Elena - Thomas H. Cook - ebook

Elena ebook

Thomas H. Cook

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A brother recalls the magnificent life of his sister, the greatest writer of her Age. A launch party is underway for a hotly anticipated biography, the life story of Elena Franklin. As a young woman, Elena was one of the most promising literary talents of the 1920s, and over the years her legend grew. Her biographer, Martha Farrell, has combed through all the evidence of Elena's genius and passion, from her early years in New York to her expatriate life in Paris. The result is a monumental work - but among the party's crowd is the man who knows the book is an empty shell. Only William, Elena's brother, knew the truth about the famed author. Martha's flawed biography spurs his memory, and he recalls how the temperamental baby grew into a legend. He knew Elena's hidden pain, shared their family secrets, and draws his own portrait of the troubled soul that lay behind her artistic gifts. Review Quote: "A leisurely, elegant novel." - Library Journal "[Elena] will ring true for those familiar with the exigent nature of the artistic process." - Publishers Weekly Biographical note: Thomas H. Cook (b. 1947) is the author of nearly two dozen critically lauded crime novels. Born in Fort Payne, Alabama, Cook published his first novel, Blood Innocents, in 1980 while serving as the book review editor of Atlanta magazine. Two years later, on the release of his second novel, The Orchids, he turned to writing full-time. Cook published steadily through the 1980s, penning such works as the Frank Clemons trilogy, a series of mysteries starring a jaded cop. He found breakout success with The Chatham School Affair (1996), which won an Edgar Award for best novel. His work has been praised by critics for his attention to psychology and the lyrical nature of his prose. Besides mysteries, Cook has written two true-crime books, Early Graves (1992) and the Edgar-nominated Blood Echoes (1993), as well as several literary novels, including Elena (1986). He lives and works in New York City.

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Contents

Cover

About the Book

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

EARLY WORKS

NEW ENGLAND MAID

CALLIOPE

INWARDNESS

THE QUALITY OF THOUGHT IN AMERICAN LETTERS

TO DEFINE A WORD

Looking for more suspense?

Cover

Begin Reading

About the Book

A brother recalls the magnificent life of his sister, the greatest writer of her Age.

A launch party is underway for a hotly anticipated biography, the life story of Elena Franklin. As a young woman, Elena was one of the most promising literary talents of the 1920s, and over the years her legend grew. Her biographer, Martha Farrell, has combed through all the evidence of Elena’s genius and passion, from her early years in New York to her expatriate life in Paris. The result is a monumental work - but among the party’s crowd is the man who knows the book is an empty shell.

Only William, Elena’s brother, knew the truth about the famed author. Martha’s flawed biography spurs his memory, and he recalls how the temperamental baby grew into a legend. He knew Elena’s hidden pain, shared their family secrets, and draws his own portrait of the troubled soul that lay behind her artistic gifts.

Review Quote:

“A leisurely, elegant novel.” - Library Journal

“[Elena] will ring true for those familiar with the exigent nature of the artistic process.” - Publishers Weekly

About the Author

Thomas H. Cook (b. 1947) is the author of nearly two dozen critically lauded crime novels. Born in Fort Payne, Alabama, Cook published his first novel, Blood Innocents, in 1980 while serving as the book review editor of Atlanta magazine. Two years later, on the release of his second novel, The Orchids, he turned to writing full-time.

Cook published steadily through the 1980s, penning such works as the Frank Clemons trilogy, a series of mysteries starring a jaded cop. He found breakout success with The Chatham School Affair (1996), which won an Edgar Award for best novel. His work has been praised by critics for his attention to psychology and the lyrical nature of his prose. Besides mysteries, Cook has written two true-crime books, Early Graves (1992) and the Edgar-nominated Blood Echoes (1993), as well as several literary novels, including Elena (1986). He lives and works in New York City.

Elena

Thomas H. Cook

 

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

 

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

 

Copyright © 2014 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

 

For the original edition:

Copyright © 2011 by The Mysterious Press, LLC, 58 Warren Street, New York, NY. U.S.A.

 

Copyright © 1986 by Thomas H. Cook

 

Project management: Lori Herber

Cover adaptation: Christin Wilhelm, www.grafic4u.de

Cover design by Jason Gabbert

 

E-book production: Jouve Germany GmbH & Co. KG

 

ISBN 978-3-95859-012-0

 

www.luebbe.de

www.bastei-entertainment.com

 

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this e-book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Ron Blackwell, Greg Bush,

Cliff Graubart, Norman and Mary Levine,

Janine and Richard Perry, and Susan Terner

New Yorkers

And for Gerard Van der Leun, who kept his steady eye upon this text

When what we hoped for came to nothing, we revived.

—Marianne Moore

PROLOGUE

At the end of the room, the books were arranged in a tall pyramid on a long table. Elena’s face adorned the cover of each volume, giving the entire configuration an oddly shattered appearance, as in a cubist portrait, each facet at once secretive and revealing.

Jason Findley stood next to me, still tall and straight, not in the least stooped by age. His manner remained as thoroughly Arthurian as it had ever been, and when he moved, gently lifting his glass to Elena’s portrait, one could almost hear the soft creak of his armor.

“It’s the perfect picture for the book jacket,” he said.

“It will do,” I said. Actually, I thought it overly posed, for our unbuttoned age. Still, it did convey a sense of what my sister was like at forty-five, the luminous face against a field of black suggesting something self-sustained, formidable and grave.

“I didn’t expect to outlive her,” Jason said, his eyes still locked on the imposing tower of books that stood only a few yards from him.

I glanced about. The room was beginning to fill now. Publishing parties are often crowded, everyone wanting to see, be seen; everyone relishing the privilege of being among the scribblers, as if writers were the ones who made the world, as Elena herself once said, rather than the ones who simply marked it down.

Jason turned to me. “Have you read the book?”

“Of course. In galleys.”

“And?”

“It’s thorough enough,” I told him, “but it certainly won’t be the last biography of Elena.”

“No, I suspect not,” Jason said softly. “She was so … protean.” He smiled. “Whatever that means.” The serenity with which he now spoke of my sister sharply contrasted with the tumultuousness of their experience together — the early hope and later anguish.

I looked at the portrait once again. Elena’s face stared back at me from a hundred separate angles, her eyes frozen, utterly inanimate.

Of those present at this reception, only I could recall the first flashing of those eyes, the way they searched a room, always latching onto color, movement, any change of light. And I remembered how, later, they seemed to draw the world into them, filter it through her restless mind, then release it back to us, more ordered, perhaps a little tamed.

“Are you still living on the Cape?” Jason asked.

“Yes.”

“Beautiful up there.”

“Yes, it is.”

“That house on the bay,” Jason said. “We had some fine times, didn’t we? Planting that flower garden of Elena’s, remember?”

I could see the three of us struggling with that sandy, unforgiving soil, Elena with her battered hoe and Jason crouched on the ground, digging furiously with his spade.

“We had good times,” I said, remembering the bad.

For a time, Jason and I stood silently together. Then he spotted another old friend across the room and excused himself, walking away, his hand grasped tightly to a cane which appeared more hindrance than support. At that instant, he seemed to represent for me everything that totters toward its end — so different from Hart Crane diving over the rail of the Orizaba and into the sea, or Matthiessen climbing out the window of the Manger Hotel, figures in that loss which is as perilous to look upon as to avoid, and which, as Elena wrote, “is perfectly rendered, in all its protest and derision, by the first eleven words of Howl.”

From behind, I heard a stirring in the crowd. I turned and saw Martha Farrell, the author of Elena’s biography. She was beaming at the people gathered around her. This was her day, her party, her book. The polite applause was hers, as well as the brief esteem it represented. But there would be none of this, not the book, the author, or the celebration, without first the life, Elena’s.

Christina Waterman walked steadily beside Martha. She was in charge of Parnassus now, the inheritor of the legendary press her father had founded. Though dead now, Sam Waterman, Elena’s publisher, was alive in the decor of the room, its towering windows and overstuffed chairs. They were like the man himself, larger than one would expect, and more generous. Christina seemed little more than a mild liqueur after the banquet of her father.

“So happy you could be here, William,” she said as she stepped up and embraced me with one of those quick, glancing motions young women use on old men, dodging the smell of camphor. “I understand you wrote a very appreciative letter about the book.”

“Yes.”

“Very complimentary.”

“Martha worked hard. She deserves some credit.”

“Any compliment from you, William, is something I cherish,” Martha said as she joined us.

As a sentence, it worked rather like a swoon, one of those graceful dips women make in romantic novels when the masculine presence becomes too much for them. Perhaps there was a time when her inflated deference would have appealed to my vanity. But I am old now, and such remarks serve only to make me feel like a piece of crumbling statuary.

“Actually,” Christina said quickly, “I was thinking of using a couple of quotes from your letter as part of the promotion.” She eyed me cautiously. “Would you have any objection to that?”

“None.”

She smiled. “I don’t suppose it would be appropriate for you to review the book yourself?” she asked.

“I think not,” I told her. Oiling the motor is one thing; pushing the car is quite another. “It’ll be reviewed everywhere. Times. Front page, I’d say.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Christina said, “I’m sure of it.” She glanced at her watch. “We’d better get started,” she said to Martha.

The two of them bustled off to the front of the room, where a microphone stood like a thin, lonely guard before the table of books. Christina stepped up to it, and the crowd grew quiet and attentive.

“Everyone knows we’re gathered here today to honor one of the great literary figures of our time,” she said. A small burst of applause rose briefly, then drifted down like the last bits of confetti. Christina took one of the books from the table behind her and lifted it to the crowd. “It is entitled Elena Franklin: A Life,” she continued. “And that is what it is, the story of a great and honored life.” She smiled. “In Elena Franklin, there was nothing to debunk.”

No, I thought, nothing to debunk. Martha’s book was relentlessly thorough, monumentally detailed. But there was something missing still: I had read over six hundred pages about Elena Franklin, but had not, even for the briefest moment, felt the breath, heard the voice, sensed the heart, of my sister. And so it seemed to me that all of Martha’s labor had come to nothing, that Elena now lived imprisoned in a book, her soul flattened under page after airless page, and that some breeze should be called forth to sweep away this vast, accumulated dust, a small but feeling wind to set her free.

EARLY WORKS

The first thing I remember is how small she was, and I think now that part of what I always felt for Elena — wrongly felt — resided in this first impression of her smallness.

I had not been well for the last few days, and so I had not been permitted to accompany my father to Dr. Houston’s clinic to bring my mother home. My Aunt Harriet stayed with me, a large, sour woman, who moved ponderously under her black floor-length dress. Her life had been bedeviled by an erratic, drunken husband, and I suppose that the bit of advice she endlessly repeated to me that morning was the very sort she had given herself for twenty years: “You’ll have to adjust, William, you’ll just have to adjust.” She meant that I had to adjust to no longer being an only child, but beyond this, I think, she also meant a larger adjustment, the one that must be made to the infinite quirkiness of life, its randomness and disarray.

I was only five years old, of course, hardly capable of understanding any but the most blatant ruminations. Still, from the painful way in which Aunt Harriet spoke of my coming adjustments, I gathered that having a sister was to be a most unpleasant circumstance. So I watched out the window, my face near the glass, waiting for this new intrusion upon my life, this ominous arrival.

She came in a black hansom cab, one of the last to grace the streets of Standhope, Connecticut. The driver sat rigidly on top of the coach, his gloved hands pulling back the reins. In his elegant black coat and top hat, he looked determined to ward off the clanging vulgarity of the motorcar.

My father stepped briskly from the coach, turned back, and lifted his hand to my mother. She took it and eased herself down to the ground, the tip of her shoe dipping into the freshly fallen snow. She held a small bundle in her arms, which she hugged to her breast.

And so Elena came home. She was wrapped in a large pink blanket, and it wasn’t until my mother had placed her in her crib and my father had lifted me into his arms that I could see her.

Lying on her back, she did not look much larger than a rolled-up newspaper. Her hands were balled up into two tiny red fists about the size of half-dollar pieces. Her cheeks were flushed with the cold and seemed much too large for her face. Her eyes were tightly closed, so I did not bother to say hello.

“This is your sister,” my father said. “Ain’t she a pip?”

My mother leaned over the crib and unnecessarily adjusted the frilled collar that encircled Elena’s throat.

“Where’d you get her?” I asked.

My father and mother exchanged knowing glances.

“From Dr. Houston,” my father said quickly. “From his clinic.”

“Is she going to live here now?”

“From now on.”

I looked down at her again. So this was Elena, my sister. She appeared too small to be a real person, and I could not imagine that she would ever become one, that she would grow large like me, run and play and make noise as I did. Perhaps she could sit on a table like a vase of flowers, or move very slowly, like the last efforts of a wind-up toy. But that she would ever be fully alive, know her mind and speak it, seek a way in the world that was her own and no one else’s — this was beyond my most distant imagining.

From the beginning, everything belonged to Elena. She owned space, and no place was safe from her invasion. She plowed through closets and cabinets, scattering everything in her wake. She pulled clothes from their drawers and lamps from their tables. She ripped at magazines and pulled down curtains, covering herself so completely that I could hardly hear the giggling underneath.

She owned time, and night meant nothing to her. She raged against the way it confined and limited her, and for hours I would lie in my bed listening to the tiny squeak of the rocking chair as my mother tried to soothe Elena into the sleep she hated.

Elena had nothing to recommend her. She slobbered her food out of both sides of her mouth, dirtied herself almost hourly, was always sticky and malodorous. And yet, my mother and father adored her. They washed and dressed her, powdered her behind and cooed lovingly into her small, pink ears. They showed her off to everyone, and these other people, sometimes total strangers, fell immediately under Elena’s spell. Their faces lit up with broad, beaming smiles, their voices turned high and affectionate. I had never experienced anything so utterly bizarre.

As the months passed, Elena grew larger and more tyrannical. When I tried to walk away from her, she managed to follow me, her legs shooting out in all directions, her feet scuffing against the wooden floor, her head often banging into chairs or low-slung tables. She did not so much toddle as lunge, her arms beating against the air or flapping at her sides like unfledged wings.

She also began to speak. The babble of grunts and moans became isolated words. The first one was “more,” and it was directed at some milky squashed substance in her bowl. “More!” she shouted, opening her mouth to its full, red width, her voice almost rattling the dishes in the cabinet over her head.

Through little skips in time, Elena’s hair lengthened and grew darker. She began to rope words together into short sentences. Her eyes, instead of turning brown like mine, deepened into a darker blue. She cried less often, though she would still startle suddenly in the night and rouse herself to a terrible frenzy.

In response to Elena’s loss of infancy, my mother became less indulgent with her. She slapped at her hands when Elena grabbed for her sewing, scolded her mercilessly for spills, and sometimes darted away from her so quickly that Elena was left wobbling uneasily on her feet, staring at my mother’s retreating figure with a look of great confusion and abandonment.

For a time, my sister reacted to these new circumstances by with drawing from the rest of us. She would sit by the window or retreat to her room and play there, quite determinedly alone. It was a pattern, this self-contained withdrawal, that would recur throughout her life. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t need anyone else,” Manfred Owen says to his daughter in Elena’s last book, “a part that floats away from all the rest, though it’s not at all an airy thing, more like a stone with wings.”

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!

Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!