Monet's Angels Read online

  ‘How did your work go this morning?’ she asks.

  ‘Well. I was looking at the abundance of blues in the garden at the moment, how the shades vary under the effects of the movement of a stem. I was trying to capture that certain colour in the folds of an iris. They come into flower so swiftly.’

  Blanche accepts a glass of Calvados and smiles at him.

  ‘At what time does Mademoiselle Judith arrive, tomorrow?’

  ‘I said early morning, to give you a good afternoon’s painting.’

  He sighs. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Blanche teases, ‘Anyone would think you were in love.’

  ‘There is something about her I find energising, an intensity, a zest for life. I had it myself, when I was her age. The world is your oyster. I remember those early days in Paris when I had a furnished room in rue Pigalle. There was this famous beer house where all the important artists and writers met. Of course, I was an unknown, then, and could not mingle but I could watch. I saw Baudelaire, even Courbet. I was living the bohemian life and everything seemed possible.’ He lights a cigarette, draws, coughs, draws.

  Blanche says: ‘I meant to tell you, Francois Brun is dying of cancer. Dr Du Pont says cigarettes are the cause.’

  ‘To hell with Dr Du Pont, what do you expect me to do, change the habits of a lifetime? Besides I wouldn’t paint without a cigarette.’

  ‘Well maybe you could modify, cut it down a little?’

  ‘Don’t nag me.’

  ‘I am not nagging, I am only saying if you want to live long enough to finish your projects you need to look after your health.’

  ‘They will be finished.’

  There is a pause while they resume eating then Blanche asks: ‘Explain this to me, I can never understand the pleasure of putting a little white stick into your mouth and puffing away.’

  He laughs. ‘You don’t know the half of it. I love smoking, it is my friend. It heaps pleasure upon pleasures like eating, reading, sitting in the garden. It makes every other form of enjoyment that bit more satisfactory.’

  ‘Ah well.’

  Now that he has begun, the joys of smoking crowd into his head. ‘When I am pleased with how a painting is going, I congratulate myself with a cigarette. When I am finding it difficult to concentrate, smoking gives me a point of attention and shuts out distractions.’

  Blanche shakes her head. ‘I find that prayer does much the same thing. I just ask for help and it often comes.’

  ‘Prayer! Your mother was the same. I don’t need a god to help me paint. The richness I achieve comes from nature, that’s the source of my inspiration.’

  He stubs out his cigarette and picks up his fork but he has not finished with the subject of smoking.

  ‘Then there are the special cigarettes, the first after breakfast when I know I have work to do but indulge myself in a little extra pause before I begin. The last before going to bed rounds off the day. And you know, it’s a fascinating thing to watch the smoke, like clouds it can form different shapes. I like to sit back and blow rings and then blow another ring through the first. One is perfectly relaxed.’

  At this moment, the door bangs open and Annette trundles in the dessert trolley: Cherries yet again; there has been a glut of them, this year, this time swathed in the batter of a clafoutis.

  ‘Odd,’ observes Claude as he pours cream liberally from its jug, ‘that Marie has mastered this dish but still struggles with the Yorkshire pudding.’

  ‘I think it is the name that foxes her,’ Blanche suggests. ‘She finds it absurd.’

  ‘Then she is a fool.’

  While they eat, his mind returns to the subject of smoking. He thinks of those evenings after Alice had died, how lonely he felt. Then he would light a cigarette, see the glow in the darkness as if it came to life and was his companion. He lights another cigarette.

  ‘Plus ça change…’ Blanche comments.

  ‘Exactly my thoughts, you can’t change history. Ah well,’ he uses her phrase. ‘A glass of plum brandy?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  They meet each other’s gaze like old combatants who always call a truce in the end. He laughs and so does she and he is suddenly overwhelmed by affection for her, she was always his favourite.

  ‘À ta santé, Blanchefleur.’

  ‘Oh Papa, it is a long time since you called me that.’

  – FIFTEEN –

  JUDITH

  T

  he dining room was empty when Judith came down that morning, the red-checked napkins still folded, the settings undisturbed. There had been an entertainment on the terrace the night before when Gervase gave a concert on his banjo and people from the village joined the artists for dancing by lamplight. There was the most astonishing array of recreations here, she thought. You could go cycling to Vernon or join Thomas on an outing to photograph the landscape; people went sailing on the Eure, even built a boat and there was always tennis. Some of them were so occupied they seemed to forget they were painters.

  Yesterday evening, she had slipped away early to her room. Her visit to Le Pressoir was much more important and she wanted to look fresh and rested for it. She could hear the music and laughter but distantly and it had not prevented her sleeping soundly.

  She helped herself to rolls and coffee from the buffet, grateful there was no sign of Robert. The last thing she wanted this morning, was to see the expression of disapproval on his face. Since the day of the painting trip he seemed to have avoided her, spending all his time with Harry. He was polite at dinner or on the terrace, but that was all. Not that she cared or gave him much thought, her mind was set on what the meeting with Monet might yield. A remark of Mr Dodgson’s came into her mind, one she had not reported to Robert: ‘We can’t get anywhere near the old man, these days, but a lovely young woman like you… with your looks he might well want to paint you. And then you’d never look back.’

  Madame Baudy put her head round the door to enquire if there was anything Judith needed. She seemed surprised to find her up so early, everyone else was still in bed.

  ‘What chic!’ she added, her gaze going to the green silk two piece Judith wore. ‘But then you are always chic, mademoiselle. Another model, I suppose.’

  Judith knew she was longing to ask its price. She had soon realised the importance of money to Madame Baudy. She sold artists’ supplies in the hotel as agent for a Parisian supplier, Robert told her. The place was always full of people coming and going, eating and drinking and she was ready to please her American guests. If they wanted Boston baked beans or a Thanksgiving dinner then apparently Madame Baudy had learned how to prepare them. Father’s success in the world of commerce had taught Judith to admire good business sense.

  Outside, a slight haze lingered across the rooftops. The road was empty and silent except for the hum of bees among the hollyhocks and roses. She walked slowly, savouring the sun on her skin, the blueness of the sky and brilliant flowers. She thought of Robert’s reaction when she had told him of her plans. Perhaps it would have been better to keep quiet but she had imagined him a friend. She wondered whether it was because he was jealous of her. She was young, he was middle aged and, although a good painter, had not achieved great success. For me, it’s all just waiting to happen, the thought instilled a sense of power. Her future was in her hands, everything was possible.

  For the first time in days, she turned her mind to Charlie and realised she had scarcely given him a thought. The time had passed swiftly, filled with all the new experiences Giverny had to offer. Now she remembered the conversation they had had just before she was due to leave New York. Charlie had taken her for dinner at Delmonico’s, suggesting they dine in a private dining room, but she was in far too high spirits to want to be out of sight of the other diners. Anyway, she wore a new oyster satin frock she wanted to show off. They had eaten steak and Caesar salad and Charlie ordered a bottle of Bollinger Blanc. Not only the wine but also the excitem
ent of her forthcoming journey had gone to her head. She chattered on about the Mauritania, the museums she would visit, and the clothes she planned to buy. She asked him whether he was envious of her seeing, actually seeing the landscapes impressionists had painted. Finally, she had realised how gloomy he looked, scarcely speaking a word, and asked him what was wrong.

  ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he said.

  She had laughed and replied: ‘Oh Charlie, the time will soon pass and I’ll be back again.’

  ‘If you want the truth, I am frightened of losing you.’

  This was not like Charlie at all, he was usually so cheerful and optimistic about life. What nonsense! She had tossed down her champagne and suggested they order another bottle. She was annoyed with him for spoiling the evening when she had felt so good as heads turned when they entered the restaurant and walked between the crowded tables.

  ‘Maybe you’ll meet some handsome Frenchman,’ Charlie said.

  At that, she had laid down her fork and extended her left hand to him. ‘Look, your ring is on my finger and it’s going to stay there. no-one is going to be interested in an engaged woman, now are they?’

  Of course, the ring had not stayed there. The day the liner pulled out to sea and she was unpacking in her cabin, she had slipped it off and put it safely in her jewellery case.

  She wondered what he was doing at this moment; mooning about not knowing what to do with himself without her, probably. He was very unimaginative, left it to Judith to suggest this outing, that party or dance. He had probably buried his head in work, she told herself, counting the days until she returned. Several of his letters had arrived at the hotel. With a flash of guilt, she thought that maybe she should open them and reply. But at this moment, she didn’t want to think about Charlie, nor what the ring represented.

  In her invitation to Le Pressoir, Blanche had written: ‘I will meet you outside La Musardiere at nine.’ But as Judith arrived and saw there was no-one there, she felt a wave of panic. Had she mistaken the time? Surely not, she had read the note enough times. Then a door in the wall opened and Blanche was there.

  ‘Ah, excellent, you are very punctual. If you will follow me.’

  Judith stepped inside and the door closed behind them. She had arrived.

  ‘I thought I would give you a little tour of the house first. Then I will present you to my stepfather.’

  Judith felt a stab of disappointment that the meeting was to be delayed, if only for a short while. She followed the stout figure into the house. The tour began with a small sitting room where everything, the walls and the furniture, was painted in tones of blue. She gazed at the tall clock, noting how its features were cleverly emphasised by a different shade.

  Blanche said, ‘it seems very modern, doesn’t it? When we first arrived here, all the furniture in Normandy was heavy and dark. But my stepfather loves colours and he chose all of them in the house. Do you like the tiles on the floor? Back in the eighties, they were considered very avant-garde.’ She ran her hand over the back of a sofa. ‘When my mother was alive and we were young, we all used to sit in here. Imagine how noisy it could be with eight children.’

  Judith wasn’t listening. Her eye had been caught by some pictures hanging on the walls, several of women in beautiful flowing kimonos. She longed to move nearer, to pause and examine them but Blanche urged her on. There was a brief look at the pantry with its bamboo style furniture and buffet which, Blanche demonstrated, was firmly locked.

  ‘Food is expensive,’ she said. ‘Though we keep hens and grow our own fruit and vegetables, which is a great saving. My stepfather is particular about the quality of what he eats.’

  They moved on to the dining room where Judith saw the walls were nearly masked with many more of the pictures.

  ‘Golly! What an amazing colour!’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘Oh yes, it… it is incredible!’

  ‘Exactly.’ Blanche’s tone was disapproving.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Judith enquired.

  ‘It is too yellow for my taste but then I had nothing to do with the choice.’

  They would not go into the kitchen, she said, as Marie would have begun to prepare luncheon and disliked being disturbed.

  In the pause that followed, Judith seized her opportunity. ‘Would you tell me something about these pictures?’

  ‘They are Japanese woodblock prints known as Ukiyo-e. The translation, I understand, is “pictures of the floating world.” It also refers to the changing world of fleeting pleasures, moments in people’s lives, the seasons’ changes. They have been a huge influence on impressionist painters, especially my stepfather.’

  Judith stared at the painting of a great wave; there were three boats in the turbulent water. Tiny humans were being tossed around in the slough of the wave with what looked like a hill in the distance. The tension of the scene startled her; it gave a feeling of something about to happen in the breaking of that wave.

  She moved on, drawn by the paintings of women, their white inscrutable faces and glorious kimonos. They were arranging flowers, drinking tea, dressing their hair, surprised in their daily activities, to speak a secret language to her, of an intimate pleasure-seeking world. These women seemed to be absorbed in themselves and how they might appear to onlookers as they enjoyed their leisure. There was one of the back view of a young woman she particularly liked. She was applying white powder to her neck while watching her reflection in a hand mirror. Somehow, Judith was reminded of herself.

  ‘Mademoiselle Judith?’

  Judith continued to stare, fascinated by these beautiful, uncaring women.

  ‘Before I take you to the studio, there is something I need to tell you. My stepfather has very bad eyesight. Cataracts.’

  Judith tore her gaze away. ‘How terrible, a painter who cannot see! It is unthinkable.’

  Blanche shrugged. ‘Wait till you arrive at his age. No, wait till you arrive at mine. Life diminishes.’

  ‘I don’t ever want to get old,’ Judith said. ‘I want to be like a candle that flames brightly and then is extinguished, like Daisy Miller.’

  ‘What a romantic view!’ Blanche laughed. ‘And we know what happens to romantics. No, I think you’ll find one clings on, even if things go wrong. Somehow you survive.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear not to be able to dance, stay up all night.’

  ‘Are all women in America like you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you free? You seem so to me, your hair, your clothes, a liberated woman.’

  ‘You should see my mother. She looks exactly like a fashion plate. She was the first woman in her set to crop her hair. She’s a real beauty, far more than I am.’

  ‘One is always beautiful when young.’ Blanche sounded wistful. ‘Don’t throw it away, don’t let other people define you. Define yourself.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Oh, I thoroughly intend to do that.’

  ‘Good. Come, my stepfather will be waiting.’

  An idea had come into Judith’s head, one that startled her with its inspiration. She seemed to come to her senses, realised Blanche was eyeing her questioningly. ‘Of course, madame.’

  ‘I’ll show you to his studio.’

  As they entered the room, the sun’s glare through the large windows blinded her and she could barely distinguish him. Bearing in mind Blanche’s warning about his failing sight, she thought she must appear much the same to him. The room seemed to swim in a dazzling light, obliterating detail; there was an unclear impression of furniture and objects. She hesitated while her eyes grew accustomed to it.

  Blanche spoke. ‘Papa, the young American lady, Mademoiselle Judith, is here.’ Her voice was loud as if he were also hard of hearing.

  Judith made out a man with a beard, seated on a sofa under the window who rose with the help of a stick and came towards her. Although they had already met on the day of the picnic, seei
ng him in this new setting, lit from behind in a halo of light, he seemed like a glorious stranger, though one of average height and assured, sturdy build. It was a peculiar sensation. He appeared not to recognise her either until he was close, then his narrowed eyes relaxed and he smiled. His large hand stretched out from a pleated shirt cuff and engulfed hers, his remembered voice was firm and resonant.

  ‘Dear mademoiselle, how good it is to see you again. Come, sit down over here.’

  When she was placed with her back to the light, she was able to view the room. The wooden floor was varnished and scattered with rugs. The walls were panelled and there were sofas and rattan chairs. She admired a beautiful writing desk. Rosewood, was it? Her mother owned a similar one. The photographs and the familiar objects lent an intimate and comfortable atmosphere.

  Blanche, who had been hovering near the door, said: ‘I’ll leave you for a while then. By the way, we’ve done a tour of the house, Papa, so you won’t have to waste time on that.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Blanche,’ he said.

  ‘I am not fussing. It is you who is always thinking about your painting time.’

  ‘And there are days when I don’t paint, you know that.’

  ‘Very well, ring the bell when you need me.’ The door banged behind her.

  Monet clicked his tongue. In the moment of silence that followed, Judith watched his face and was struck by the enormity of sitting here alone with the great man. A thrill ran through her. She had proved them all wrong: Mother and Father, Charlie, Robert, all of them scoffing at her dream of coming to France. Monet smiled, commending her presence here. As on that day when he had taken her arm and drawn her away from the others, there was a sense of complicity between them. He had talked to her about the elusive landscapes and his constant striving to capture light but never being quite content he had done so. Then, as now, he had grown so enthusiastic, seemed delighted by her presence. It occurred to her that she would sacrifice everything, go to any lengths to continue on this path, no matter who she had to overcome. The realisation made her tremble.