Monet's Angels Page 17

  You have to be watchful with charcoal, he reminds himself, it is capable of going a rich, dark black. There need to be areas of white and shades of grey in the composition to lift and give it drama. While he works, he muses on how the artist, be he painter or writer, lives on two levels. There is the one of everyday experiences, sometimes good or not so good, and the other that selects from these and transmutes them into art. Even as he recounted a part of his life to Judith, flattered by her attention, there was that detached part of him looking on, measuring with his eye, taking note.

  Drawing has always gone hand in hand with his painting. You must begin by drawing, above all observing the contours because you can never be too sure of holding on to them once you start to paint. He understands there were many who believed he painted directly onto the canvas. They knew nothing of his preparatory studies, his draughtsmanship, and he had never publicly acknowledged the gift.

  He chuckles to himself, picturing the eleven year old strolling the streets of Le Havre, drawing caricatures of anyone who would sit to him. It was the money he was interested in, the ten or twenty francs he would charge but, unconsciously, he was developing his drawing skills and powers of observation even then.

  The thing one noticed about that girl was the contrast between the dark hair and pale skin. It is remarkable skin; white and translucent, alabaster comes to mind. He discards the charcoal and takes up a graphite pencil. He scribbles onto the paper then blends with a piece of soft cloth. Voila, flawless looking skin!

  Always there has been this dialogue between line and colour. The time he spent drawing and preparation for Déjeuner sur l’Herbe, and look where that ended up. But he couldn’t do it any other way.

  He takes another sheet of paper and sketches Judith’s body curving away, almost in profile, head tilted towards the viewer, it is a pose he likes, the view which gives a picture a sense of informality, of movement and an instant in time. Camille in the green dress was just such a pose, her look of inwardness as she makes her graceful movement. Claude remembers the broad strokes he used, focusing on the sweep of the dress, its multiple folds of rich fabric. He makes a further sketch of the American girl, this time with her head averted, gazing at his paintings. Did she understand what she was looking at? She certainly made an intelligent remark about the Japanese prints. It had surprised him.

  Direct and simple, simple and direct, that’s what he likes about the language of line, it can be so easily communicated. Now of course, there are the lily pond sketchbooks, the numerous studies he is making, the notion that is forming in his mind for a massive series of paintings, great panels of light and shade.

  While he works, there is a part of him that feels guilty and he knows his occupation this afternoon should be kept a secret. What if Blanche came suddenly into the room? He would thrust the sketchbook into the open drawer he has waiting, reach for his cigarette case, which is never far away. He is unsure of her reaction, but thinks she would probably not approve, would consider he was wasting his time when he should be working. He wants nothing to disturb this détente, the wonderful relaxation of the tension that has reigned over them since Alice’s death.

  Later he goes for his stroll in the garden. Michel it seems is working late. Claude moves up and down the paths, noticing how, as the month passes, the flowers of June have started to give way to those of July. The wallflowers and azaleas are beginning to look past their best while there is a hint of orange and yellow among the nasturtiums, which will soon snake over the path in all their glory. Yesterday, he glimpsed one of the water lilies in bud. It occurs to him how swiftly this year seems to be advancing in the gardens. Why it seems only a few days ago the place fluttered with waves of daffodils and narcissi. One needs to be constantly alert to these changes. It is probably a sign of age, he tells himself, that things seem to move on more quickly and you find yourself looking more attentively, or wish you had, wish you had taken note of this day to day progression, in case this should be the last season you saw them.

  ‘M’sieur?’ Michel is dead heading and cutting back spent flower shoots. He has a bag into which he is dropping seeds according to Breuil’s instruction. ‘It’s sad,’ he comments. ‘One day there is a beautiful rose and soon it is dead.’

  The boy has noticed too, even at his young age.

  The lines of that wretched poem come once more into Claude’s head. They are not long the days of wine and roses. He is overwhelmed by the melancholy of time passing. It is time Judith came again. He will ask Blanche to send an invitation for this coming week.

  – TWENTY-TWO –

  BLANCHE

  ‘

  Something light this evening, Marie, wouldn’t you say after that splendid duck?’ Blanche enquired.

  ‘Certainly madame, soup and an omelette, perhaps?’

  ‘Good idea, the hens are laying particularly well.’

  Blanche’s attention had strayed to the kitchen window to gaze out at the Reine des Violettes. There was one velvety purple bloom left, a particularly fine bloom to be sure but only one. Its flowering appeared to be almost over. There might be a repeat in the autumn as there had been last year, but she did not want to think that far ahead, to the passing of these summer days. With the newfound sense of peace in the house, she was enjoying them. There was the feeling of a weight lifted from her shoulders, one that had settled after Maman’s death. Sometimes, she could almost believe it had not happened, that she would walk down the garden and find her mother sewing or reading under the tree. Some mornings, Papa had even been heard singing snatches of opera.

  ‘Tomato and basil,’ Marie was saying as Blanche gave a last look at the rose, noticing it was already ageing to violet, before she turned back to the room.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Jules says we have a glut of tomatoes at the moment, and there is plenty of basil.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m sure that will satisfy even my stepfather.’

  They smiled at one another. Blanche had noticed that Marie’s hair was often a barometer of her state of mind and today it looked sleek in its dark bun. Her sometimes flushed face had only a pinkish hue. The sight was reassuring. She did not look like a servant about to give in her notice.

  ‘Marie, I just wanted to say how very pleased I am with the way you have settled into the household.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, madame.’

  ‘I realise how hard you have worked and the results prove it,’ Blanche continued. ‘It hasn’t been easy, I know, to cater to my father’s tastes but you have persevered. Take the Yorkshire pudding last night, it was quite light and open textured, such an improvement. Why, I believe even Marguerite would have praised it.’

  An expression passed over the cook’s face, one of slight annoyance at the mention of her predecessor but swiftly replaced by a smile. ‘I am happy you are satisfied, madame,’ she said.

  ‘More than satisfied, Marie. I am happy and relieved that we seem to have overcome initial misunderstandings, that you have accepted my stepfather’s views on cuisine.’

  Marie, as she often did when she felt she was being undermined, wiped the blue table with savage movements; a strand of hair escaped the bun. ‘Hmm, you mean the peppercorns.’

  ‘Not particularly but yes, you have certainly recognised my stepfather’s liking for them.’

  Blanche thought back to luncheon and Papa’s childlike delight that the duck was seasoned as he demanded it. She had wished she could be as easily pleased, put such store by food and wine. She was at once envious and irritated by him. Life in this household revolved around him, tailored to his needs and rigid timetable and she had the responsibility of making it so.

  ‘He is not easy to please, Marie,’ she said now. ‘And you have been very patient.’

  In the pause that followed, they listened to the grandfather clock in the library strike the hour. Blanche’s gaze went from the terracotta tiled floor to tiles on the walls, from the walls to the floor. T
he reds of the terracotta with its tomette pattern enhanced the cool blue and white geometric patterns on the walls. Papa had taken for his inspiration such patterned floors and wall tiles that decorated homes in Spain and Italy and bought tiles from Rouen. But Papa being Papa, he had invested it with a je ne sais quoi touch, turning pattern making into an art form.

  Marie was folding her apron in preparation for an hour or two of repose before she began to prepare supper. ‘Thank you, madame.’ Several times she had cast glances towards the dresser and it was obvious she couldn’t wait to pick up the novel lying there.

  Curious about what her cook read, Blanche had examined one of the books, expecting it to be a tale of love and romance. However, it seemed Marie had darker tastes and had been seized by the latest craze for Fantômas. Blanche’s interest had grown as she flicked through the pages, reading of an arch criminal who was ruthless, and loyal to no-one. It seemed he was a master of disguises, always appearing under an assumed identity, often that of a person whom he had murdered. Fantômas made use of bizarre techniques for his crimes such as plague infested rats, giant snakes and rooms that filled up with sand.

  At this point, Blanche had laid the book down. It wouldn’t do to get on the wrong side of a woman who read such literature, she had told herself.

  ‘Will that be all, madame?’ Marie was losing her patience.

  ‘Certainly, and I must be getting on.’

  Blanche left the kitchen. She had spent enough time on mundane matters. A slight breeze stirred the curtains as she stepped into her room and closed the door. The easel stood where she had left it, the painting she had begun a few days previously propped on it. She glanced at her watch, calculated she had three hours at her disposal. Gone were the days when she could paint undisturbed, now it was time snatched from domestic duties. But at least she was working again. The subject she had chosen was an oblique view towards the house with the Reine des Violettes to one side of it. During this month while it was flowering abundantly, she had made a number of sketches, following her father’s method of preparation for a canvas. Simple and direct, he had said to her. Drawing is fundamental to a good painting. Capture the contours, Blanche, or you may lose them when you take up your brush. Yes, she had captured them at their most beautiful and made notes of their pastel smudgy colours. Now she was recreating that vision she had had several weeks ago. She settled herself, using the broad strokes she loved, laying the paint confidently onto the canvas, mixing and painting, painting and mixing. As the rhythm took hold of her, she had a feeling of such calm, the brush an extension of her mind recording the roses in all their beauty.

  It was like defying time, she thought, capturing a moment. How she loved this process, how it rendered up to her that real and true self. And as she painted and the image grew, she regretted she had left it so long, had been unfaithful to what meant most to her in her life. She forgot the minutiae of the household, its irritations and entered this other world. They had the American girl to thank for this, Mademoiselle Judith who had somehow rescued them all from sinking under the weight of grief and disappointment. Blanche felt young again, with all the hope she had once had of becoming a great painter.

  1889

  Two days after the expedition to Andaine forest, Alice developed a temperature and aching limbs. Monet sent her to bed with firm instructions not to get out of it until she was well.

  ‘How can I?’ she protested, ‘with this house to look after.’ She gave him a wry look. ‘Not to mention you.’

  ‘That’s easy. Blanche can take over. She’s perfectly capable.’

  no-one suggested that Suzanne as the elder should be mobilised. She was considered too fragile and whimsical. Whereas I… thought Blanche… the dutiful daughter.

  In fact she welcomed the routine, the meals to plan, laundry to check, the supervision of the servants. Dull as it might be, it took up her day and her thoughts and gave her some respite from mooning over John Leslie and when it might be possible to see him again. It also kept her out of Monet’s way. Since the day of the mushroom hunt the atmosphere between them had been tense.

  He had lost his temper with her again when he collected the baskets of mushrooms and saw what was in hers. ‘What’s this, a bitter bolete and this and this? God in heaven, girl, do you want to poison us all?’

  She knew it was a rhetorical question. Anything that did not pass the scrutiny of his eye would never have found its way onto the dining table. Nevertheless, he made her feel like a criminal.

  ‘I’m sorry, Monet, I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  He met her gaze. ‘No, and you haven’t been for some time, have you? Your painting is all over the place.’

  She bit her lip as the remark seared her. He knew her weakest point and had unkindly probed it.

  Blanche glared at him. ‘Maybe I haven’t been concentrating as I should… maybe…’ She longed to tell him the reason, instead she said: ‘…there is always so much going on in the house, these days.’

  He shook his head. ‘That is no excuse. You disappoint me, Blanche.’

  For the next few days, Alice stayed in bed and Blanche ran the household. She made sure she was never alone with Monet although she could feel him watching her. Then one evening, as she was stowing the eggs she had collected into the little pantry, he came up behind her.

  ‘Blanche?’

  ‘Oh!’ She started, almost dropping an egg.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Not now, Monet, please. I have to go to the kitchen, Marguerite wants to show me a dish she has been experimenting with.’

  ‘It can wait.’ His face was stern. ‘I want to talk to you now.’

  She followed him into the studio and sat with her back to the garden, gazing at his paintings, which lined the walls.

  Monet also sat and lit a cigarette. ‘You know what this is about, don’t you?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Of course you do. There is no use in pretending you don’t.’

  Blanche said nothing.

  ‘I am tired of your behaviour, Blanche. I want to know what is wrong with you. You show a complete lack of interest in everything around you, the family, even your work. You put a dampener on the mushroom expedition and your long face is enough to put me off painting, too.’

  She made herself look up to meet his gaze. ‘That is simply not true.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I think it is.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘I ask you again: what is behind all this?’

  Once more she was silent. The last of the sun streamed through the window, burning the back of her neck. She longed to be anywhere but here, had a sudden yearning for John Leslie.

  ‘Is it John Leslie?’ he asked. It was as if he had read her mind.

  She felt the blood rise into her face, her heart thudded. For a moment she thought: tell him. Tell him now. Bring it all out in the open. She looked down at her hands and muttered, ‘No.’

  There was a pause and when she finally looked up, his expression had altered. She realised what an effort it had taken him to ask the question, and what a relief to hear her reply.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I was so worried, that’s all. You know my opinion of those young men. It is all very well to take an interest in their painting but we know nothing about their backgrounds – or their morals. You must realise they are not husband material.’

  Blanche thought of John Leslie’s passionate kisses, his eager hands. If only Monet knew. She might have smiled if it hadn’t been so tragic.

  ‘You see, Blanchefleur,’ Monet was saying. ‘Your presence in this house is so important to me, your understanding of how an artist thinks and feels. no-one else comprehends so well, not even Alice.’

  His voice trailed off and he smiled at her, she held his gaze with a sense of horror of his expectations of her, his attachment.

  ‘I don’t want to be without you. I admire and respect you as a painter. Perhaps, for that reaso
n, I ask so much of you.’

  She sighed. ‘You have taught me all I know. I owe a lot to you.’

  He spoke quietly. ‘Don’t ever leave me, please.’

  At that moment the bell rang for supper and they rose and went to join the others.

  The following day they went out early into the fields together. He wanted to demonstrate to her the effects of light he had noted on those quaint structures the Normandy farmers built to store and protect their grain until it could be threshed. It was by now late September and, although the days were still warm, the mornings had an autumnal chill. Blanche drew her jacket closer round her, folded her arms and tried to concentrate on what Monet was saying.

  ‘I think I have stumbled on a wonderful subject… the alteration in atmosphere from moment to moment, its effect on colour.’

  Her mind kept drifting off, not onto John Leslie as much as into a dreamlike state so that in this grey dawn light she was unsure if she were asleep or awake.

  ‘Need to buy some more canvasses,’ his voice came to her, ‘other paints… go to the dealers on Thursday.’

  Immediately, her mind became crystal clear and filled with joy. On Thursday she could go to John Leslie.

  Blanche glanced at her watch and sighed. It was always the same if you were a woman. Her father could carry on working, knowing the house ran smoothly around him, but for her there were things to attend to. She went down to the kitchen and found Lilli with the laundry baskets and, as she approached, heard the girl humming under her breath. A broad smile spread over her face when she saw Blanche.

  ‘You sound very happy, Lilli.’ Blanche tugged the clothes roughly from the basket and began to sort them. ‘Let me guess. It is because you are soon to see your young man again.’

  ‘Oh madame, not my young man, well not yet.’

  ‘Very well, but he has asked you out for a walk. That’s a good start.’