of this. As a matter of fact,” Lanier said, “I’ve told Camrose himself.”

“You told him this?” Cara gasped in shock. “What did he say?”

“He simply said that God had called him to preach the gospel in Africa, and he has not been willing to listen to my more promising proposals.” Oliver was not accustomed to being put aside so easily, but after two futile attempts to get Camrose to change his views, he had washed his hands of the affair. Now he shrugged, saying brusquely, “Well, he’s not open to sensible suggestions. I’ve told Mary Ann he’s not suitable for her.”

“But she loves him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. She doesn’t know anything about love. She certainly doesn’t know anything about living in a dirty hut in Africa. Why, she wouldn’t even last a year, Cara! Do you know how many missionaries die on their first missionary trip?”

Cara sat quietly listening as her father went on. She knew it was hopeless to try to dissuade him, and now she had no more to say.

“Now, we’ll hear no more about Camrose or about this fellow Winslow. I’ll go get your ale for you.”

“Father, I believe I’m doing very well without it.”

“Now, Cara, let’s not have this argument every time. Your improvement is partly because of the ale. I’m certain of it! So be a good girl.”

After Lanier had brought Cara’s ale and had watched with satisfaction as she drank it down, he kissed her good night and went to his bedroom. He found his wife prepared for bed, brushing her hair out. Alice Lanier had smooth brown hair without a trace of gray at the age of fifty. She was still a very pretty woman and Lanier stopped long enough to put his hands on her shoulders, then he lifted his hand and ran it
down her hair. “I always loved your hair,” he said. “The first time I saw you, I think it was all I saw. It is still beautiful.”