him.
“They are not essays in the strictest sense, to be sure,” says John Haskell. “They are profiles only. But I like to think the details of a life form a mosaic that in turn informs the reader about something larger than the life. I have drawings as well of these workers, which I commissioned and which I should have liked to have included in my book, but my publisher persuaded me that pictures would detract from the seriousness of my work, and so I did not — a decision I regret, by the way.”
“I regret it as well,” Olympia says. “I, for one, would very much like to see drawings of the people you have written of.”
“Then I shall oblige you, Miss Biddeford,” he says.
And Olympia can see, in the quick turn of her mother’s head, that she has perhaps been too bold with her request.
“But does that not destroy the very purpose of the written portrait?” Philbrick asks. “How can one’s words ever equal the accuracy of a picture?”
“Surely there remains a great deal that cannot be caught in a likeness,” John Haskell says. “Historical facts, for example, or the joy of a marriage. The anguish resulting from the death of a child. Or simply a broken spirit.”
“But I for one have always thought that a life can be read on a face,” says Philbrick. “It is how I do my business, by what I see in a face. Loyalty. Honesty. Cunning. Weakness.”
“Well, then, we are in luck,” says Catherine Haskell brightly. “For my husband has brought his camera with him. Perhaps we may persuade him to make photographs of each of us tomorrow. After which we can decide for ourselves whether character may be read in the face.”
“Oh, surely not!” exclaims Olympia’s mother, mistaking the gentle teasing of her guest for a summons. “I shall never have a photograph made of myself. Never!”
This note of alarm, as inappropriate to the evening as any note sounded, yet as significant to the summer as if a pianist had inadvertently fingered the wrong keys and had produced a measure of heartbreakingly beautiful music, vibrates through the room and then slowly dies away.
“My dear,” says her husband, reaching across to touch, and then to still, his wife’s trembling hand in a gesture Olympia will always think of as one of infinite grace, “I should never permit anyone to photograph your beauty, for I should be insanely jealous both of the photographer and of anyone who dared to look at the finished product.”
And whether it is the faint reminder of danger or the humbling recognition of the generosity of married love, each of the guests is rendered silent as Lisette brings to the table the Sunderland pudding, which she begins to spoon and serve.
• • •
The notes of Chopin’s “Fantaisie-Impromptu” float through the tiny squares of the wire screens and onto the porch, where the men sit with cigars and large delicate bubbles of brandy. Olympia’s mother has, as expected, excused herself, and her father has returned from seeing her to her bedroom. Catherine Haskell plays with an accomplished, even plaintive, touch that is, Olympia thinks, to be much admired. Moths flutter about the lanterns, and she sits away from their light as well as from the men. Since there are no women on the porch, she cannot join the men, but neither can she bear to be kept inside on such a fine evening.
The moon makes long cones upon the sea, which has settled with the darkness and resembles, as it approaches high tide, a magnificent lake. The continuous susurrus of the surf is soothing in and about the conversation and the piano’s notes. Olympia cannot hear what the men are saying, but the sound of their voices is instantly recognizable: the assured and gracious, if sometimes pedantic, pronouncements of her father; the short staccato bursts of enthusiasm and advice from Rufus Philbrick; the somewhat breathy and all too deferential note of Zachariah Cote; and, finally, the low, steady sentences of John Haskell, his
“They are not essays in the strictest sense, to be sure,” says John Haskell. “They are profiles only. But I like to think the details of a life form a mosaic that in turn informs the reader about something larger than the life. I have drawings as well of these workers, which I commissioned and which I should have liked to have included in my book, but my publisher persuaded me that pictures would detract from the seriousness of my work, and so I did not — a decision I regret, by the way.”
“I regret it as well,” Olympia says. “I, for one, would very much like to see drawings of the people you have written of.”
“Then I shall oblige you, Miss Biddeford,” he says.
And Olympia can see, in the quick turn of her mother’s head, that she has perhaps been too bold with her request.
“But does that not destroy the very purpose of the written portrait?” Philbrick asks. “How can one’s words ever equal the accuracy of a picture?”
“Surely there remains a great deal that cannot be caught in a likeness,” John Haskell says. “Historical facts, for example, or the joy of a marriage. The anguish resulting from the death of a child. Or simply a broken spirit.”
“But I for one have always thought that a life can be read on a face,” says Philbrick. “It is how I do my business, by what I see in a face. Loyalty. Honesty. Cunning. Weakness.”
“Well, then, we are in luck,” says Catherine Haskell brightly. “For my husband has brought his camera with him. Perhaps we may persuade him to make photographs of each of us tomorrow. After which we can decide for ourselves whether character may be read in the face.”
“Oh, surely not!” exclaims Olympia’s mother, mistaking the gentle teasing of her guest for a summons. “I shall never have a photograph made of myself. Never!”
This note of alarm, as inappropriate to the evening as any note sounded, yet as significant to the summer as if a pianist had inadvertently fingered the wrong keys and had produced a measure of heartbreakingly beautiful music, vibrates through the room and then slowly dies away.
“My dear,” says her husband, reaching across to touch, and then to still, his wife’s trembling hand in a gesture Olympia will always think of as one of infinite grace, “I should never permit anyone to photograph your beauty, for I should be insanely jealous both of the photographer and of anyone who dared to look at the finished product.”
And whether it is the faint reminder of danger or the humbling recognition of the generosity of married love, each of the guests is rendered silent as Lisette brings to the table the Sunderland pudding, which she begins to spoon and serve.
• • •
The notes of Chopin’s “Fantaisie-Impromptu” float through the tiny squares of the wire screens and onto the porch, where the men sit with cigars and large delicate bubbles of brandy. Olympia’s mother has, as expected, excused herself, and her father has returned from seeing her to her bedroom. Catherine Haskell plays with an accomplished, even plaintive, touch that is, Olympia thinks, to be much admired. Moths flutter about the lanterns, and she sits away from their light as well as from the men. Since there are no women on the porch, she cannot join the men, but neither can she bear to be kept inside on such a fine evening.
The moon makes long cones upon the sea, which has settled with the darkness and resembles, as it approaches high tide, a magnificent lake. The continuous susurrus of the surf is soothing in and about the conversation and the piano’s notes. Olympia cannot hear what the men are saying, but the sound of their voices is instantly recognizable: the assured and gracious, if sometimes pedantic, pronouncements of her father; the short staccato bursts of enthusiasm and advice from Rufus Philbrick; the somewhat breathy and all too deferential note of Zachariah Cote; and, finally, the low, steady sentences of John Haskell, his
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