Carved in Stone
Preston Granville was a young man who boasted a broad knowledge of art, literature and music. Although he had no talent of his own beyond that of spending money, he enjoyed the company of authors, poets, musicians and painters. Fortunately, as heir to one of America's largest fortunes, Preston had the resources to indulge his every whim.
After graduating from Harvard, the young American moved to Paris and took up residence in Montmartre, where, living the life of a Bohemian, he could usually be found sitting at a sidewalk café, sipping wine and discussing art, music, politics, religion and philosophy. He also frequented cabarets such as the Moulin Rouge, Lapin Agile and Le Chat Noir and would often buy a drink or a meal for artists such as Henri Matisse, Pierre-Auguste Renoir and Claude Monet.
Not all of Preston's acquaintances were painters, writers, musicians or philosophers, however. A handsome young man with a substantial net worth, he had a bevy of beautiful Mademoiselles eager to garner his favor.
Yet despite this seemingly idyllic existence, Preston was not a particularly happy person. He was, after all, an outsider looking in. He applauded his friends' achievements and marveled at their accomplishments, but he never experienced for himself the great joy of creativity or the thrill of artistic success. In short, he was a dilettante, a disciple who would never be accepted by the masters as an equal.
After only two years abroad, he was giving serious consideration to leaving France and returning to America when one evening he ran into a friend, a young painter with a studio at LeBateau-Lavoir, outside the Moulin de la Galette.
"Jeanette!" he called to her.
"Oh, bonjour, Preston," she replied, not slowing her pace to chat with him.
"Where are you running off to?" the wealthy American asked, as he hurried in her wake.
"Jean-Claude's gallery. There is an exhibit featuring a new sculptor who is supposed to be a genius. Absolutely everyone is raving about it. I must see if for myself."
"Mind if I go along with you?" he asked, hating the fact that he always had to invite himself to such events.
"No, but we will have to hurry. I don't want to be late. Jean-Claude is expecting quite a large crowd tonight."
As Jeanette had predicted, the art gallery was packed, and people were standing in line outside, waiting to get in, all eager to see the work of the new sculptor.
Preston heard his companion's intake of breath when she spied one of the sculptures in the gallery window.
"It's amazing!" Jeanette exclaimed. "Look at the facial expression on that piece. It's as though the man has witnessed all the horrors of the world."
"Yes. You can plainly see the anguish in his eyes," agreed Preston, who was not one to form an original opinion on art, preferring to parrot the judgments of more qualified critics.
"Let's go inside. I can't wait to see the rest of the sculptor's work."
Given the large number of people already inside the gallery, getting close to the sculptures proved difficult. Rather than push his way to a good observation point, Preston chose to mingle among the spectators, listening to their comments and descriptions. As he made his way to the rear of the gallery where refreshments were being served, he literally bumped into an exquisitely beautiful woman who, like him, made no effort to get a close look at the artist's work.
"Are you enjoying the show, Mademoiselle?" he asked, eager to make the stunning young woman's acquaintance.
"Not particularly. I find one show is much the same as any other," she replied with an air of bored indifference.
"I should think a lady would rather see Monsieur Degas' ballerinas than these horrifying statues," he suggested with a warm chuckle.
"Tell me, what exactly is wrong with these sculptures, that a lady would not appreciate them?" the woman asked.
Preston smiled.
"You have to admit the look on the face of the subject sitting in the gallery window is pretty frightening, enough to give any young woman nightmares."
"Fear is but one of the emotions portrayed in the collection. Look at the other pieces, and you'll see surprise, wonder, anger and even lust. You can observe raw human emotions in every feature of the face, the position of the hands, the posture of the body."
Preston was about to engage the woman in a more lengthy conversation but was interrupted by Jean-Claude.
"There you are, my dear," the gallery owner cried as he approached the beautiful woman who had been talking to Preston. "There's someone you absolutely have to meet: Lord Bothwell, the famous art collector from London. He's interested in purchasing one of your pieces."
Preston was stunned to silence. The exquisite young woman he was speaking to was the artist who had created the work in the show. He would never have imagined a woman capable of producing such work.
Beautiful and talented, he thought appreciatively, summing up the statuesque blonde with an unusually pale complexion. Just the sort of woman I wanted to meet.
* * *
Despite the long-held belief that what every women wanted was to be a wife and a mother, there are actually some females who prefer to remain single. Such a woman was Gabriella Bergeron, the talented sculptress who was taking the Paris art world by storm. As such, she had no interest in Preston Granville, even though most other women considered him a fine catch.
The affluent young man from Massachusetts was persistent in his pursuit of her, however. Every evening he waited outside Gabriella's apartment, and when she came out he would follow her around like a love-sick puppy. One night she finally decided she'd had enough.
"Mr. Granville," she cried, turning around to confront him. "I would appreciate it if you would stop trailing me."
"I can't," he replied. "I need to see you, and since you refuse to go out with me I must steal glimpses of you from afar."
"Why can't you understand that your attentions are unwanted? I have no time for a man, either you or any other one."
"But I've seen you meet men on occasion," he protested.
Gabriella's already pale complexion became several shades whiter.
"When have you seen me with a man?" she demanded to know.
"Just last week—Wednesday evening I believe it was—outside the Moulin Rouge. I saw you get in a carriage with him and drive away."
"He was an art dealer, nothing more," she explained. "He is arranging an exhibit of my work in Venice."
"You're not leaving Paris, are you?"
"Eventually I will, but not yet."
Preston looked crestfallen at the news as his hopes of wearing Gabriella's resistance down were temporarily crushed.
"Please agree to go out with me," he pressed. "If you do, I'll finance an exhibit for you anywhere in the world: London, Rome, Vienna, New York, you name it."
"You expect me to prostitute myself?" the sculptress asked angrily. "I am a talented artist. I do not need to sleep with a man to get my work into a gallery."
"Ah, but you misunderstand me," he cried defensively. "My intentions are strictly honorable. I want only to take you to dinner and have the pleasure of your company. I expect nothing more, I assure you."
She firmly declined his invitation and then turned and began walking away. Undeterred by her rejection, Preston followed her down the street, begging her to reconsider. With a heavy sigh, Gabriella came to a halt.
"If I agree to go out with you once, will you finally stop badgering me and following me around all the time?"
"Oh, yes, my dearest love."
"I'm not your dearest love, Mr. Granville. I'm agreeing to go out to dinner with you—on one occasion only—after which I never want to see you again, not in front of my apartment building, not at Jean-Claude's gallery, not even in a crowded cabaret. Do you agree?"
"Yes, but I ask that you keep an open mind and give me a fair chance."
Preston spared no expense on his evening with Gabriella. After presenting her with a bouquet of orchids, he treated her to a gourmet meal and excellent wine at Paris's finest, priciest restaurant. He tried everything he could to sway her feelings. Unfortunately, nothing worked. Gabriella remained aloof throughout dinner.
When Granville's carriage pulled up in front of her apartment building at the end of the evening, the sculptress got out and, without a word to her escort, headed toward the stairs.
"Wait!" Preston cried in desperation. "Please don't go."
"One evening, dinner only. Remember? That was our agreement," she reminded him impatiently.
"But I hoped ...."
"The subject is not open for discussion. Goodbye, Mr. Granville."
In a rustle of fabric and petticoats, she climbed the stone stairs and disappeared behind the heavy front door.
Despite the promise he had made to her, Preston could not stay away from Gabriella. Less than a fortnight after his thwarted attempt to gain her favor by taking her to dinner, he was back at his post across the street from her apartment building. When there had been no sign of her for four days, he summoned his courage and walked into the building. He rang the bell outside her apartment door and waited. There was no response.
"Are you looking for Mademoiselle Bergeron?" a middle-aged man asked, stopping at the door of the neighboring apartment.
"Yes, I am."
"Well, I'm afraid you won't find her here. She moved out last week."
Preston's hopes plummeted.
"Do you know where she went?"
"Sorry, no. She just packed up her belongings and left."
Despondent, Preston returned to his carriage, where he broke down and wept. Then his spirits suddenly rose. Surely Jean-Claude would know where his beloved was.
With all haste, he drove to the art gallery. He was in such a hurry to speak with the owner that he failed to notice Gabriella's sculpture was no longer in the front window. It wasn't until he entered the building that he realized the sculptress' work was no longer on exhibit.
"Can I help you, Monsieur?" a clerk asked in heavily accented English.
"I need to find Gabriella Bergeron."
"I regret that the gallery no longer has any of her pieces."
"I'm not looking for her work; I'm looking for her. I'm a friend of hers."
"I see."
The clerk referred the young man to the owner, who informed Preston that he was unaware of the artist's whereabouts.
"The exhibit is over," Jean-Claude explained, "and I have not had any further contact with Mademoiselle Bergeron. If she should get in touch with me, I will tell here you are looking for her."
Most suitors would no doubt have given up at that point, especially since the beautiful artist clearly did not return his unwanted affections, but being a man from a wealthy, powerful family, Preston was used to getting his way and had never learned to take no for an answer.
* * *
Over the next ten years, Preston pursued Gabriella Bergeron with the singled-minded determination that Inspector Javert displayed as he hunted down Jean Valjean or Captain Ahab showed in his pursuit of the white whale, Moby Dick. He hired the best private detectives in Europe, yet each time one of them uncovered a promising lead to her whereabouts, the artist managed to disappear before Preston could find her.
Not even a decade of having his hopes raised and dashed could wear the determined American down. It was only when he encountered his old friend Jeanette again near the Cathédrale Notre Dame that he decided to give up his quest.
Jeanette, while never exactly beautiful, had been quite pretty when she was younger. Ten years had changed her appearance dramatically. Seeing how much his friend had aged, it suddenly occurred to Preston that he might not even desire Gabriella should he find her. Time might not have been kind to her either. Her beauty might have withered like a delicate blossom, leaving behind only a faded memory of youth. Finally, he discontinued the services of the detectives, gave up his apartment in Paris and headed home to America.
"You've grown up," his father declared proudly when Preston paid a visit to his family's Boston mansion. "Have you finally gotten Paris out of your system?"
"Indeed I have, Father," the prodigal son confessed. "I believe it is time I learned the shipping business."
The patriarch of one of New England's most venerable families and shipping dynasties smiled his approval.
"Your mother and I will be going down to the cottage in Newport for the summer. Why don't you join us? We can then discuss your future plans at our leisure."
When the Granville family arrived in Rhode Island's famed coastal town, the summer season was already in full swing, and many of the wealthiest families from New York, Boston and Philadelphia were in residence.
"The Vanderbilts are throwing a party at the Breakers this weekend," Mrs. Granville announced over breakfast. "I'm sure there will be a number of unmarried young ladies from suitable families in attendance."
It was a none-too-subtle hint directed at her son to remind him that it was long past the time that he should marry and produce an heir to the family fortune. Preston sighed, resigned to the fact that his bachelor days were numbered. Having returned to America, he was expected to join the family business, marry a girl from a good family and procreate, all with his parents' blessings.
"I'm looking forward to meeting them, Mother," he lied.
Fate, however, had other plans for the young heir. He did not realize when he first walked into the gentlemen's reception room of the Breakers with his father that among the eager debutants, finely dressed young matrons and stately matriarchs in attendance at the party, he would encounter an old acquaintance from Paris.
As Preston had feared, the Vanderbilts' party proved to be a dreadful bore when compared to the nightlife of Paris. The young ladies from suitable families his mother had spoken of so highly were not to his taste, most being decidedly unattractive. While the majority of the guests were waltzing in the great hall, Preston stepped outside onto the landscaped terrace. Hoping to distance himself from those attending the party, he walked across the lawn and out to the cliff walk.
When young Granville saw the flowing white gown, the platinum blond hair and the unusually pale face in the darkness, he at first imagined he was seeing a ghost.
"It's you," the woman said as the distance between them closed.
Only when he heard the familiar voice did Preston realize the wraith-like creature was Gabriella Bergeron, the woman he had pursued for more than a decade. At the sight of her, all his old feelings came back with a force that left him weak-kneed and breathless.
"I thought I'd never find you," he groaned. "I looked all over Europe for you, and here you are in America."
"Stay away," she cautioned. "Just forget you ever saw me."
"You know I can't do that."
Gabriella looked frightened, like a cornered animal about to be devoured by a stronger predator. She stood still for several moments and then turned and ran back along the ocean-side walkway. Preston had no choice but to follow.
After what seemed like miles, Gabriella arrived at a carriage house that she'd turned into a studio. As she reached for the door handle, her pursuer caught up with her.
"You just won't listen, will you?" she cried.
"I can't. You can run away again, but I'll follow you, to the ends of the earth if need be."
She sighed, and her shoulders slumped in a gesture of surrender.
"You and I are much alike," she told him, opening the door wide so he could enter the studio. "I wouldn't listen either."
Preston looked at the woman he loved, confused: to what was she confessing?
"I wouldn't listen, and I've paid the price, as you shall, too, I'm afraid."
To Preston's astonishment, Gabriella raised her arms and embraced him. The coldness of her body made him shiver, and her kiss made his senses go numb. He pulled back and stared at her.
"I didn't listen either," she repeated. "I was told not to look back."
Preston felt his arms and legs grow stiff from the cold.
"But I had to see the destruction of Sodom for myself."
The numbness slowly spread throughout his body.
"In his wrath, God made me as you see me now: not a pillar of salt as the Bible tells it, but a woman cold of body and of heart, a creature who cannot love, for I destroy all who try to possess me."
The last thing Preston Granville saw before his eyes glazed over was Lot's wife turning away from him, sorrow distorting her beautiful, marmoreal face.
I believe she does care for me, after all, he thought as a final tear froze on his marble cheek.
The image below is a painting of Monet in his garden by Renoir. (Of course, Salem was not in the actual painting.)
Sorry, Salem, but I find it hard to believe that Claude Monet painted you while you were visiting France.
