And she kissed the little Rabbit again and put him down on the grass.
“Run and play, little Rabbit!” she said.
But the little Rabbit sat quite still for a moment and never moved. For when he saw all the wild rabbits dancing around him he suddenly remembered about his hind legs, and he didn’t want them to see that he was made all in one piece. He did not know that when the Fairy kissed him that last time she had changed him altogether.
???
From The Velveteen Rabbit
by Margery Williams Bianco
pamela
1946–1965
I
I am working again!
Not painting, I’ve pushed that behind me. For a long while I kept telling myself that I ought to. I thought . . . should I try? Is it what I ought to do? And if not painting, well, what do I want to do?
Now, I know. I suppose I’ve always known.
The books. Illustrated children’s books. Beginning with A.
The thoughts—the ideas for books—come to me almost all at once, beckoning me.
Such a sweet realization, a relief. As if I’d been walking along on a dark day and up ahead there is a sudden sweep of light on the ground—I look up to see a blue hole in the clouds. The sky opening like an invitation. It is more than that. A gift.
I understand, now, that I no longer have to please . . . well, anyone at all.
At first, the thought seems a terrible betrayal.
Then, a source of wonder.
Whatever I choose to do, I won’t be letting anyone down.
I can only disappoint myself.
I fly straight sunward, through the blue portal.
And on the other side, I am not what I have been.
? ? ?
The ABC book for children is really all worked out, it has been for a long time. Twenty-six children—and twenty-six poems—have been living in my head for years. Alexander, Barbara, Catherine. I’ll do pen-and-ink drawings of each girl and boy, set them in frames of lace and diamonds and rosettes and ribbons.
I publish Beginning with A in 1947. After that, my books for children come one after another. One every year.
I have no thought of trying to be the writer that my mother was. It would be impossible, anyway. My voice is not my mother’s voice. I do not have her wise heart. What I do have, what I want to capture, are memories of the childhood that she made so bright all those years ago. In my books there are many different mothers, but they’re all Mam.
It’s Mam who fixes the party dress in Playtime in Cherry Street when her daughter has ripped off the lace collar and sleeves to make a Valentine for a friend. It’s Mam who prepares the tea party for her children in Joy and the Christmas Angel—grapes packed in sawdust, cheese in silver paper, angel cake iced with ribbons and rosebuds. And it’s Mam in The Doll in the Window, who helps the little girl out of her predicament when she means to buy presents for her siblings but really wants to spend her Christmas money on a doll for herself.
My mother is with me every day as I write and draw, just as if she were still sitting at her little writing desk in the corner of the studio in Macdougal Alley.
In the winter of 1948, I find a new place to live. Colonnade Row, on Lafayette Street, near Astor Place. Lorenzo and I are thrilled. Such an elegant old building, all decked out in marble and Corinthian pillars. We think it’s quite grand.
We have the top-floor apartment, and above that, a rooftop studio with a large, slanting skylight. The studio is lovely, the perfect place to work on my drawings and books. For the first time in years we have space to move around—although for the most part, it’s just me. Lorenzo is rarely home these days. He’s almost twenty now, and busy with photography and the National Guard and all his friends.
My easel sits in the basement, gathering dust. Thoughts of putting my dreams onto canvas have all but disappeared.
II
It’s just a random thought, really. A whim. The sort of thing you don’t usually follow up on. It’s October 16, 1954, and a notice in the paper catches my eye. A young Spanish artist is showing his work in an uptown gallery, and the opening is tonight. Why not? I think. A good excuse for a nice, long walk.
The evening is clear and sharp. I stand still for a moment, breathing in the cool autumn air, a jumble of fresh-fallen leaves and rainstorms and first frost that makes me think of Merryall. I’ve dressed perfectly for this chilly weather. The new soft boots that lace on the side, and my favorite skirt—wool and angora, flounced at the hem and cozy as a blanket. A breeze riffles through my hair, now chin length. The short cut makes me feel light all over.
On East 73rd Street, I walk into the Mason and Dyer Gallery filled with a rare, inexplicable happiness.
I take a quick glance around. No surprise here—it’s the usual mix of fashionable and artsy. A clump of guests stand by a table laden with cheese and fruit and sparkling champagne glasses. Perhaps one before I leave, I think. I know it’s shyness, really, the reason I don’t head over to the table. But I have, in fact, come to see the art.
I stand in front of a large, roughly painted canvas—giant nudes with pitchforks and blue orbs, the outline of a cityscape in the far background. I scrutinize the painting. Despite its lack of grace, its jarring contrasts, Gaugin jumps into my mind, and I think: What if Gaugin had never left Paris, what if he had never traveled to Tahiti? What if he worked all those years in the city, penniless, growing angrier, wishing he could leave, never seeing a way? Perhaps he might have painted something like this. I like the painting . . . well, I like the idea of it, but it’s too crude, undeveloped. Well, I am thinking, if I happen to speak to the artist during the evening I could reference Gaugin. . . .
“Care for a glass of champagne? I seem to have two of them. . . . ”
A male voice, just behind my right shoulder.
It takes a moment to shake off my Gaugin reveries.
I turn to see a slim, gray-haired man in a charcoal jacket holding out a golden flute.
Yes, I do care for a glass of champagne, thank you very much.
“Georg Hartmann,” he says, raising his glass to mine.
Definitely not the young Spanish artist, I think, relieved.
And then, there is this thought: I like this man. The soft jacket. The beautiful timbre of his voice, the slight accent. The kindness and elegance in his demeanor. And the eyebrows. Who would have thought that eyebrows could be such an attraction? When Georg laughs, the inner tips move up towards the center of his forehead, and he looks as open and innocently happy as a child.