My Heart Laid Bare Read online

  Why otherwise would St. Goar be so unusually attentive to Mrs. Clement-Stoddard’s every word, glance, sigh, and nuance of expression? Why would his frowning gaze invariably shift in her direction, despite the presence of women (married, unmarried, widowed) of equal or superior attractions, whose fortunes rivalled hers? These were women after all who made some effort to be agreeable to men, and were not by turns capricious and icy-cold, like the unpredictable Eva; nor were they rumored to be, like her, nearly impossible for any suitor to approach. (Perhaps, it was said, Eva simply did not like men.) With her much-lauded “amateur expert’s” ear for classical music, and her taste for haute cuisine, and her eye for art, architecture, home furnishings, and the like, she took distinct pride in being an exacting hostess; and, as a guest in others’ homes, didn’t scruple to express her dissatisfaction when things failed to measure up to her standards. “Money cannot buy taste,” Eva was known to have said, “—any more than it can buy genius.”

  As a consequence of the young widow’s imperial, self-absorbed manner, Eva Clement-Stoddard impressed observers as taller than she was, and larger of frame; her natural reserve and shyness were mistaken for disdain. It had long been her custom to wear plainly styled (though costly) clothes of British design; and her lustreless brown hair in so simple a style it might be called “classical.” Some observers held her to be an uncommonly attractive woman, with vivid dark eyes, a small straight nose, and a finely sculpted mouth; others were harsh in their condemnation of her odd, angular, narrow face, her “ironic” eyes, her slightly faded skin, and, most of all her habit of seeming to smile yet not smiling at all.

  Her husband died when she was only twenty-nine, leaving her two trust funds (worth approximately $3 million, as Albert St. Goar has learned) and various properties in and about Philadelphia, including a thirty-two-room mansion in Greek Revival style on the Main Line, and a cottage in Newport; she’d developed an enthusiasm for art of the Flemish Renaissance, and had begun to collect paintings under the tutelage of the redoubtable art dealer Duveen (a gentleman whom Albert St. Goar envied); she owned any number of extraordinary pieces of jewelry, including a famed Cartier necklace of twelve emeralds spaced along a rope of one thousand diamonds, worth, it was said, more than $1 million . . . though such vulgar displays of wealth, such conspicuous “icons,” as Eva called them, she naturally scorned to wear.

  It was whispered by members of her husband’s family that Eva’s secret tragedy, of which she was too proud to speak, was simply the fact of her being childless; and knowing herself, for all her air of brittle self-assurance and superiority, not fully a woman. How else to account for her rapid shifts of mood, her obsessive interest in an infant niece or nephew, and then, so very suddenly, her contemptuous withdrawal of interest? Though she was only in her mid-thirties she was acquiring a reputation for eccentricity: she mourned her husband for a full week each year, on the anniversary of his death in early December; she attended a different church service each Sunday, contending that “all Gods are equal—equally true and equally false”; she spent a highly intense six months studying what she called Law, and another six months studying what she called Medicine; with a desperate sort of fervor she even took up spiritualism—pronouncing it, in the end, “far too hopeful to be plausible.” She commissioned portraits of the deceased Mr. Clement-Stoddard, but rejected them all; she commissioned original works of music, “symphonic poems” being her particular passion . . . but these too failed to please. Like most members of her circle, she and her husband journeyed to Europe each summer, but following his death, and her own “appointment with destiny” as she called it (Eva Clement-Stoddard had been booked to sail on the maiden voyage of the Titanic in April 1912, and cancelled her plans at the last minute because of illness), she grew fretfully superstitious, vowing she’d never again leave the civilized perimeters of the United States, or even the environs of Philadelphia.

  “For I had rather drown in boredom,” she laughingly declared, “than in the Atlantic.”

  Yet more peculiar was Eva’s habit of keeping to herself, like a religious recluse, for weeks at a time, in her Philadelphia house. Declining all invitations; refusing to invite visitors; neglecting her charity work, and her correspondence; steeping herself in material of an uplifting or “purgative” kind. Gibbon’s great history of the Roman Empire, the rude rhapsodic lyrics of Walt Whitman, a plunging into the Upanishads one month, and into the Bhagavad Gita the next—how American women of the upper classes hunger for enlightenment! There was a season in which Eva attempted to master, under the tutelage of an Indian sage, the ancient, lost language of Sanskrit—with what success, no one knew. And Eva “kept up” with politics and war news, and loved to debate the men: with Anglophiles she argued that England had brought disaster on herself, and that the United States should not be drawn into fighting out of sentimental ties of loyalty; with the isolationists she argued yet more fiercely that President Wilson, to whom she was related, and whom she’d never liked, was endangering the honor of the United States by trying to keep from declaring war against Germany. “It’s as Teddy Roosevelt has charged—the President is a coward. He isn’t a man.”

  2.

  When the gentleman known as Albert St. Goar, formerly of London, first set eyes upon Eva Clement-Stoddard, before even being introduced to her by Mrs. Shrikesdale at a benefit performance of Così fan tutte at the Philadelphia Opera House, in September 1915—he murmured aloud, “It’s she!”

  For he seemed to know the woman already, and to know that she knew him.

  For not since the years of his early manhood when he’d been fatally vulnerable to the authority of an image of Woman, had he been so struck by a woman’s face and presence of being; and by his conviction that, in her, he would at last be fulfilled.

  MY DREAM OF a child, a son, to take the place of those who have betrayed me. Whose names I have expunged from my heart.

  Yet his dream is primarily of Woman . . . a woman. Of such exceptional qualities, possessed of such powers, he’ll be drawn out of himself; he will be obliterated, and resurrected in her. Above all the woman will allow him to forget the injuries inflicted upon him by women in the past. (Heartless women. Ill-deserving of Abraham Licht’s love and devotion. There were Arabella, and Morna, and Sophie, who preferred death to her life with him. These were “wives” he’d never officially married and from whom consequently he can never be divorced.)

  He will court this woman, overcoming her reluctance. He will marry her—this time. They will indeed have a child, an heir.

  “I’m in the prime of life,” he tells himself eagerly. “I’ve scarcely begun my life! My greatest conquests lie ahead.”

  FROM THE START it’s noted, not without jealousy in some quarters, that Eva Clement-Stoddard and the dashing Albert St. Goar are mysteriously attracted to each other. Their conversations are quick and elliptical, like the virtuoso sparring of fencers who challenge one another less with the intent of doing injury than for the purpose of happily demonstrating their skill. St. Goar chances to mention his romantic attachment to Kensington Gardens, for instance, in the very late afternoon of an autumn day; and Mrs. Clement-Stoddard challenges him at once as to which flowers and which shrubs on which paths—for it seems she shares his fondness for the park, which is bound up with her early girlhood, when her family spent six weeks of every autumn in London. On another occasion, the lady quotes Tocqueville on the pernicious consequences of Equality (“in democratic ages that which is most fluctuating amid the fluctuation of all around is the heart of man”), and Albert St. Goar rejoins with a spirited dismissal of the bigoted French cynic, as he calls him, who did not understand the American soul; and slandered all Americans by his sweeping judgments, based, by necessity, on a false application of his principles to our condition. “How can we take seriously,” St. Goar says, addressing all of the room by way of his particular attentiveness to the embarrassed Mrs. Clement-Stoddard, “a man who so little understands our democracy as
to say, and I quote, ‘The love of wealth is to be traced, either as a principal or an accessory motive, at the bottom of all that the Americans do’—? It is a slander!—and indefensible.”

  While others listen in resigned admiration, St. Goar and Eva archly discuss the politics of the day—the follies of recent history—the current ambiguous state of the arts; whether culture has fallen into a severe decline since the turn of the century; whether war with Germany is necessary, or merely, as St. Goar ominously says, “inevitable.” For weeks in Mrs. Clement-Stoddard’s circle talk centers upon Henry Ford’s much-publicized peace ship, Oscar II, which was being organized to set sail for Europe with $1 million in gold to be paid to anyone who could stop the war. (“Anyone,” St. Goar wittily observes, “—who speaks with a German accent.”) It is the wealthy automobile manufacturer’s boast that he would bring the boys home for Christmas (for, by this time, a goodly number of American men had volunteered to fight for the Allied cause) where government leaders like Woodrow Wilson had failed. All of Christianity, Ford declares, must join to stop the useless slaughter. And it is fitting that he, the genius inventor of the Model A and the Model T Ford car, and the initiator of the controversial $5 daily wage, should negotiate peace. For if the first business of American businessmen is money, the second will be salvation—of others. Eva Clement-Stoddard declares she’s sympathetic with Henry Ford’s cause, though she considers, as do others in her circle, the Detroit billionaire a crude and socially distasteful man; she’s contributed several thousand dollars to the venture; and toyed for a few days with the possibility of joining the one hundred sixty select passengers in the Oscar II. Albert St. Goar, however, is unsparing in his ridicule of the project. “Has there ever been a human being so vain, so deluded with self-importance, as this ‘Ford’ of yours!” St. Goar marvels. “If we didn’t know the man’s wealth, we would suspect that the Oscar II is nothing but a confidence game to play upon the charitable impulses of Christian ladies—of both sexes.” So eloquently and wittily does St. Goar speak, Henry Ford and the quest for peace are laughed out of the room, with Eva Clement-Stoddard among the heartiest laughers.

  SAYING GOOD NIGHT to her honored guest that evening, pleasantly warmed and emboldened by wine, Eva remarks, in a moment of rare girlish coquetry, “Not even a goddess of ancient times could ‘put anything over’ on such a skeptic as you, Albert St. Goar!” Which so takes St. Goar by surprise, the gentleman stares at the lady, his expression for once tender, and undefined; and no witty rejoinder at hand.

  3.

  Strolling one Sunday afternoon in elegant Rittenhouse Square, where they are bound to encounter a familiar face, and to be taken up by persons of consequence, Albert St. Goar says causally to his striking daughter Matilde, whose arm is linked through his, “You wouldn’t be upset, dear, if I asked Eva to marry me? For it’s time, you know, for your father to remarry. In truth,” he says, sighing, “—it’s more than time.” And Matilde, in a smart slope-brimmed hat of black straw, with a patterned blue ribbon tied beneath her chin and a dotted swiss veil hiding her eyes, doesn’t miss a beat in her languid gait; saying in a low amused voice, “Provided Eva is as wealthy as everyone says, dear Father, why should I object? Who am I to object? As you know very well.”

  Albert St. Goar says, in a hurt, offended voice, “Why Matilde, it isn’t for her money that I want to marry Eva, but for Eva herself; for love.” “Ah, ‘love,’ is it, this time,” Matilde says gaily. “And ‘marry,’ is it, this time!—the first time, I believe, in your career, Father?” And St. Goar says stiffly, keeping his voice low, “But you know I’m a widower, dear. You know I haven’t wished to marry since your mother’s death . . . in the south of France in July of ’05.” “Ah yes, I had almost forgotten poor Mother,” says Matilde, with a downward twist to her mouth, “ . . . murdered in her bed, was she not, by an ‘unknown assailant’? Poor Mother! And so much a presence in our lives!” “Your mother died of consumption, Matilde,” says St. Goar, reddening, “as you well know.” “Yes, of consumption, yes surely, consumption,” Matilde says hurriedly. “I had forgotten. For, you know, there are so many deaths these days, it is difficult to keep track of them.” St. Goar says, “I don’t care at all for your tone, Matilde, if I understand it correctly. You’re behaving in a way to deliberately provoke your father.” “I am not ‘behaving’ in any way at all,” says Matilde, “—but only as your ‘Matilde,’ who’s indeed your daughter; for she is no one else’s.” “You’ve been behaving in a childish way for weeks now—for months,” St. Goar says. “Since our arrival in Philadelphia. Since your return from the Fitzmaurices’, in fact. I hate the role of a scolding parent for it isn’t Albert St. Goar’s style at all—yet it might be said, my dear, that it has rarely been your role to provoke such scolding. You must adapt yourself to our new life; you must forget the old; indeed, I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten—” “Ah but I have forgotten!” Matilde interrupts, lightly touching St. Goar’s chin with her gloved fingers, “—I have forgotten, Father, far more than I have ever remembered.” “In any case,” St. Goar says stiffly, drawing away from his daughter, “—I don’t like your tone. I don’t like your arch mocking ‘Matilde’ manner. For it is not my ‘Matilde’ but a parody. For my ‘Matilde’ is sweet, and gracious, and always smiling, and quick to sympathize . . . yet shrewd beneath, and hardly anyone’s fool. And surely that is ‘Matilde,’ and you are she, so why this harlequinade?—for it’s done, I know, solely to provoke. I have no doubt that it shocked and displeased the Fitzmaurices, no less than it shocks and displeases me, and I do not countenance it; I do not wish it.” “Yes Father,” Matilde says meekly. “In Mrs. Clement-Stoddard’s presence you’re quiet to the point of rudeness, and in private, of late, you chatter like a magpie,” St. Goar accuses. “I do not wish it.” “Yes Father,” Matilde says meekly—though a strange little smile hovers about her lips. “There’s no reason for you to feel jealous of Eva, surely,” St. Goar says. “You are an exceptionally beautiful young woman who will soon have her own life, I am certain, once things get settled. You don’t, of course, dwell upon the past?—for that isn’t productive.” “Certainly not, Father,” Matilde says. “Didn’t I tell you?—I’ve forgotten more than I’ve ever remembered.” “You don’t, for instance, think of . . . him?” St. Goar asks. “Of ‘him’? What do you mean, Father?” Matilde asks, lifting her head at a quizzical angle. “Assuredly not; I don’t think at all.” “You have admirers already in Philadelphia, dear—or would have, if you encouraged them,” St. Goar says. “You need hardly concern yourself with the older generation.” “Yes Father,” says Matilde. “I’m a man in the prime of life, lonely after so many years for female companionship and domesticity,” St. Goar says. “Eva won’t be easily won and perhaps can’t be won, for she’s very different from—other women. She’s a woman set apart from women even of her class and station.” To this, Matilde makes no reply. “Naturally it pleases me she’s wealthy—I wouldn’t deny that—but it pleases me that she’s the very age she is, that her face is as it is, her eyes, her mouth, her hair, her superb wit—When one is in love, everything about the beloved pleases; for that is love.” “Is it, Father?” Matilde murmurs. “Your mother cheated me of the happiness of domestic life,” St. Goar says, “—she, and the others. But I will not remain cheated. I will claim my love before it is too late.” “Yes Father,” says Matilde. “And I hope you will be happy for me, when you see that I am happy,” St. Goar says, “—and will not continue to displease, as you have been.” “It is only ‘Matilde,’” Matilde says, tying more securely the pretty blue ribbon beneath her chin, “—and what is she to you, after all? She too might be handily forgotten.” “What are you saying?” St. Goar asks. “You know I’m devoted to you, dear. And I’m convinced that, out of my happiness, yours will spring.” “Will it, indeed?” says Matilde. “In any case, you know, I hardly need apply to you for permission to marry,” says St. Goar, “—any more than for permission to love.” “Indeed
not,” says Matilde, laughing. “Therefore I wish you and Mrs. Clement-Stoddard well. Therefore I wish the wedding might be next week. For the more wealth to you, Father, as to our ‘Roland,’ the less obligation to ‘Matilde,’ to marry at all.”

  At this, St. Goar draws sharply away from his daughter; for he is offended.

  “You must never speak of him in such a context, Millie,” he whispers, staring at her. “What are you thinking of!—you!”

  “‘What am I thinking of’?—‘I’?” says Matilde, smiling innocently, “—why, I scarcely know. Will you tell me?”

  4.

  “Does she love me as I love her?—she does. And will she refuse me a third time?—she cannot.”

  Approaching eight o’clock on the evening of 30 March 1916. He must delay no longer; he must leave; for he is due very soon at Mrs. Clement-Stoddard’s house, to dine (alone) with her; and to press upon her his final proposal of marriage. (For if pride won’t allow the widow to acquiesce, this time, pride won’t allow the widower St. Goar to humble himself and ask again.)

  He finishes his glass of English sherry, and, frowning, turns his head from side to side: three-quarters profile, seen from the left, is his strongest suit.

  “Can she refuse me a third time?” he whispers, “—she cannot!”

  He first proposed to Eva Clement-Stoddard in November 1915, scarcely two months after they were introduced: a tactical error. Naturally the lady was taken by surprise; stared at her admirer with an expression of genuine alarm. And no was her reply, thank you Mr. St. Goar but no, murmured in so low and rapid a voice, he had barely heard.

  The second proposal, however, made in January 1916, had surely been expected; for during the intervening weeks Eva had given her suitor ample reason to believe that she was coming to admire him. She paid him a flattering amount of attention in company; laughed happily at his remarks; casually slipped her arm through his as they walked together; invited him frequently to her house, for small parties as well as large; and didn’t seem to mind that they were beginning to be whispered of as a couple. When St. Goar told her that he loved her and wanted to marry her, she blushed painfully, and turned away, and said, stammering, that she was probably “too old and too settled” to think of such things; that, surely, he could not want her; and that she dared not deceive herself, that he did. St. Goar protested that he spoke the truth: he did love her: he did want to marry her: but Eva was too distraught to hear him out. “I must say no, Albert,” she whispered, drawing away, “—for I cannot allow myself to say yes.”