Now I saw the world I had created.
Such a busy, happy, intricate world! The drawings were stylized and primitive at the same time. The landscapes were crowded, the flora unreal. Stalks of flowers ran tree-high. A cactus sat among roses. Vines ran rampant among ferns and climbed the slender trees topped with leafy heads. Children, starry-eyed, tumbled through the sylvan scenes. Some were naked, others wore airy dresses trellised with spade-like leaves and floating cherries, and idealized blossoms. Rabbits and ducks and kittens frolicked with butterflies. Chubby cherubs, sporting patterned wings, flew overhead.
I sat on a stool by my father. People came up to me, shaking their heads, smiling, their faces bemused. They offered many compliments. I responded politely, but really Daddy did most of the talking. He would always talk to anyone who would listen. She started at four—we knew right away! She has never had a lesson, no—no, we feel she should find her own way, we don’t want to meddle with her talent, it is a gift!
Late in the evening, a change in atmosphere swept through the gallery. People whispered and turned to the entrance.
Gabriele d’Annunzio!
The gallery owner threw open his arms, hailing the hero. He beat his fists upon his heart. Someone rushed to get the great man some wine. When Daddy saw who was taking the attention away from us, his joy increased, and he gave a beckoning wave from across the room. Gabriele nodded at Daddy, but he took his time, holding amiable court as he ambled through the gallery, gazing at the paintings and drawings on the walls.
When he came to my drawings he stopped still. It seemed then that the whole gallery grew silent.
At last he turned to me.
“So it is you who have created these beautiful pictures? Truly? I would not have believed any child could draw in this way.”
He introduced himself, and with a gloved hand reached for mine. He bent over and kissed my fingertips. I studied the famous man: the narrow bald head, the stiff waxed mustache, the gleaming boots. His strong cologne enveloped me, and I wanted to move away, but I couldn’t.
Daddy happily regaled Gabriele about the evolution of my talent, the way my very first lines were so sure, so delicate yet so strong, the way I held a pencil, then a pen, and how I was beginning to work in oils. Gabriele listened politely, then gestured towards a large drawing just behind me—a pen and ink of a girl with a lyre washed with yellows and reds.
“This one . . . I will take this one,” he said.
Gaslight danced in bright puddles across the piazza as we walked home.
“D’Annunzio . . . just imagine, Pamela. D’Annunzio!” Daddy’s voice was excited, but low. Full of wonder.
I didn’t understand—how could I?—that on that night my life had changed, that everything was tumbling into place, that the perfect and pure days of my childhood were over. That night we might as well have walked directly out the gallery door onto the gangplank of the RMS Carmania, the ship that would take us to America. There was no stopping the tide of fame that would sweep me up and carry me—and all my family—along to a distant shore. And there was no stopping Daddy.
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Gabriele d’Annunzio Writes to Pamela Turin, 1918
Commandant Gabriele d’Annunzio stares at the delicate drawing. A girl in a forest glade. She wears a flowing tunic, tied with a wide sash. She holds an ornate lyre, the stems curving into perfect coils.
What is it that draws him so? The otherworldliness? The mastery, the confidence to create such utter beauty? He examines the picture closely. A pen, in the hand of a small girl—yet, no mark of hesitancy, no small mistake, no sign of redrawing. The bit of color washed here and there, yellows and reds, just enough to bring the whole to life. It is perfection.
Gabriele sighs dramatically, shakes his head. He is truly moved. A child has made this picture! He remembers her eyes upon him, large and compelling. What color were they? Blue? Gray? In general, though, he has to admit, Pamela Bianco was a rather un-extraordinary-looking child. A quiet little girl with braids. Somber, even.
Eleven, her father says. She looked barely nine.
Gabriele has fallen in love with Pamela’s drawings, and for him it is no different than when he falls in love with a woman. He cannot keep it to himself, but has to run shouting it from every rooftop, every street corner. He needs to honor this new love.
He will write a poem for the girl.
He takes some paper from his desk drawer.
Yes, he will write a poem and then he will send it to the newspapers. The editors will be ecstatic. Who in Italy will not want to buy a paper with this combination: the story of an extraordinary child artist and a poem about her by the great Gabriele d’Annunzio? It will be irresistible.
Gabriele is happy to do his part, to ensure the future of the little artist. Soon she will soar. Before long, he is sure, the whole world will know of her.
And to think, he almost did not go to the exhibition. Francesco’s letter had irritated him—the man had assumed an intimacy that did not exist. But when he saw the drawing Francesco had enclosed, he had been unable to tear his eyes away.
A girl . . . whose name is like a flower. . . .
The poem is finished. But now he must write a letter to the child.
He holds his pen high in the air—even with no one to see him, he cannot not help the drama—then brings it down, writing in great flourishes.
Cara Pamela. . . .
He signs the letter and sits quietly a while, looking absent-mindedly at the objects on his desk. A pair of porcelain cats, a rhinoceros of lapis blue, a tortoiseshell crab. The war photos: d’Annunzio standing by the Ansaldo SVA, his reconnaissance biplane; d’Annunzio aboard his beloved MAS 96—the Motoscafo Armato Silurante, the famed torpedo-armed motorboat that he had commanded in so many victorious sea battles; and d’Annunzio with his flying partner, Rinaldo, whose death he still mourns.
And then his eye falls on the box.
The old box is beautiful, made of teak, and decorated with finely carved fighting stags. It has been in his family for generations. He hesitates only a moment.
He folds the letter, places it in the box, and rings for his adjutant.
pamela