You remember my friend Letitia Blackstone? Her daughter Imogen married a young engineer who is now designing a bridge across the Mississippi River. Letitia wanted to visit her daughter who has just had a baby, but was reluctant to travel alone to such wild and barbaric parts. So she asked me if I would accompany her if she paid my way. Of course I agreed. What an adventure at my time of life to see a little more of our beautiful country before I die. And Letitia insists on doing everything first class so I don’t expect it will be too uncomfortable or dangerous. It will also be a perfect opportunity for young Bridie. I’m taking her along as my companion as she’s been worried recently about her papa and this will take her mind off things.
I stopped reading and stared out across the square. Poor little Bridie, whose father and brother had gone down to Panama to work on the building of the canal. None of the news that came from that hellhole had been good. Men had been dropping like flies, so it was said, from yellow fever and terrible working conditions. And there had been no news from Bridie’s father for months so we had to assume the worst.
I read on. Martha the maid was to visit her ailing mother. The house was to be shut up and Mrs. Sullivan didn’t know how long they would be away. She sent her warmest regards and a fond kiss to her grandchild. I folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Well, that would be a surprise for Daniel. His mother was not the kind one would expect to make rash, last-minute decisions to go out into the wild west.
I glanced across at Liam and saw that he had fallen asleep. I adjusted his pillows, covered him properly and then turned to my other letter. It was as I expected, full of exciting tidbits of news of life in Paris. Sid wrote:
Willie has obtained an introduction for Gus to none other than Reynold Bryce. You know who he is, don’t you, Molly? He made a name for himself as part of the Boston School back in the eighties—particularly with his paintings of the young girl he called Angela. Then at the height of his fame he took off for Paris and has remained here, becoming one of the leading lights among Impressionist painters. Anyway, he is THE patron and lodestone for American artists in Paris. His salon is where one needs to be seen. He holds an exhibition every spring and if he includes your work, you are IN! Gus is hoping he’ll include her, naturally. She’s been painting some really interesting canvasses recently, although I think she may be a little avant-garde for traditionalists like Reynold Bryce. Gus says she’s not sure whether she’s a Fauvist, a Cubist, or simply a modernist, but she’s thrilled to be among artists who dare to paint with her boldness. We met a rather dashing young Spaniard in a bar. His name is Pablo Picasso and he said that Gus’s work shows promise. I’m not sure I can say the same about his daubings—most odd.
Speaking of young painters, we have just made an astounding discovery. Remember it was Gus’s cousin who lured us to Paris in the first place. Well, it turns out that I have a relative here as well—a distant cousin. When we were about to leave for Paris my mother told me that we had family members who had settled there when the family left the turmoils in Eastern Europe. My grandfather came to America and my great-uncle’s family went to Paris. Mama had no current address for them but their last name would have been Goldfarb like ours. I asked at several synagogues but to no avail—in fact the Parisian Jews did not exactly extend the welcome mat. Well, I admit that I do not look like the good traditional Jewish woman, nor do I practice my religion, but it turned out that the cause of their caution had more to do with the current wave of anti-Semitism that has swept this city, culminating in the dreadful treatment of Captain Dreyfus—falsely imprisoned and shipped to Devil’s Island mainly because of his race.
Having heard this, we’re not sure how long we’ll stay, though of course among the more bohemian community of artists and writers, race, gender, or even appearance don’t matter a fig. Talent is all that counts. You’ll be amazed to learn that I was the first of us to have a talent acknowledged here. We went to a soiree and were each instructed to write a poem. I read mine with great trepidation but it was pronounced good. At this gathering I was instantly drawn to a young man with an interesting face and such soulful dark eyes—clearly also Jewish. We started to share information about our ancestry and lo and behold he turned out to be my long-lost distant cousin, Maxim Noah. Apparently his mother was a Goldfarb. His parents are dead, and he lives in a studio with artist friends up on the hill called Montmartre. And the poets I met have invited me to join their group. It seems that in this city poetry is as important as painting. Did you ever imagine that such a place could exist on earth? If it weren’t for the anti-Semitic sentiment and for missing our delightful godson Liam, we might never want to come home!