The Galisteo Escarpment. Douglas Atwill
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jazz group.
She sat on one of the stools at the bar, talking to the barman and a stranger on the stool next to her. She waved to the three and motioned them to take a far table in the otherwise empty lounge. Her conversation with the two men continued for a few minutes, and then she joined them.
“Let’s get all your drink orders,” she said. The barman obliged.
“Margaret, you look fantastic, as usual,” Neil said.
“Thank you, dear. A little pulling up, only.”
“So, I can’t wait. What is so important you’ve come all the way to France?”
“I have a letter here. It’s from your Uncle Lionel. I’ll let you read it and then the two of your must also read it.” She handed Neil a sealed envelope.
“By way of explanation to Carrie and Sam. Lionel is my older brother. He is the owner and headmaster of a School of Art in Santa Fe. Also my favorite family member. There are interesting troubles at the school and I’m here on his behalf.”
Neil opened the envelope and it read:
Dear Nephew:
Circumstances require me to ask an enormous favor, to humble myself deeply and ask that you come immediately to my rescue. The Monmouth clan has always clustered together in time of danger and we must circle now, all Scotland ablaze with kilts akimbo and swords sharpened.
Events have conspired to produce good fortune for Lionel Monmouth School of Art, not, I must add, without results. Two of my former students, a Mr. Brendt Basse-Noir and a Miss Martha Noggidge, were interviewed this January by The New York Times, featuring their meteoric rise in the New York world of art. Each now earns a handsome sum annually from their endeavors. They were good, but not excellent students of my school.
You are ahead of me here, I know. They gave the Monmouth School and me, personally, credit for their spectacular rise, giving my small enterprise the dazzling light of notoriety. Instead of the usual half a dozen applications for new students this spring, I have received over fifty for the fall term. Alas, most of the applicants seem qualified, having completed their undergraduate time with honors.
With some expansions and revisions, I might be able to accommodate forty new students for the term starting this September. We are refurbishing the old studios here, finding accommodation in the town for most of them. You’ll remember Miss Louisa Marriner, my aide-de-camp, who is rallying everybody together for this onslaught.
This is where you and Sam come into the scenario. With both of you holding Masters of Arts Cum Laude from the Royal Academy, you are well qualified by any measure to teach art in an American school. I implore both of you to come to Santa Fe for a year, at salaries of $32,000 and teach at the Monmouth School. It would vastly aid your beleagured uncle and you would be young stars in my firmament. We will discuss details after you have indicated your assent to Margaret, who has graciously agreed to hand deliver this and record your reponse. .
I well know that both of you consider Santa Fe a stale backwater in the world of Art, justly forgotten in the currents that really matter, and that you have your hearts set on New York. One year set aside before that quest would pull your Monmouth family out of its dilemma and it could strengthen your hand in the onslaught of Gotham. I implore you both.
Respond immediately, love
Lionel.
Neil said on finishing the letter, “Margaret, this isn’t fair.”
“Let Sam and Carrie read it and we’ll talk.”
Carrie read it first and then Sam. Margaret ordered more drinks for everybody and then they were set to talk about it.
“I’ll say again, Margaret, this just isn’t fair. You know I’ve had my heart set on going to New York and so has Sam.”
“It would help Lionel enormously and it would make your mother happy.”
Neil continued, “And that bit about the Monmouth clan in their kilts clustered together in time of Low-land danger has the sound of you, not Lionel.”
“Guilty, I must say. I thought it might insert a tone of gravitas to the letter if we had to send it in the mail. But it is a subject not without merit. Your family does need help and it’s only fair, considering what the family has done for you over the years, that you return it in kind.”
“No, Margaret. I remember those summers with Lionel. Santa Fe is a Podunk backwater with mostly third-rate painters posing as important and grand. It will never be on the edge of art.”
She turned to Sam, “What do you think, Sam? Just one year in Santa Fe, which heaven knows is not a backwater dump but an important, international-artist conclave. You could save most of your salary and it would give you a year of living expenses in the bank before you go to New York.”
“It makes sense, Mrs. Bronson, but if Neil doesn’t like it. . . .”
Neil interrupted, “Besides, Carrie is not mentioned in the letter at all. She has a degree, as well, and we were planning to stay together this next year.”
“I am sure Lionel can find a place for Carrie, as well.”
They went into dinner and tried to discuss other things. Margaret steered the conversation to the Cote d’Azur, criminal overdevelopment, but her heart was not in persiflage. She turned to Carrie for her next assault.
“Carrie, my dear, would you take a teaching position at the Monmouth School? Wouldn’t it be a good way to get armed for the art career you all want eventually in New York?”
“Mrs. Bronson, I couldn’t if Neil is against it.”
Margaret said, “Ah, well, Neil. Son. It’s up to you. Surely a short year out of a long life, and the Monmouths gave you the great advantage of longevity as well, would not be too much to ask. Think how fast the last year has passed. You would be in Soho or Tribeca before you know it, doing whatever it is you can’t do in Santa Fe.”
Sam had been quiet until now. “Maybe your mother is right, Neil. When these last five hundred dollars are gone, that’s it. We each have thirty landscape paintings, correction: twenty-eight, as our sole assets. There certainly is a chance that the exhibit in London won’t materialize or if it does, that we don’t sell as many pictures as Carrie anticipates. Waiting on tables in New York is okay, and it’s what I’ve always planned. But why, if we don’t have to? Thirty-two thousand.”
Neil said, “I still say no. Life is too short, despite the alleged Monmouth longevity, to take detours here and there. And people have a way of getting stuck in the sand in Santa Fe, not going on to their potential.”
Sam said, “But we would all be there together. And maybe we could learn something in the teaching of art for a year. It never entered my mind before, but I am sure we would have time to work on our own paintings, a portfolio to show to New York galleries. I think we should say yes.”
Carrie nodded her assent, looking guiltily at Neil. He realized that the tide had turned on him and he certainly did not want to be in New York without Sam and Carrie. He could scarcely go on there alone and let the two of them help his own uncle two thousand miles away.
“Okay, Margaret, I give in.” Neil thought of the dozens of other times he had said the same thing, the dutiful child.
“You always were a good boy, giving into mama’s wishes.”
“Don’t push it, Margaret. I agree, but I have some requests, no, demands, before this can take place. First, we all have houses, nice houses, provided for us so we can, in fact, save our salaries for New York. And there will be separate studios for each of us.”
Margaret said, “I have been given authority to offer whatever it takes. I think that your housing was understood, but I will clarify that with Lionel. The Casa Marriner is a huge compound, you know, with