In 1874 Helena and Richard were settling in their new marriage and in The Studio. Helena painted most afternoons here now. She had set up her home spot in the corner behind the hammock. Her father’s old captain’s trunk with the beckets on either end held her paint tubes and turpentine and linseed oil. A mason jar of brushes was close at hand. She was still sharing the studio she had with Maria Oakey, her classmate from Cooper Union and the National Academy of Design, but it was a luxury to putter here after hours. Richard never complained of the smell. Unlike her own mother. Janet De Kay had been very upset when Helena moved in with Maria (What would people think?) until Helena reminded her of her hatred of the smell of the turpentine.
Helena was ambitious and wanted several of her pieces picked for the next Annual National Academy of Design Exposition. This extra time and space was a godsend. As was Richard. He went off to his office at Scribner’s Monthly magazine every day like he was a banker. He was ambitious as well and wanted to eventually be the editor-in-chief. He was already writing a popular column each month, called “The Old Cabinet.” In the July issue he was telling the tale.
“We are within one door of the central square of the city; five minutes’ walk of the great dry-goods store; five minutes’ walk from some of the best and some of the worst restaurants in the world. I suppose I need not mention such minor conveniences as butchers, bakers and candle-stick makers…There is a cab stand over there by the monument, and the barber is actually next door. In fact, there is a gate leading from his flower garden to ours, which, in some respects, is the greatest convenience of all…
“Two people once lived in a loft,
Whose names were Confucius and Kitty,
And their friends with anxiety, oft,
Shook their head and exclaimed, ‘What a pity!’
And they asked them such questions as ‘Can
You keep dry in your loft when it showers?’
The reply to which constantly ran:
“The barber takes care of the flowers!’
“Then their friends became sad and perplexed
And declared it was really alarming;
But they smiled and they said, ‘Why, we’re next
To the moon and the stars, and it’s charming.
For although when the weather is hot
We pass a few tropical hours,
The toasting is quickly forgot,
While the barber takes care of the flowers!
“Though we breakfast on marmalade tea,
And dine on whatever is handy,
Keeping house is no trouble, for we
Can live nicely on lemons and candy,
Though we boast neither camel’s-hair shawls,
Nor coaches, nor turrets, not towers,
‘Neath our loft are five beautiful stalls,
And the barber takes care of the flowers!”[1]
Their neighbor, the barber, was a fanatical gardener and insisted they did not touch his rows of pots and flower boxes that trimmed their building and the fences. They felt this was a blessing. They had enough to do.
At the end of the day, they would stroll down to Union Square, with strawberries from a grocer and watch the lights go on from theater and hotel entrances and the druggists and bars. There was a happy fountain and the statue of George Washington on horseback with his hand out to them. There were regulars who would get upset if you took their bench spots. Richard told her how he pitied the two single young men hanging out together. She told him that they probably pitied him. He stole a kiss and her eyes darted about to see if anyone was shocked. He had veins on the back of his forearm that made an H. She traced that with a finger and put her head on his shoulder.
They began a diary on the next page of that journal Helena had found with the one entry about Minnie’s death.
The newlyweds rose early and took the train to Milton, which was north of the city on the Hudson River. Helena had been invited there every summer after meeting Molly at Cooper Union in New York City. Molly was what Helena called her. Her real name was Mary Hallock. They had both commuted every morning on the ferries, Molly from an Aunt in Long Island and Helena from the family house on Staten Island. Molly had been in “Black & White” (illustration), Helena in “Color (oils).” Mary and Helena were part of a close knit group of women that had studied art there. Cooper Union had been the only available place for them to go. Helena loved Molly’s Quaker family and had truly enjoyed her summers there. Helena’s view from the train car of the Hudson River was a happy way to watch a day go by. The mist was just beginning to rise off the water as they left. By lunch time, the sun glistened from the expanse and only an occasional pillow cloud drifted overhead.
They surprised everyone when they knocked on the door at four. Molly had invited them, but a date hadn’t been set. There were Molly’s wide eyes and her ever so sweet smile. Richard knew Molly from the city and had met her parents at their wedding, but hadn’t quite realized how large a family the Hallocks were. There were two grandmothers, several uncles and lots of cousins, all of which lived within a short carriage ride proximity. There were other guests as well. Emma Beach was one of the Cooper Union group that had come here as summer guests along with the other girls. She and her father had been on “The Quaker City” tour that Mark Twain portrayed in the “The Innocents Abroad.” Her button nose had been invited to be Twain’s chess partner for the trip and Twain had written her afterward in trying to remember the trip. Emma would joke that Twain had dropped her to marry someone else. She had thought him too old for her at the time. Richard remembered her from the city.
Helena and Emma and Richard were all brought in to be shown Molly’s woodblocks for the illustrations of Longfellow’s “The Hanging of the Crane” that was coming out this year. Tom Moran was doing the other half of the illustrations. Richard told her about how much more he admired her work. He had already hired her a few times to do illustrations for his magazine. Emma and Helena anxiously compared notes on what oils they had ready for the National Academy Show. The three women went off to do a little sketching before dinner. And Richard was walked around the farm by Molly’s father. It was quite a spread.
Then there was a very large noisy meal and extra chairs squeezed in so they could all sit together.
In the cool evening, Richard sat with Molly to show her his rough draft of his first book of poetry. She kept exclaiming “What a poet you are!” and then passed the page to Emma. They convinced him to read a couple out loud and he seemed a little sheepish when applauded.
At dark, Richard was invited to sleep over at Aunt Phoebe’s. He eyed Helena.
“To the garret for me,” she said. “Molly wants to gossip all night.”
As Emma had already gone off somewhere else, he knew it wasn’t quite a girls’ party.
“Are you jealous?” Helena asked.
“Horribly so.” But he smiled.
“I’ve made a horrible mistake,” Helena told her.
“Don’t be silly,” Molly said. She was frightened about where this might lead.
“I love you,” Helena told her.
Molly kissed her hand that she was already holding. They were side by side, propped up by pillows in Molly’s bed. They hadn’t changed into their nightgowns yet. Helena slid down so that her head was in Molly’s lap. She grasped her friend’s hands.
“What am I supposed to do? Tell me what I am to do,” she said.
“You have made your bed,” Molly said.
“You are not in it.”
“I will always be in it,” Molly said. “I’m surprised that he didn’t blow up.”
“He knows everything.”
“Why now?” Molly asked. “This isn’t the best time.”
“This is the final time. I know.”
“It’s going to be a big day tomorrow. Richard’s boss is coming to see us and eat and perform for us. Let’s not be sad,” Molly said.
They kissed and undressed. Helena caressed her through the fabric of her thin nightgown. The smooth skin and the curves of Molly’s body were hers to pursue, but the sadness was overwhelming. She made love to her as if it was the last time. Molly was her mother, her child, her sister. All lost. It wasn’t intense, it wasn’t special. They were being very quiet, so no one would hear. Molly covered Helena’s mouth so she wouldn’t gasp or moan. When it was Molly’s turn, her body shivered without a sound.
They fell asleep intertwined. That night Helena dreamed of her father. He was at the end of the bed, a black figure, motionless and silent. She called ‘Father?’ but got no response. In reaching out to him, she discovered it was really the silhouette of him that hung in her mother’s parlor. It was paper, not even a ghost. She awoke to the early dawn room. Molly was gone. She thought of getting up as well, but then turned over and buried herself in the light blanket.
Late in the morning, Molly returned. She sat on the edge of the bed.
“The breakfast is being put away to start the lunch making. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Richard is asking about you. He offered to bring you a tray.”
“Tell everyone I’m sick.”
“Dr. Holland and his wife will be here soon.”
“I’m ill.”
Molly stood.
“No one downstairs will understand this,” she told her. “They will never understand this. I can’t change anything here. I couldn’t share a studio with you in the city. I certainly cannot run off with you. You have a husband downstairs. My family trusts you and loves you.”
Helena teared up. Then wiped her eyes.
“Very well.”
When Helena finally came down all the women were busy in the kitchen. Richard was reading in the parlor. He stood and pecked her cheek and looked at her without a word. She patted his arm and went into join Molly and her mother and aunt. Dr. Holland and his wife were staying with relatives nearby and were expected for lunch. This was big doings for the Hallocks. Dr. Holland was a famous and popular writer at the time. He was Richard’s boss at Scribner’s and Molly’s mother wanted it all to be perfect for his credit. But it was also because they had never had such a well-known author sit down at their table. Aunt Sarah, who had taken charge of baking the bread, had read almost everything he had written. She was the family’s high society expert and planned to stay by his side for his visit.
Dr. Holland had hired Richard with strong reservations. He felt things were moving too quickly and Richard’s innovations were avant-garde. Richard was writing about his private life in his column and it seemed unbecoming. The business about the barber watering the flowers was too candid and a little too silly. But circulation kept rising, and the authors he was recruiting were quite good. This Helen Hunt, who had introduced Helena to Richard, was marvelous. He had suggested that they devote an entire issue to her, but Richard had balked. Dr. Holland had hoped to meet her at the Gilder wedding, but she was out west somewhere.
They arrived in a borrowed carriage. Dr. Holland seemed a bit exasperated by the horses that weren’t his, but he took a deep breath and helped his wife down. They both were smaller, slightly rounded and somewhat past middle age. It was a happy luncheon. Aunt Sarah had seated herself beside him and egged him on during the meal. His wife, Elizabeth, was next to Helena and as always exchanged pleasantries and didn’t talk after the initial greetings. Helena didn’t know why, but this was Richard’s boss’s wife so she let it be. The women soon convinced him that he could read to them after lunch from his newest project.
They all came out to the parlor after and he produced some manuscript pages and stood before them.
And he went on. Richard had never heard him read out loud before, and Richard wasn’t sure his attitude and resonating baritone was doing the poetry justice. He was aware that it was supposed to be a book length epic poem, and wasn’t expecting the quiet subtle images. Aunt Sarah giggled. And covered her mouth in shock at herself. Helena and Molly grew pink. Molly’s mother covered her mouth as well. It was a good thing Dr. Holland didn’t look up. He was engrossed in getting the text correct. His wife had been given the chair by the piano, so she wasn’t facing the audience. He went on and on. And it got worse.
Aunt Sarah finally rose and scurried out. With her gone, Molly’s mother could calm herself and listen politely with pursed lips. Helena, however, was soon beside herself. She followed Aunt Sarah out. Dr. Holland seemed worried now.
“Should I continue?” he asked Richard.
“By all means. I think Helena went after Aunt Sarah concerned that she might be ill. Your book is quite remarkable.”
Dr. Holland read on. He finally stopped at the end of the fragment and was genuinely pleased by the enthusiastic applause. Helena had returned in time to applaud from the doorway behind him.
“Bravo!” Richard told him.
Aunt Sarah brought out tea.
“You know,” Dr. Holland said. “I was really hoping Miss Mary (Molly) and Miss Helena might be willing to do some illustration for an old man’s poem.”
“Of course,” Molly said.
“And Richard, your friend Moran?”
“I’m sure he’d love to. Helena does marvelous flowers in her block work.”
“I understand Miss Mary (Molly) is getting top dollar these days.”
Scribner’s was the highest paying magazine for writers and artists in the country.
“For you, Dr. Holland, it’s double!” Molly said. “I’m teasing. You and your wife want to see the Longfellow blocks while you are here?”
They took a steamboat down the Hudson to get back home. It was very crowded and when Helena grew a little nauseous, they went out to the deck, fully realizing they might not recover their seats inside. The sunset turned the river into a swirling sea of orange.
“So you didn’t mind last night,” she asked.
“The ways of women…” He caught himself, turned to her, suddenly quite angry. “How could you?!” he demanded. Pressing a wadded up piece of paper into her hand, he turned and went back inside. She was dumbfounded. Following him inside, she found him sitting by himself with tears running down his cheek. He wouldn’t look at her.
She straightened out the paper to look at it. It was some verses that he must have written last night. “O God the arms wherein that maiden fell are not her lover’s! I her lover am I who sat here in the darkness calm and still for gladness-“
She went to him.
“It is to be the last time,” she said. “I only wanted to tell her farewell.”
She was crying as well.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
They sat together in silence for a long time. Both dried their tears.
Richard, slight of frame, and handsome in spite of the scraggly mustache, normally had an easy way with women. His father and mother had run a girls boarding school before the war. The older brothers were gone and it was just his sister Jenny and him in a sea of pretty young girls. He understood a lot about them actually. He had a bemused quite silly way of exaggeration in the way he spoke and wrote to women. It was as if he was a chivalrous comic knight, quite dashing but playing the fool all the same. He would bow extravagantly with imaginary plumed hat and fake pretend to kiss the damsel’s hand. And he loved most brilliant feminine minds he encountered. And this was in a time when most married men didn’t want to be bothered talking to a woman. It was required in courtship, of course, but afterward, one had to work and be occupied by the affairs of business. And a great number of the artist types he knew had a wife and children and a mistress. He understood Helena foremost.
“Richard, dear?”
“Hum?”
“Promise me you will never dye your mustache, no matter how old and vain you get.”
“Dr. Holland? I wondered.”
“Promise?”
“Of course. I expect you to keep me on course always.”
“And he’s not paying us for the illustrations I suppose.”
“You are the wisest of women.”
It was well after dark by the time they reached Manhattan and found a cab to take them home. They both were chilled by the cool night.
Molly had pecked her friend on the cheek when she and Richard left with Dr. Holland and his wife, to ride back with them to catch the steamboat. The Hollands were off to somewhere else. They were just dropping them off. Normally, she might have offered to take them herself, but it was all she could manage to maintain a calm demeanor as the afternoon drew to a close. Helena’s eyes looked as moist as hers. There was nothing that could be said. She waited until they were over the hill and then went back to help her mother and aunt clean up. Her Aunt couldn’t stop gushing about how silly Dr. Holland seemed. She wanted everyone to forgive her for running out with the giggles. After they finished, Molly walked down to the river landing to watch the sun set. It was here, a few short years ago, that she ran down frantically to meet Helena as the smaller boat was due to stop. She had thought Helena was coming to visit. Only later did she get the note from Helena saying she had to change their plans. Her mother wanted her to accompany her up to Albany. And she had missed the boat anyway. They might have waved.
Molly hadn’t meant any of what she had said that morning. But she had meant it as well. Every bit of it was true, though neither of them wanted it to be true. She had broached the idea of her establishing a studio in the city with her parents, but it was very clear that they couldn’t afford it and it just wasn’t proper. She wasn’t able to disagree with them. The aunt she had stayed with while she attended Cooper Union was moving. The studio which Helena shared with Maria Oakley was impossible. It would only be a few days before their friend Maria would realize their real relationship.
It was all true. It was all impossible.
Molly wanted to cry, but was so miserable, that it seemed a silly release that meant nothing. She knew she would break open sometime, soon, and probably suddenly, over something stupid. But now it was a boat departed, forever.
[1] Richard Gilder “The Letters of Richard Watson Gilder”