I got up even earlier than usual the next morning, but not to paint; by seven I was at Goldengrove to use my office computer and have a cup of coffee before most of the day staff arrived. The art encyclopedia at home had revealed little more than I already knew about Gilbert Thomas, although my Classical Handbook gave me the story of Leda: She was a mortal woman ravished by Zeus, who visited her in the form of a swan. She had slept with her husband, Tyndareus, king of Sparta, on the same night. This explained her giving birth to two sets of twins at once, two immortal children and two mortal: Castor and Polydeuces (Pollux, the Roman version), and Clytemnestra and Helen, later held responsible for the troubles at Troy. Some versions of the myth, I learned, had Leda's children hatching from eggs, although they seemed to have gotten mixed up even in the shell, since Helen and Polydeuces, as children of Zeus, were divine, while Castor and Clytemnestra were doomed to mortality.
I had also looked up paintings of Leda and the Swan while I was at it and found quite a tradition, including a copy after a highly erotic Michelangelo, a Correggio, a copy after Leonardo in which the swan appeared to be a kind of household pet, and a Cezanne that showed the swan seizing an apparently unconcerned Leda by the wrist as if begging to be taken out for a walk. Gilbert Thomas had not made it into this august company, but I thought there might be something more on the Web.
I should probably say again here that I don't like to resort to the Internet, even now, and was less tolerant of it then--what will we someday do, I always wonder, without the pleasures of turning through books and stumbling on things we never meant to find? That happens during Internet research, of course, but in a more limited way, to my mind. And how could anyone consent to give up that smell of open books, old or new? While I was searching my shelves for the myth of Leda, for example, I learned about a couple of other classical figures who don't enter this tale but whom I still think about from time to time. My wife tells me that this propensity to leaf through a volume instead of doing my research efficiently is one of the things that most dates me, but I've noticed that she handles books in the same way sometimes, looking through biographies and museum catalogs with a deep, aimless pleasure.
In any case, I don't claim to be expert at Web searches, but that morning I did learn a little more about Gilbert Thomas in the depths of my office computer. He had been promising, at best, in the early years of his career, and was really known only for the Leda Robert had objected to and for the self-portrait I'd seen next to it. He had also been an acquaintance of many French artists of the day, including Manet; he and his brother, Armand, had jointly owned one of the earliest sale galleries in Paris, second or third in importance to that of the great Paul Durand-Ruel. An interesting figure, Thomas; his business had ultimately gone under and he had died in debt in 1890, after which his brother had sold off most of their remaining stock and retired. Gilbert had painted the landscape for Leda outdoors around 1879, at his retreat near Fecamp in Normandy, finishing it in a Paris studio. The painting had been displayed at the Salon of 1880, to acclaim; it had also drawn criticism for its erotic nature. This had been the first Thomas painting accepted to the Salon, although it had not been the last; the others were lost or undistinguished, and his reputation rested mainly on this masterwork, now on permanent exhibition at the National Gallery.
When I knew the residents had finished their breakfast, I went down the hall to Robert's room and knocked on the door, which was closed. Robert never answered, of course, so I always had to push it open a little at a time, calling in and trying not to surprise him at any possibly private moment. It was one of the things I found most inconvenient--embarrassing, even--about his silence. That morning was no exception, and I knocked and called and widened the door several times before stepping in.
He was drawing at the counter that served as a desk, his back to me, his easel currently empty. "Good morning, Robert." I had begun to call him by his first name, but politely, this last week or two, pretending that he had invited me to do so. "May I come in for a moment?"
I left the door ajar, as always, and stepped inside. He did not turn, although his hand slowed in its motions on the paper and I saw that he gripped the pencil harder; with him, I had to watch for any possible sign that might take the place of language.
"Thank you so much for the loan of the letters. I've brought back your originals." I laid the envelope gently on the chair where he'd left them for me, but he still didn't turn around.
"I have just a quick question for you," I began again, cheerfully. "How do you go about your research? I'm wondering--do you use the Internet? Or do you spend a lot of time in libraries?"
The pencil stopped for a split second, and then he went on shading something in. I didn't allow myself to move close enough to see what he was drawing. His shoulders, in their old shirt, were forbidding. I could see the beginnings of a bald spot on the crown of his head; there was something touching about that place age had worn away already when the rest of him still seemed so vigorous. "Robert," I tried one more time, "do you do some research on the Web for your paintings?"
This time the pencil did not swerve. For a moment I wanted him to turn and look at me. I imagined his expression as dark, his eyes wary. In the end, I was glad that he hadn't; I needed to be able to speak to his back, without being observed myself. "I do that, too, once in a while, although I prefer to use books."
Robert did not move, but I felt rather than saw something shift in him: Anger? Curiosity?
"Well, then, I guess that's it." I paused. "Have a good day. Let me know if I can do anything for you." I decided not to tell him that I was having his letters translated--if he could be silent, perhaps I would try a little of the same.
As I left the room, I glanced at the wall above his bed. He had taped up a new drawing, somewhat larger than the others--the dark-haired lady, somber, accusing, where she could watch over him even in his slumber.
On the following Monday, there was an envelope from Zoe waiting in my mailbox. Before opening it, I forced myself to eat my dinner; I washed my hands, made some tea, and sat down in the living room with a good lamp. Of course, the letters were likely to be mere domesticities, like most old letters, but Zoe had promised some passages about painting, and she had left in the French salutation, knowing I would like that.
October 6, 1877
Cher Monsieur:
Thank you for your kind note, which it falls to me to answer. We were very glad to see you last night. Your presence cheered my father-in-law, for one thing, and it has been difficult to make him laugh since he came to live with us. I believe he misses his own home, although for several years already it no longer contained the loving presence of his wife. He always says what a good brother you are to him. Yves sends you his best; he is relieved that you have returned to
Paris. (Life is much improved with an uncle nearby, he says!) I am pleased to have met you myself at last. You will forgive me if I do not write at length, as I have much to attend to this morning. May you travel safely to the Loire and enjoy your stay there, and I trust that all your work will go well. I envy you the landscapes you will surely paint. And I shall read to my father-in-law the essays you left for us.
Respectfully,
Beatrice de Clerval Vignot
When I'd finished reading it, I sat trying to understand what Robert saw in this letter, what forced him to read it--and others-- over and over in his solitary room. And why he had let me see them at all, if they were so precious to him.
