Cornelia and the Audacious Escapades of the Somerset Sisters Read online

  “‘Who is the more beautiful of the two of us,’ said Alexandra haughtily. ‘And which one of us Pablo prefers.’

  “‘Oh, no,’ moaned Gladys. ‘What have you done?’

  “‘Nothing,’ insisted Alexandra, exuding innocence. ‘I simply marched into the studio today and asked him to make up his mind. Or rather, that he tell Beatrice the truth: that he thinks I am the prettier one.’

  “‘Now, this is what is going to happen,’ Beatrice said, ignoring Alexandra’s last statement. ‘He told us about a Greek myth in which three powerful goddesses got into a fight over who was the most beautiful. A man named Paris—ironic, huh?—was called in to decide among the three. And so Pablo says that this will be like a modern version of that contest.’

  “‘So,’ Alexandra interrupted, ‘over the next three weeks, he’ll officially decide who’s prettier. Once he’s made the decision, he’ll paint a huge, important portrait of the winner. And then he’ll throw an enormous party in his studio and invite everyone in Paris to the unveiling of the painting.’

  “‘I’m going to spend this week with him in his studio, being sketched,’ said Beatrice, ‘and Alexandra’s going next week. The week after that, he will paint the victor’s portrait.’

  “Gladys and I looked at each other in dismay. We could see already that the next three weeks were going to be horrible.

  “So, that week Beatrice traipsed to Picasso’s studio each day to be studied and sketched by him. She came home each night looking very confident. Seven days passed, and then Alexandra went to the studio instead. The twins made a great show of being civil to each other during that time, for each was sure that she’d win. Gladys couldn’t stand the tension and spent most of her time out of the house, at the jazz clubs in an area called St. Germain des Prés. I barely came inside from my balcony, except to eat and sleep.

  “On the fifteenth day, Picasso called the twins to his studio and told them that he had made his decision. He scheduled the party at which the winner’s painting would be revealed for a week later.

  “Invitations went out to all of the artists, aristocrats, journalists, musicians, actors, and politicians in Paris, requesting their presence at the conclusion of this unusual contest. Newspapers and magazines wrote about it, and people in cafés on the riverbanks speculated about who would win and even placed bets. Before long, the twins became celebrities in Paris, and everyone wanted to know which one Picasso would choose.

  “The big night finally arrived. Gladys and I reluctantly agreed to go with the twins to the party. Beatrice came downstairs dressed in a big silver ball gown, with flowers in her hair. Alexandra followed her five minutes later, wearing a black ball gown and a diamond tiara. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I donned a plain green gown and wore no jewels. And I don’t know what on earth Gladys was wearing, but she looked like she was clad in a burlap sack of some sort.

  “‘Très chic, isn’t it?’ she whispered to me proudly, smoothing down the coarse fabric.

  “‘May the best lady win,’ said Beatrice, sticking her hand out in front of her. Alexandra shook it elegantly, and we all climbed into a waiting taxi.

  “When we arrived at Picasso’s large studio, quite a crowd had gathered outside. Flashbulbs popped as photographers took pictures of the twins getting out of the car. Reporters shouted to us to answer a few questions. They went absolutely crazy when Gladys lurched out of the car. She happily posed for the photographers, and then clomped inside after us.

  “‘They loved me,’ she said breathlessly.

  “Important, glamorous people from all over the city packed the studio, and waiters milled through the crowd carrying trays laden with champagne glasses. I spotted Picasso for the first time, deeply absorbed in conversation with three pretty, doting actresses. A wreath of white hair wrapped above his ears and around the back of his head, which was shining bald on top. He had very intense dark eyes and a broad, strong nose. While many of the men in the room wore tuxedos, Picasso wore a black-and-white-striped shirt, making him look like an escaped prisoner. He smoked continuously and seemed to be enjoying the whole affair immensely.

  “On the far wall of the studio hung the painting. Hidden by a huge red velvet drape, it nearly covered the whole wall. Once the room was overflowing with people, Picasso stood on a chair in front of the shrouded painting. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. The crowd hushed and everyone faced him, and flashbulbs popped as he talked.

  “‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Because our guests of honor tonight are American, I will give this speech mostly in English. All of you know why you are here. I have made my decision, but before I reveal it to you, I will introduce you to my two muses. First, je vous présente Miss Alexandra Somerset, who is a Hera moderne.’

  “Alexandra walked up through the crowd toward the artist. Hera was the name of one of the goddesses in the fabled Greek contest. As the queen of the gods, Hera was very handsome and arrogant. The crowd cheered as Alexandra took her place next to Picasso. With her tiara, she looked very regal herself.

  “‘And now, je vous présente Miss Beatrice Somerset, who is our Athena forte,’ the artist shouted.

  “Athena, the warrior goddess, had been another contestant. Accordingly, the word forte means ‘strong.’ More applause erupted from the crowd, and Beatrice’s silver dress glinted like armor in the spotlight.

  “‘And now, it is time to show you my choice,’ said Picasso as he leaped off the chair and strode up to the painting. Everyone in the crowd held their breath. I grasped Gladys’s hand nervously. The moment had come at last.

  “Picasso grabbed the velvet and tore it from the painting. ‘Voilà!’ he shouted.

  “Suddenly both Alexandra and Beatrice let out a terrible shriek at the same time. The crowd surged forward to inspect the result, and Gladys and I stumbled ahead with the mob. Everyone erupted into uproarious laughter when they saw the painting.

  “‘What’s going on here?’ Gladys yelled to me, scowling. She barreled through the crowd to the front of the room and roughly pushed several photographers aside. We stood in front of Picasso’s work at last—and gasped.

  “It was horrible! The painting showed a woman’s body with two heads that faced each other and appeared to be screaming bloody murder. Farther down, the creature scratched at its body with clawed hands. The title underneath the painting read:

  La Bête avec Deux Têtes

  Or, in English, ‘The Two-Headed Beast.’

  “Picasso stood proudly in front of his work, clearly reveling in the commotion he had caused. The photographers feverishly snapped pictures of Alexandra and Beatrice as they reacted to the painting.

  “‘You’re the beast, not us!’ shouted Beatrice, pointing at Picasso. She faced Alexandra. ‘That horrible man! We can’t let him get away with this, Alexandra!’

  “‘Absolutely not!’ Alexandra yelled, enraged. The twins snatched up the hems of their dresses and plowed through the crowd to the far side of the studio. When they reemerged at the front of the room again, they carried huge buckets of paint in their hands.

  “‘Now!’ Beatrice cried, and with all of their might, they threw paint all over Picasso and the painting. The crowd cheered more wildly than ever and the photographers went crazy again. Beatrice spotted Gladys and me amidst all of the faces, and she and Alexandra ran toward us.

  “‘Let’s get out of here!’ she shouted. The four of us pushed through the crowd out of the studio, past the journalists and photographers outside, and ran down the street.

  “A full, heavy moon lit the night sky, and we decided to walk home along the Seine River. The twins looked at each other’s ruined dresses and started laughing.

  “‘I secretly thought that he was a bad artist all along,’ said Alexandra. ‘He hardly got a detail of either of our faces right, even after all of that sketching.’

  “‘That painting looked like it was done by a five-year-old,’ Beatrice snorted. ‘He should have
been taking lessons from us.’

  “‘And by the way,’ Alexandra said to Beatrice, looking down at her sister’s paint-spattered ball gown, ‘our mother would be so proud of your outfit tonight. It would make every debutante in New York green with envy.’

  “They laughed together, linked arms, and walked on ahead of Gladys and me.

  “And that was the end of the art lessons with

  Picasso.”

  Cornelia wanted to stand up and cheer. “I can’t believe that Alexandra and Beatrice had the temerity to throw paint on him like that,” she said. “Temerity” meant “boldness” or “audaciousness.”

  “I was astounded too,” said Virginia. “But Gladys and I were very impressed by their resourcefulness. The Somerset sisters really did know how to create a spectacle.”

  “Well, that man deserved it,” said Cornelia, her spirits much higher than when she’d come into Virginia’s apartment earlier that day.

  “Do you want to hear an amusing postscript to that story?” Virginia asked. “Years later, I read a magazine interview with Picasso, and he talked at length about the contest. He said that it was a shame that the painting had been ruined, for he thought that it was one of the best he’d ever done.

  “And the funny thing is, it would probably be worth tens of millions of dollars today if he had simply put away his paints and cleaned up before having company over.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Howling Dog

  One afternoon several weeks later, Cornelia came home from school to find an unpleasant surprise in her apartment. When Madame Desjardins opened the front door for Cornelia, she immediately put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Shhhhhh! Your mother is practicing with Madame von Harding. Why don’t you run up to your room for a little while, and I’ll bring you a snack.”

  Cornelia scowled. Nina von Harding was Lucy’s best friend and an imperious opera singer. Every few months, she came to the apartment and Lucy played the piano while Nina sang. She had such a powerful voice that once she had sung a china vase off a table in the living room, like a shrill siren luring a sailor to his death. Disgruntled neighbors always slipped notes under the door after practice sessions with Nina.

  After the piano itself, Nina was Cornelia’s gravest enemy. They had never liked each other. When Cornelia was little, around four or five years old, she liked to sit at the top of the staircase and howl like a coyote whenever Nina sang in the music room below. Once, after Cornelia had let out a particularly wrenching caterwaul, Nina threw open the doors to the music room and marched to the bottom of the staircase. She pointed a long, bony finger up at Cornelia.

  “You,” she said accusingly, “are a terrible child. Just awful.”

  And then she burst into tears. Cornelia giggled. Lucy ran out and collected Nina. She steered the weeping singer back into the music room, shooting Cornelia a boy-are-you-in-trouble look before she closed the doors. Cornelia had always considered it a quiet victory, and her private nickname for the lady was “The Howling Dog.”

  Today, however, Cornelia secretly didn’t mind being shuttled up to her room, for she had a package in her coat pocket that she wanted to open right away. When she had walked into the lobby of the building a few minutes earlier, Walter had stopped her.

  “Come over ’ere, lassie,” he had said to Cornelia sternly. “A small parcel came in the post for you.” And he opened the closet door behind the front desk.

  Cornelia had been genuinely astonished. Who would have sent something to her? Lucy was here in New York, and in any case, she was not in the habit of sending gifts to Cornelia from faraway locations.

  “Cheerio—’ere it is,” said Walter, his voice muffled from inside the closet. He emerged holding a small cardboard box, which was indeed addressed to a Miss Cornelia S. Englehart. The return address was a bookstore. Walter had looked at her inquisitively as she turned the mystery package every which way.

  “So, Miss Cornelia, d’you have a boyfriend who’s sendin’ you presents, then?” he had asked her jokingly.

  “Don’t be ludicrous,” Cornelia had said, blushing as she tucked her prize into her big coat pocket and walked quickly to the elevators. “Ludicrous” was Cornelia’s showy word for “ridiculous.”

  Now Madame Desjardins reached for the collar of Cornelia’s coat, ready to help her take it off. “Oh,” she said. “It must be raining out still.”

  Cornelia dodged the housekeeper’s hand. “I’ll hang it up later,” she said, protective of the secret package hidden away in her pocket. “I’m still cold,” she added lamely, and then she ran up the stairs.

  When she got into her bedroom, she ripped the package open and found a book inside. Her heart gave a happy little leap when she saw the book’s title: The Superior Person’s Second Book of Weird and Wondrous Words. She rustled around in the package and unearthed a note from the bookstore on behalf of the sender. With relish, Cornelia yanked the note out of its little envelope. It read:

  Dear Cornelia S.,

  Another cache of words to add to your treasury.

  With greatest affection,

  V. S.

  Cornelia was thrilled, for she had indeed exhausted the first book. And this new one had come just at the right time, since The Howling Dog was sure to require a few vocabulary zingers that very evening. She was poring over the pages when she heard Madame Desjardins lumbering up the stairs. Cornelia crammed the package under the bed and threw herself into her armchair with an old book.

  As usual, labored breathing from the climb accompanied the knock at the door. “A little sandwich for you,” said Madame Desjardins as she came into the room and set a tray on the desk.

  “Thank you,” said Cornelia, looking innocent.

  “Tonight I am not going to be here,” said Madame Desjardins, clicking on the desk lamp, as per the daily routine. “I will go to a concert with my niece in Brooklyn. It is planned a long time ago. Your mother will take you out to dinner, with Madame von Harding, probably.”

  Cornelia’s heart sank. “Can’t you order something for me, like Ingrid does?” she asked gloomily.

  “Non,” said the housekeeper. “Madame Lucille says you are to go out.”

  Downstairs, Nina sang at full strength. Cornelia imagined her mother trapped in a room with a Category Five hurricane.

  “Maybe you can pretend that you are sick, and she will stay at home for the evening,” Madame Desjardins discreetly suggested, clearly feeling sorry for Cornelia.

  “That never works,” said Cornelia.

  Madame Desjardins shrugged in agreement and patted Cornelia’s head sympathetically. When she left the room and closed the door, Cornelia whipped out the new book from Virginia and studied it until the light from outside grew dim.

  At around eight o’clock, the guttural wailing ceased downstairs and the doors of the music room opened.

  “Cornelia!” Lucy called from the foot of the stairs.

  “Are you hungry, darling? We’re going to Pastis—that restaurant in the Meatpacking District. You know, the one with the good French fries. Come downstairs now.”

  Cornelia pulled on her shoes slowly and trudged down the stairs with her coat under her arm. Lucy and Nina talked in the kitchen. They didn’t hear Cornelia come downstairs, so she delayed going in to greet them for as long as possible.

  “Lucy, listen to me,” Nina said. “It was bound to happen again sooner or later. He is a very attractive man, you know. And anyway, why should you care? He’s been out of your life for years! Look how well you’ve done on your own! You’ve raised a child, even if she is an idiot savant, and you have an immortal career. You’re practically Callas, honey, an absolute legend.”

  Cigarette smoke wafted into the hallway. “Well, it’s still unpleasant to see him get married again,” said Lucy in a wavering voice. “He doesn’t even know what the words ‘commitment’ and ‘responsibility’ mean.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette. “Well, at least the press has left me alone this
time. Not like the last two times. I could barely even leave the building without some photographer from the New York Post leaping out at me like a mugger.”

  “Well, if you think your romantic life is bad, listen about mine, honey,” Nina said, changing the subject. “I went out with that lawyer again last night. First he asked me if I’ve ever heard of Puccini, and then he told me that he was, quote, instrumental in bringing Polish ham to the Americas.”

  Cornelia had heard enough. She stalked into the kitchen to rescue her mother from Nina.

  “Hello, you rebarbative hinny,” said Cornelia to the singer, smiling sweetly. “Hinny” meant “the offspring of a female donkey and a male horse,” and “rebarbative” meant “repulsive and off-putting.” In response, Nina shot Cornelia a withering look.

  Lucy suppressed a smile. She swept over to her daughter and kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s go get something to eat, darling,” she whispered into Cornelia’s hair.

  Twenty minutes later, Cornelia was stuffed into a booth with Lucy and Nina at Pastis. Cornelia propped the tall menu up on the table and stared at its contents. A waiter minced up to the table.

  “I’ll have the escargots,” ordered Lucy. “And my daughter will have a hamburg—”

  “No,” interrupted Cornelia. “I would like the moules, s’il vous plaît, and a chocolat chaud. Merci beaucoup.” She had no idea what moules were, but if they were good enough for Virginia, they were good enough for her.

  The waiter looked impressed as he whisked away the menus. Cornelia peeked shyly out of the corner of her eye to see if Lucy had noticed her sophisticated order.

  Her mother stared at her. “Where did you learn those French food words?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing a French class on your report card.”

  Cornelia had her answer all ready. “From Madame Desjardins,” she answered.

  “Ah, of course,” said Lucy, sipping a glass of water.

  Nina looked as though she could care less whether Cornelia had ordered moules or a plate of fried rat. She slugged down a glass of champagne and turned to Lucy.