Pamela paid little attention to reviews, that was Francesco’s lookout. But there was one she read over and over. The November issue of the 1920 Oxford Review ran an article on the Leicester show. The author was Richard Hughes.
Diccon reminded the art world that they had in their midst not a prodigy, but something far, far more rare—an artist. And he chastised those whose earlier enthusiasm for her jolly fairies and bunnies clouded the real issue.
Many famous people came to that exhibition, I can’t remember them all. John Galsworthy, Lady Sackville. . . . Francesco could tick them all off today if you asked. One, though, I can never forget. She stepped into our world and, just like that, twisted the arc of our lives.
margery
Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, the American heiress, appeared at the gallery all draped in fur, and purchased two of Pamela’s drawings. She took us aside—rather overeager and terribly sure of herself, I thought—and asked if we’d all join her in her rooms at the Ritz for tea. The following afternoon would be convenient, she said.
What does she want? I wondered. I was sure that she didn’t just want to have a cozy little chat with the Bianco family.
The next day the sky gods unfurled a pewter blanket over London. It’s their favorite trick, they never seem to tire of it. Before long the rain came. It wasn’t a hard rain, and we easily could have walked to Piccadilly, but Francesco said we mustn’t arrive looking like retrievers just out of the lake, so we took a cab.
Gertrude’s suite at the Ritz was more like the wing of a palace. A ceiling that seemed a hundred feet high. Giant windows, framed by heavy blue velvet, overlooked Green Park. A formal French rug filled most of the room. A golden chandelier floated down from the ceiling, and its light reflected off the polished serving table and the silver tea tray loaded with delicate cakes and scones and jam pockets.
We sat, rather timidly I’m afraid, in formal high-backed chairs upholstered in an embroidered fabric that featured repeated domestic scenes of a royal Chinese family. Gertrude sat erect, enthroned in the middle of the facing sofa, and presided over tea. Behind her was a massive painting of some biblical scene—three angels peering down over clouds to robed men and women reaching skyward, beseeching. Surely, I thought, the angels would rather be looking at our hostess.
Gertrude was impressive. She was not beautiful. Her thick, dark eyebrows were untamed, framing wide-set, heavy-lidded eyes. Eyes that could smile kindly, but more often projected supreme self-confidence, even arrogance. She wore a navy-blue silk dress with a low neckline anchored by a diamond brooch. She sparkled—a band wound round her dark wavy hair was set off by a large jewel-encrusted beetle. Stones of red and green and blue glinted at us as she bent to pour the tea.
Gertrude wasted little time over small talk.
“Pamela must come to America,” she said.
She was gracious but quite adamant. “The American public must see the work of this child!”
There was nothing to discuss, she really would not hear any argument on the subject. She would find a home for us—and a beautiful studio for Pamela, of course—near her own in Greenwich Village. Many, many artists had studios nearby. We would love it there. We could stay as long as we liked.
For just a moment, my heart rose. I thought of my mother and Cecil and Teddy and all their girls. They were still in Pennsylvania. I could see them all the time.
But in the next moment I felt quite anxious. What about Pamela? What would this mean for her? William, who was connected to the American art world, had told us how Gertrude loved to collect artists. That she’d set up studios for many painters and sculptors, people like Jo Davidson and Daniel Chester French. The whole idea made me feel uneasy. It wasn’t just Pamela who would be uprooted. What about the family? And . . . we would be beholden to this woman. I flinched at the thought. It was all too much. I couldn’t take it in.
I looked at Francesco, tried to give him a signal. Caution, Francesco, caution. . . . But I would lose this battle as well, and I suppose I knew it even at that moment. The juggernaut was already unstoppable, and, truly, by that time, I had no idea if it would be right to stop it even if I could. At any rate, my worried looks had no effect on Francesco. He was looking at Pamela, and I knew what he saw: his daughter cast in a Madonna glow, gilding that dull London afternoon, outshining the tea tray, the polished wood, the chandelier. Outshining even Gertrude’s jewels.
His radiant child. His child of gold.
pamela
I came over here to tell my mother secrets. Unburden myself.
Everyone wants to be near her, to trust her with secrets.
But I told her nothing this morning.
These paintings, these memories . . . these feelings. Caught in mazes. Trapped. Frozen. Stepping into a black void.
The panic, even as we sailed to America.
And it was all my doing. All of it. All of it was because of me. If not for me, we’d never even be in New York. We’d still be in London.
Does Mam think of that? Ever? Often?
I see my mother that first night on the RMS Carmania. She is lovely. Happy. And she is surrounded by men.
Soon after we boarded Mam discovered that the Carmania had bowed to the times—ladies were now allowed in the Smoking Room. We went there after dinner. It was a grand, vaulted room, full of jeweled lamps, dark paneling, and red velvet sofas and chairs. There were many conversations going on, lots of laughter.
Some young people sat at a table against the back wall, playing rummy, and Mam and Daddy somehow made it clear that I should join them. The grownups gathered in the front, near a large bar. There were only perhaps a half dozen women sprinkled among the men, but my mother would have stood out even if there had been hundreds. She had a kind of lovely quirkiness. From across the room, I studied her. She wore a simple ivory dress with an emerald sash she’d wrapped several times round her hips. Out of the same fabric—an old silk curtain from Chelsea—she’d fashioned a hair ornament that knotted at the nape of her neck. The ends fell like streamers down her back. She looked like a royal gypsy.
Though soft-spoken, Mam has a lively way of expressing herself, cocking her head and gesturing gracefully with her hands. A group of men quickly gathered around my parents. I could see how they were attracted to my mother.
My father’s voice traveled to where I sat with my new friends, “. . . what I thought when I was courting her!”
The men all laughed. Mam laughed, too, and put her hand to Daddy’s cheek. I watched the men watching my mother. The other women were quite lovely, chic and glittery in their low-slung dresses, and matching pumps, and eye-catching ropes of beads. But Mam shone in an altogether different way. She was softly lustrous—a pearl, perhaps, that each man felt he had discovered on his own.
Somehow as I watched my parents, I felt a sudden panic. There were Mam and Daddy, in the belly of a huge ship, laughing and talking as they were carried across the ocean. To America! And it was all because of me. What were we doing?