Carved in Stone

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         Preston Granville was a 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 man from Boston moved to Paris and took up residence in Montmartre, where he enjoyed the life of a Bohemian, and could usually be found sitting at a sidewalk café, sipping wine and discussing art, music, politics 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 Preston’s acquaintances were painters, writers and 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 ideal existence, Preston Granville was not particularly happy. He was, after all, an outsider looking in. He applauded his friends’ achievements and marveled at their accomplishments but never experienced for himself the joy of creativity or the thrill of artistic success. In short, he was a dilettante, a disciple who longed to be accepted by the masters as an equal.

         After only two years abroad, he was giving serious thought to leaving Paris 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.

         “Jean-Claude’s gallery. There’s an exhibit featuring a new sculptor who’s supposed to be a genius.”

         “Mind if I go along with you?” he asked, hating the fact that he always had to invite himself to such events.

         “Oui, but we have to hurry. I don’t want to be late. Jean-Claude is expecting a large crowd.”

         As Jeanette had predicted, the art gallery was packed, and people were standing 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. It’s as though the man has witnessed all the horrors of the world.”

         “Yes. You can see it 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 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?” he asked, eager to make the young woman’s acquaintance.

         “One show is much the same as any other,” she replied with an air of indifference.

         “I suppose, being a woman, you’d rather see Monsieur Degas’ ballerinas than these horrifying statues.”

         “What’s wrong with these sculptures, that a woman would not appreciate them?” she asked.

         Preston smiled. “You have to admit the look on the face of the subject in the window is pretty frightening.

         “Fear is but one of the emotions portrayed in the collection. Look at the faces on the other pieces, and you’ll see surprise, wonder, anger and even lust. You can observe raw human emotions in every feature of the faces, the position of the hands, the posture of the bodies.”

         Preston was about to engage the young 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’d been talking to Preston. “There’s someone you have to meet: Lord Bothwell, the famous art collector from London. He’s interested in purchasing one of your pieces.”

         Preston was stunned. He had not imagined a woman capable of such work. Beautiful and talented, he thought, 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 all women long to be wives and mothers, there are some females who choose to remain single. Such a woman was Gabriella Bergeron. She had no interest in Preston Granville, even though most other women considered him a fine catch.

         The young man from Massachusetts was persistent in his pursuit, however. Every evening he waited outside her apartment, and when she came out he would follow her around like a love-sick puppy. One night she 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, you or any other one.”

         “But I’ve seen you meet men on occasion,” he protested.

         Gabriella’s pale complexion became even whiter. “When have you seen me with a man?”

         “Last week, outside the Moulin Rouge. I saw you get in a carriage with him and drive away.”

         “He was an art dealer,” 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 as his hopes of wearing Gabriella’s resistance down were temporarily crushed. “Please go out with me,” he pressed. “If you do, I’ll finance an exhibit for you anywhere in the world: London, Rome, New York, you name it.”

         “You expect me to prostitute myself? I am a talented artist. I do not need to sleep with men to get my work into a gallery.”

         “You misunderstand me,” he cried. “My intentions are strictly honorable: dinner and a pleasant evening, nothing more I assure you.”

         “No,” she declined his invitation firmly, and then turned and began walking away.

         He followed her down the street, begging her to reconsider.

         With a heavy sigh, Gabriella came to a stop. “If I agree to go out with you, will you stop badgering me and following me around?”

         “Oh, yes, my love.”

         “I’m not your love. I’m agreeing to go out to dinner with you—once and only once—after which I never want to see you again, not in front of my apartment building, not at the 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. From the orchids he gave her to the gourmet meal and excellent wine at Paris’ finest restaurant, he tried everything he could to sway her feelings. Unfortunately, nothing worked. Gabriella remained aloof throughout dinner. When the carriage pulled up in front of her 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. “Please don’t go.”

         “One evening, dinner only. That was our agreement,” she reminded him impatiently.

         “But I hoped….”

         “The subject is not open for discussion. Goodbye.”

         In a rustle of fabric, she climbed the stairs and disappeared behind the door.

* * *

         Despite the promise he made, Preston couldn’t stay away from Gabriella. Less than a fortnight after his thwarted attempt to gain her favor, 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.”

         “She moved out last Sunday.”

         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 broken down and wept. Then his spirits suddenly rose. Surely Jean-Claude would know where she was.

         With all haste, he drove the 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 his beloved’s 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 we no longer have any of Mademoiselle Bergeron’s pieces here.”

         “I’m not looking for her work; I’m looking for her. I’m a friend of hers.”

         The clerk called the owner, who informed Preston that he was unaware of the artist’s whereabouts.

         “The exhibit is over,” Jean-Claude explained, “and I’ve had no further contact with the artist.”

         Most suitors would have given up at that point, especially since the young woman clearly did not return his affections, but being a man of a wealthy family, Preston was used to getting his way and had never learned to take no for an answer.

* * * 

         Over the next ten years, Preston Granville pursued Gabriella Bergeron with the singled-minded determination that Inspector Javert displayed as he hunted down Jean Valjean. He hired the best private detectives in Europe, yet each time one of them got a lead, the sculptress managed to disappear before Preston could find her.

         Ten years of having his hopes raised, a decade of having them dashed. Then it occurred to him one evening that he might not even desire Gabriella should he find her. Time might not have been kind to her. Her beauty may have withered like a delicate blossom, leaving behind only a faded memory of youth. Finally, he discontinued the services of the detectives. Then he 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 brownstone. “Have you finally gotten Paris out of your system?”

         “That I have, father,” the prodigal son confessed. “I believe it’s 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 family arrived in Rhode Island’s famed coastal town, the summer season was in full-swing, and some 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 young ladies from good families in attendance.”

         It was a none-too-subtle hint for her son 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. He would join the family business, marry and procreate, all with his family’s blessing.

         Fate, however, had other plans for the young man. He did not realize when he walked into the gentlemen’s reception room of the Breakers that among the debutants, young matrons and stately matriarchs was an old acquaintance from Paris.

         As Preston had feared, the party proved to be a dreadful bore. The young ladies from good families his mother had spoken of 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, walked across the lawn and out to the cliff walk.

         When he saw the flowing white dress, the platinum blonde hair and the unusually pale face in the darkness, he imaged he’d seen a ghost.

         “It’s you,” the woman said.

         Only when he heard her voice did Preston realize the wraith-like creature was Gabriella Bergeron, the woman he’d pursued for more than ten years. At the sight of her, all his feelings came back with a force that left him weak kneed and breathless.

         “I thought I’d never find you,” he groaned.

         “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 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, Preston Granville 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. “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, I’m afraid.”

         To Preston’s astonishment, Gabriella raised her arms and embraced him. The cold of her body made him shiver. Her kiss made his senses numb. He pulled back 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 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, pale face.

         I think she does care for me a little, he thought as a final tear froze on his marble cheek.

Sorry, Salem, but I find it hard to believe that Claude Monet painted you while you were visiting France.