Elizabeth 09: Legacy

Darla gave me a quizzical but not unfriendly look. "You're a hipster, then, Ben? We live in the age of waxing, but you like the natural look?"

I could only grin in response. Darla seemed satisfied with that.

The evening ended most agreeably, with a dinner date for two days hence and the phone number of a friend of Darla's who worked at the historical society and could get me into Agnes Marlston's personal archives. Back in my room at last, I fired up my laptop and Googled Elizabeth Reclining. Delighted to have put together a bit of the puzzle at last but also a bit embarrassed to be presented with a nude painting of a long-ago family friend, I devoured every word of its Wikipedia page.

"Elizabeth Reclining is an early twentieth century painting (exact date unknown) by Edward Wharton, a lesser-known member of his era's English expatriate artists' colony in Paris. Although highly controversial for its presumed-exaggerated depiction of its titular subject's pubic hair, the painting is widely considered to be Morton's best; and it is certainly his most-remembered. After decades in private collections in France, it was obtained by London's Shoenfeld Museum of Erotic Art in 2004, despite continued debate among art historians as to whether or not it is truly an erotic painting."

About the Painting

Wharton is believed to have painted Elizabeth Reclining shortly before he migrated to Paris in 19-, while living in Westfordshire City with relatives of his then-fiancée, Agnes Marlston (who later became famous in her own right as a journalist during the Great War). During his stay in Westfordshire City, Wharton disclosed his homosexuality to Marlston and ended their engagement. It is unclear whether this occurred before or after he painted Elizabeth Reclining (and its two companion pieces, Elizabeth by the Fire and Elizabeth at the Hearth). What is known is that he had completed all three paintings upon his arrival in Paris; he sold all three to private collectors within a year of his arrival. Marlston's journals indicate that Elizabeth was a friend of her family and that she later became a close personal friend of Marlston herself, but further information on her relationship to Edward Morton is lacking. Morton himself does not appear to have ever commented on his subject.

Content

Elizabeth Reclining depicts its subject resting nude on a couch in an otherwise-empty sitting room. She is gazing to the viewer's left, presumably out a window as the light on her body suggests bright sunshine. Her facial expression is one of comfort and even naughty pleasure with her body being on display, an interpretation further supported by the fact that her hands lie at her sides, making no effort to shield any part of her body.

The most notable feature of Elizabeth's body is her abundant pubic hair, which is very thick and covers a much wider area than seen on most female nude paintings of its era or any other. This has led to widespread criticism of the painting, as well as debate about its accuracy. Art historian Chris Winstrow recounts that Elizabeth Reclining shocked viewers when displayed at Wharton's first show in Paris in 19-: "Debate raged through the hall: is it a joke? Is she wearing a wig down there? Is that giddy look in her eyes really one of pride, or is she struggling to overcome embarrassment at her bizarre appearance? But the painting sold for a princely sum all the same."

Controversy

Elizabeth's very hairy pubic area, and her evident pride in it, have inspired debate among art critics ever since the painting's unveiling as to how - and indeed whether - to interpret it. Winstrow reports that a consensus emerged among "serious critics" during and after Wharton's life that it was a reflection of his struggles with his sexuality. "Clearly he was trying to appreciate a woman's body but not quite succeeding," Winstrow concludes, "But for all that, he gave the art world one of its most idiosyncratic erotic beauties. One must nevertheless wonder what the real Elizabeth might have to say about being portrayed in such a way! Alas, Morton never commented on her real identity, and she remains lost to history."

Feminists and more progressive art critics often argue for a different interpretation of the painting. Noted critic Liz Crymzyck argues, "The very fact that a woman with natural - if unusual - features has inspired so much consternation in itself says a great deal about why this painting is so essential. Elizabeth, whoever she may have been, is clearly presenting herself to the world in an unapologetic, warts-and-all invitation to appreciate her as one would any woman and her natural beauty. Decades of male critics have utterly failed to do so, while others see her only as an erotic joke. In reality, she is neither erotic nor a joke. Rather, she is a blunt confrontation with the unreasonable and often unrealistic views the art world brings to all women's bodies - a confrontation most men are not up to enduring.

Ownership History

Despite causing a great deal of controversy at the 19- show in Paris, Elizabeth Reclining was sold to prominent banker Thomas d'Estaing, and was displayed in his (and later his son's) parlor for decades. D'Estaing's daughter Helene later recalled, "My brothers always had friends at school who just had to see this naked lady. She was absolutely legendary with them! I recall thinking, how very disappointed they're going to be with most of the women they end up with, if that's what they think we all look like underneath!"

Upon the younger d'Estaing's death in 19-, the painting was sold to Japanese investment banker Ichiro Tsukuyama, who subsequently sold it to the Shoenfeld in 2004. It has remained on display there ever since, despite protests from some fans and detractors alike who argue that it's not a work of erotica. The debate rages on comment sheets posted by visitors to the Shoenfeld: "Just because she's naked and hairy doesn't mean anything," argued one anonymous commenter in August 2010. A reply a month later argued, "It's not just that! it's also that she's inviting the viewer to appreciate her in a way you can't appreciate any other woman. She doesn't have to be erotic just because she looks like that, true, but she IS!"

Elizabeth's True Identity

Nothing is known of the real Elizabeth with any certainty, including the accuracy of Morton's portrayal of her body. His other nude painting of her, Elizabeth by the Fire, does portray her with the same features; but this could simply be a reflection of his personal tastes rather than of reality. Since Morton never painted another female nude, there is no opportunity to compare Elizabeth with any better-known model.

Agnes Marlston is rumoured to have become a close friend of Elizabeth, and her private journals (now in the possession of the Westfordshire Historical Society) are said to be replete with mentions of her; but these remain unpublished.

"Nothing known with any certainty..." I read that line again and again, and marveled at the realization that I probably knew more than anyone alive of the subject of this beautiful painting. Before long, my pleasure gave way to irritation - such a lovely memory didn't deserve to languish in obscurity! Besides, hadn't I already determined that this Elizabeth was the leader of the gang, the one who'd helped Great Grandma and Ms. Marlston along to becoming the heroes they were? Didn't she deserve some recognition for that in her own right?

Or maybe it was just that I was dying to know more about the stunningly beautiful woman in the painting. In any way, I figured thanks to Darla's contact, I had it at my fingertips to find out more about her. And I vowed to do so.

The following day, I didn't even bother pretending I was going to do any work on my thesis. At the stroke of nine o'clock, I phoned the historical society and asked for Darla's friend, Ruth.

"Speaking," said the woman who'd answered the phone.

"Oh, hello. My name is Ben -"

"Yes, Ben! I thought I might be hearing from you today. So you're the lucky guy that Darla told me all about last night?"

"She did?"

"She did, and she said you're a lovely bloke on an historical quest. I wish we heard more stories like that from our girlfriends. And yes, i can get you into Agnes' room, but you mustn't bring anything but a notebook and a pencil. I can make photocopies of anything you want, but I can't let you out of my sight with anything original. I'm sure you understand."

"Completely," I said. "I'm a history PhD candidate, so you know, I know the drill well."

"Darla said you were a smart one, all right. Listen, see you at eleven? It'll take me until then to get full clearance for the room, and there'll be some paperwork for you to sign."

"No problem," I said, already thinking that made for just enough time for another visit to the baths.

Two hours and one refreshing soak later, I arrived at the historical society and asked the older gentleman at the front desk for Ruth. Before he could answer, that now-familiar voice rang out from the office behind him. "Ben? Is that you?"

"Yes, it is!" I called out just as Ruth - tall and jeans-clad and looking cheerful - emerged from the office doorway. "Thanks so much for doing this for me."

"Anything for a gentleman who appreciates Agnes Marlston," she said, shaking my hand. "She never really got her due in her lifetime for all she did because she was a woman, you know. So I'm always glad to hear people still want to learn more about her."

She stepped off down the hall, and I followed with a quick nod of acknowledgment to the old man at the desk, who hadn't said a word. "Yes, well, she and my great grandmother were apparently very close back in the day," I explained.

"Irene or the other one?" Ruth asked.

"Irene. Did you go to Yarmouth?"

"No, but we get kids from there in here all the time, and I'm sure you know the rumours about the two of them."

"Yes," I said as we climbed the stairs. "I just learned about all that. But it's really the other one I'm trying to learn about right now. Elizabeth. No one seems to know much about her except for that painting."

"Isn't that a beautiful painting?" Ruth asked me over her shoulder. "Of course, I'm convinced all that hair wasn't real. I mean, come on!" She laughed, and I joined in. "A gay man's idea of what a woman would look like underneath, that's what I think. But he did a beautiful job anyway. And you're right, she is a sort of mystery."

"So you haven't explored these archives much yourself, have you?" I asked. We had arrived on the second floor, and she held the door open for me into a dimly lit hallway.

"There isn't a lot of time for that," she said, leading me down the hall. "Besides, Agnes Marlston wrote a lot. It'd take ages to work through it all." She unlocked a door and opened it, flipped the light switch and ushered me inside. "Welcome to Agnes' Private Stash, as we call it," she said. "Good luck finding out about Elizabeth. I'll just wait here." She sat down at a chair just inside the door. There was also a card table with another chair at our end of the room; the rest of the space was taken by five bookshelves stuffed floor to ceiling with notebooks, books and boxes. "The master index is on the table there," she said. "That's probably the best place to start. Our team catalogued everything when the collection first got here. I wasn't here yet, but I'm told there was a lot of competition just to get on that job. Usually we avoid it like the plague, but not this time."

"Thanks."

I sat down and took a moment just to look at the enormous bound volume before me on the table. One doesn't come anywhere near a PhD in history without running into a lot of situations like this, so I don't get intimidated easily. But that first moment when you embark on a mystery always does give rise to a sense of "where on earth do I begin?" And I was feeling it at that moment. Not even a last name to look up! I flipped aimlessly through the index for inspiration for a moment, until I remembered reading that Jonathan was apparently Great Grandma's cousin. Did Elizabeth marry him? Yes, Great Grandma's photographs and letters confirmed that they had a few kids together, so she probably did marry him.

I turned hopefully to the W's, and my heart flipped as I was rewarded with three columns of entries under "Wright, Elizabeth Hoxworth". I did have the presence of mind to turn to the H's and check her maiden name, but that only directed me back to Wright. Just as well, as those three columns covered more than i could hope to explore in the few hours at most that I might persuade Ruth to wait for me.

The next hour was a historian's dream. One delicious detail after another of my great grandmother's salad days and her two dear friends, photographs galore of the gang of friends I was starting to feel like I knew personally, mentions brief and detailed of Elizabeth and Great Grandma in Ms. Marlston's journals...and slowly but surely I began to put the pieces together about Elizabeth. Much as I'd gathered, she'd clearly been Ms. Marlston's hero back in those days, and very much a leader of their band. An editor by trade, a few years older than Ms. Marlston and apparently a lot more experienced in the real world before the latter's arrival in town, a mentor to Ms. Marlston in all sorts of ways when she first set out on her own, later on she married Jonathan Wright and had four children, and escaped to the countryside in time to avoid the city's decline, where she had a long and successful career as an editor and writing tutor and also managed her husband's law office.

But one mystery remained unsolved, and a second one arose.

The unsolved mystery was just what had ultimately become of Elizabeth, as she apparently outlived Ms. Marlston. The final mention of her in Ms. Marlston's diary, a few weeks before she passed, reported, Got a lovely letter from Elizabeth today. Yet another grandchild off to university! This time it's none other than my namesake, Teddy's youngest. I wonder has her father ever told her about me? I do, of course, feel safe in assuming he has never told her of our encounter. But how wonderful to know he must recall it just as fondly as I do. Such a wonderful evening that was, and truly a last hurrah for the old gang as it was also what inspired me to go abroad once again. How empty the ensuing years would have been had I not followed that calling! Oh, but I do miss the old gang so. No doubt that young Agnes will thrive at Cambridge, though. I'm sure she's got her father's sensibility and her grandmother's verve. (The dirty old lady in me also wonders if she's inherited their intimate forestation! Such would make a fine addition to the Elizabeth Chronicles if only I knew. Alas, I do not see how I shall ever have the opportunity to learn!)

Intimate forestation? Of course I had no doubt what that meant. And if Ms. Marlston knew Elizabeth's only son shared that feature, there could also be no doubt just what she meant by "our encounter"! Just how wild were my great grandmother's friends?!

The new mystery was that of the Elizabeth Chronicles. That mention was only one of many I ran across in Ms. Marlston's diaries, almost all of them consisting of sexual escapades (yes, including several with Great Grandma that put to rest any question about their relationship!). The hottest of these were underlined in red with a margin-note that said "Include in Elizabeth Chronicles" or something similar. But there was no mention of any such thing in the index. Something told me these Elizabeth Chronicles, whatever they were, would cut to the heart of Great Grandma's elusive friend and tell me what I really wanted to know. Perhaps, given how steamy all the stories that she directed there seemed to be, it would be a lot more information than I wanted - after all, this was my great grandmother we were talking about!

Nevertheless, once my last lead ran dry, I asked Ruth. "Say, you don't know anything about these 'Elizabeth Chronicles' she mentions again and again, do you?"

Ruth grinned. "You found out!"

"Found out what?" I asked.

"Ben, I'm sorry. I probably should have told you about that before I even brought you in here, but I couldn't resist seeing if you could find out about it for yourself. Most researchers who come in here don't, or at least they don't ask us about it. Honestly, I'd rather only share it with people who dig deep enough to ask after it."

"Thank you. But what is 'it'?"

"It's a collection of, well, the only word that fits is 'erotica' really, about Elizabeth and Ms. Marlston and your great grandmother and the men in their lives. Elizabeth most of all, though. She may be mostly forgotten today, but back then she was really something else, apparently. We think Ms. Marlston might have wanted the stories to be published after all concerned were dead. But she didn't leave clear instructions, so it's never happened. We've kept the original in our vault downstairs, and left it out of the index because there were concerns that it would overshadow Ms. Marlston's contributions to journalism. She was a hero, you know, and we didn't want her remembered as a porn star!"

"Makes sense," I admitted. "I don't suppose there's any chance of seeing these stories."

Ruth grinned. "You suppose wrong. I can't show you the original, of course, but we keep copies. And the archivist keeps such very sloppy records of how many copies there are on hand, she won't miss one."

"Are you sure she won't?"

"She's me, Ben. Just remember, Darla's an old friend of mine. She'll let me know if you don't treat this with the discretion it deserves."

"Hey, we are talking about my great grandmother's sex life, aren't we?" Now it was my turn to grin. "Just tell me, if this is such a top secret thing, why are you willing to leak a copy to a guy you just met?"

"Honestly, Ben, these stories are just too good not to share with people who will appreciate them. I do hope someday they have a proper release. We just haven't had any luck getting approval because no one seems to know exactly whom to ask. Agnes Marlston didn't leave any heirs of her own, you know. And there are some concerns about Irene Wright as well, since she was a prominent person in her own right and is easily identifiable in the stories. But in the meantime, we don't want such wonderful stories falling into obscurity."

I asked no more as Ruth locked the door and led me back to the elevator, and was more than happy to wait in the office lobby while she found me a copy of the coveted smut. It did take a while, but I had no complaints about the wait when I saw her emerge with a manuscript wrapped in blue paper. "You're gonna love it!" she said, handing it to me.

"Wow," I said. "How can I thank you for this?"

"Just be good to Darla, Ben. She's a sweet girl who's had some tough breaks."

After dropping off the precious parcel in my room, I still had most of the afternoon to kill. So I forced my attention back to my thesis research while The Elizabeth Chronicles sat there like a detective's leads on my bed. I got in a surprisingly productive few hours and then went out for a long walk and dinner, and I wondered just what Ruth meant about Darla and her "tough breaks". I was quickly growing quite fond of her, but that comment had me wondering just what to expect the following night. At least, I mused, I'd likely have some interesting stories to share from the book.

Only when I got back late in the evening did I open up the manuscript. Feeling too sleepy by then to bother trying to read it start to finish (it was much too long for that to be the least bit practical anyway!), I spent an hour or so dipping around, seeking out the juicy parts. There was no shortage of those as it turned out - Ruth hadn't been kidding when she'd called it erotica! I've never been a big fan of that particular genre, but this was like no other erotica I'd ever stumbled across. Elegant, romantic, treating the sex very much as a part of the story rather than the only point, and what a style Ms. Marlston had! Above all, it established beyond any real doubt that, shall we say, that painting of Elizabeth was wholly accurate after all. What an amazing woman she must have been! If the scenes featuring Great Grandma were a little awkward for me to get through, I found myself oddly pleased to know she'd had such a wild and enjoyable young womanhood. And more than ever, I knew why she'd never given up on her beloved Westfordshire City.