Monet's Angels Page 19

  ‘Monet, we need to talk.’

  Silence.

  ‘Please,’ she urged. ‘I want to explain, try to make you understand.’

  At that he stubbed out his cigarette, folded the newspaper and pushed back his chair, ‘I have work to do,’ he said.

  She shrank from his cold stare.

  Blanche dumped the folded clothes back into their basket. ‘When you’re in love the weather isn’t important.’ She turned away and gazed once more at the last bloom on the Reine des Violettes, it seemed more faded since last she looked, its petals loosening ready to fall. She had tried so hard to capture its beauty but one could not stop time passing. ‘Seize life with both hands, Lilli,’ she sighed. ‘It goes so quickly.’

  As she had predicted, her stepfather enjoyed the soup and filled his bowl again. Marie had made an effort, adding a sprinkling of chopped basil and serving it with a dollop of cream. Annette clumped in to replace the soup bowls with the omelette, which was not such a success, being rather leathery. To Blanche’s surprise, he ate it without comment, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin, poured wine into his glass and met her eye.

  ‘Remind me, Blanche. When is the day we have invited Judith to visit again? I enjoyed talking to her immensely. It will cheer me up to see her, you know?’

  You, always you and what gives you pleasure, she thought. What if I told you I have stolen some moments of delight up there in my room, at my easel; that I have spent several hours without worrying about you and the state of your soul? I wonder what you would say.

  ‘I suggested the day after tomorrow,’ was all she said.

  – TWENTY-THREE –

  JUDITH

  O

  n the morning of Judith’s second visit to Le Pressoir, Madame Baudy came into the dining room and handed her two letters with American stamps on the envelopes. They reminded her of her own long overdue letters to be written home, of those she had opened and merely glanced at. Feeling a stab of guilt, she went out into the garden and sat under the wisteria to read them.

  The first was from her mother, describing how she had opened her copy of Photoplay to find a photograph of ‘darling Mary’ pictured in her latest movie, Friends.

  Oh Judith, she was wearing such a pretty gown with huge puffed sleeves that showed off her tiny waist. And those ringlets and curls, I declare that when her hair is loose it must fall in waves about her face like a princess. It made me so sad when I thought how lovely your hair was once until you chose to wear it in that bob. I can hear you protest it is fashionable and I know how much you like to be à la mode, but to my mind there is nothing so feminine as long hair. Men adore it. Remember how upset Charlie was when you had it all cut off? But darling, that photograph has given me some great ideas for the wedding. We’ll have Mrs Gibbons copy Mary’s dress and we can use some hair extensions to create a lovely effect, then a circlet of flowers, rosebuds I thought, to hold your wedding veil. Write me soon and tell me what you think of the idea.

  As you can imagine, summer has well and truly arrived and it is very warm in the city. We had dinner at Dora and Bobbie’s house the other evening, and the room was delightfully cool. They told us they had just had this new air conditioning installed. I am trying to persuade your father to do the same here. That reminds me: Judith, please remember to stay out of the sun. We don’t want you ruining that lovely complexion of yours. Why only the other day I was reading about its dangers in The Word. Mr Harold Waldwin Percival says that only the legendary salamander can withstand the fiery heat of the sun. I miss you, sweetheart, and am so looking forward to the fall when you’ll be home with us again. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

  Judith sighed and tucked the letter back in its envelope then she turned to Charlie’s. She expected it to be like the others, full of longing and sleepless nights thinking about her, etc etc. But he wrote describing his golfing successes, a trip to Long Island. ‘Remember Scott, the man I went to Harvard with? Well, he looked me up and we have started going around town together. Of course I miss you, darling, but I am certain you will be glad I am not just mooning about at home.’

  For some reason this angered her. While she was having a great time, she had not imagined he would do the same, and if he dared to go dancing she really would have something to say. As for her mother’s suggestion about the gown, she could not imagine anything more awful than to be dressed up like a doll. If, and she didn’t want to contemplate it, but if she had to go through with this marriage she had very different ideas of what she would wear. Judith shook her head from side to side feeling the bob flick against her cheeks, the way it so beautifully settled back into place. She smoothed her hair with her hands. If anything, she would have it cut even shorter.

  She roamed the garden as if by movement she could escape the idea of America and returning there, but the silence broken only by the hum of bees did nothing to calm her. She decided to go for a walk through Giverny. There were still several hours before her appointment with Monet and it would fill in some time. She was delighted therefore when she saw Dorothy and her parasol coming towards her. It would be amusing to have another conversation with her. Dorothy had on a frock in a rather odd shade of green this time, but she certainly appeared a deal smarter; a large hat perched on her sandy hair. It looked precarious, however, as Dorothy hurried along, for a moment pretending not to see Judith.

  ‘Good morning, Dorothy,’ she said. ‘May I offer you a pressé?’

  ‘Oh Judith, pardon I was miles away. How lovely to see you again, my dear, but no I cannot stop. We are invited to lunch with some friends of Paul’s.’ She put up her hand to straighten her hat. ‘They’re artists too so they’ll all talk shop, I’ll be bound. I should far rather have a little chat with you.’ She laughed. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, I must hurry away like the White Rabbit. I do want to hear about your escapades at Le Pressoir, however. Why don’t you come to tea one afternoon and you can tell me all about it.’

  Judith, who thought escapades an odd word to choose, smiled. ‘Of course, when would you like me to come?’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. This life out of society is making me forget my manners.’

  The Wednesday of the following week was decided upon and Dorothy hurried on her way. There was nothing left to do but return to the hotel, sit on the terrace and order lunch. She chose an omelette aux fines herbes and slowly sipped wine, whiling away the time until she could go to her room to freshen up before she made her way along the street to Le Pressoir.

  Blanche was already waiting by the door in the wall but this time took her arm and drew her quickly through the house to stand on the balcony overlooking the garden. ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘Will you look at that? I thought they were all gone over.’

  She seemed extraordinarily delighted by a rose but, as they approached it, Judith struggled to understand her excitement. She had never seen one that colour and did not much like it. Charlie bought her red roses and those in the drawing room at home were always yellow and cream to go with the decor. This one seemed not to have made up its mind what colour it was, but Blanche was ecstatic.

  ‘I felt so sad yesterday, thinking their season had passed,’ she cried. ‘But I came down this morning to find this new bloom. It has really raised my spirits. Don’t you love the way the colours shade into one another, just asking to be painted?’

  While she spoke, Judith caught sight of Michel making his way up the garden. He wore a hat and was carrying a spade and some other tools. He looked as if he was finishing work for the day. As he approached, he seemed to realise it was she and stared. Blanche was still gazing at the rose, so Judith was able to catch his eye briefly. He closed one eye in a wink, which surprised her.

  ‘Ah well, I can’t stand here looking at it all day.’

  Blanche turned back to her. As they moved to go into the house, Judith could feel Michel watching her and she basked in the sense of power it gave. She made up her mind to be more forthr
ight at their next meeting.

  Now they were in the studio and Blanche raised her voice.

  ‘Papa, voila! Mademoiselle Judith.’

  He rose eagerly from the sofa, smiling as he came towards her. The large hand stretched out from the pleated shirt cuff.

  ‘Dear mademoiselle, I am so pleased to see you again.’

  As before, she was seated with her back to the light and this time Blanche made no mention of a limit to their time together. In fact, she seemed eager to be gone.

  ‘I’ll see you in the garden afterwards, mademoiselle,’ was all she said.

  As the door closed behind her, softly this time, Judith felt again the thrill of being in Monet’s presence. Her mother and Charlie could write all the letters they wished, trying to draw her back into the world they considered was where she belonged. This was what was real to her, the panelled walls, and the rugs on the floor and paintings on the walls. This was what made her feel she was truly living, the great artist giving her all his attention, the sense of shared pleasure in each other’s company, of involvement.

  ‘So how have you been amusing yourself since we last met?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh this and that. There is always something going on at Hotel Baudy.’

  ‘The food is excellent, isn’t it? We’ve had some magnificent luncheons there.’

  ‘The food is very good, but I’m not a big eater.’ She smoothed her skirt. ‘One has to keep in shape.’

  He laughed at this. ‘Oh, I never let that bother me; food is one of the pleasures of life. Enjoy it, palate and palette, that’s my motto. By the way, have you done any painting?’

  It felt like a challenge. ‘Why yes, of course.’

  ‘You must show me some of your work. I’d be interested to see your style.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Golly, I’d be terrified to show you anything of mine.’

  ‘If they are as elegant as you are, I’m sure they are delightful. Meanwhile, may I show you something?’ He rose and pulled open a drawer, took out a sketchbook. ‘I hope you will excuse the liberty.’

  Curious, she took the sketchbook and found she was looking at images of herself. How well he had captured her in a few sparse lines: the shape of her head, the way she used her hands when she talked, even the dress she had worn. She remarked on how clever it was to remember so much.

  ‘The artist always observes,’ he said.

  ‘Gosh, they’re wonderful. I’m flattered.’

  ‘I’ve told you how you remind me of Camille. I used to love the way she dressed, the poses she took. You have the same natural gift for showing yourself to the best advantage.’

  She was silent, staring at them, thinking, Monet has sketched me, Judith Goldstein. Maybe, one day soon he’ll paint me and then I shall be famous: Judith or Young Woman in a Blue Dress.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then say nothing,’ he laughed and, taking the sketchbook, stowed it away again in the drawer.

  There was a pause.

  Judith said, ‘The last time I was here you told me about your life with Camille. I found it fascinating. Won’t you tell me some more?’

  ‘Ah yes, dear Camille…’ he lapsed into silence.

  ‘You described the painting you did of her wearing the gorgeous kimono,’ she prompted, ‘how successful it was, what fun you had.’

  ‘After a long struggle. The life of a painter is hard, Judith. At times I despaired, you see…’

  She settled down like a child waiting for the next part of the story.

  Summer in Normandy: the sun is warm on his face but the boats bob in the choppy water of the harbour and the wind tries to take his hat when he walks along the beach. Each morning he paints, boats, buildings, incidental figures and the pebble beach, attempting to record the impression, that momentary vision of what is seen rather than known, with vitality and movement. He is absorbed with trying to convey the sense of light. He paints the sun as having the same luminosity as that of the sky, the varying effects of the weather. Using an almost sketchy technique and complementary colours, he takes up the struggle of trying to convey the ever-changing atmosphere.

  While he paints, his eye and mind are focused on transmitting to his hand what is seen. At other times of the day, taking coffee, walking on the beach, at dinner with the family his mind is in turmoil.

  He considers the events of the past months that have brought him here to the family home… lack of money, the intensity of his work on Women in the Garden, only to have it rejected by the jury of the Salon. To cap it all, there was the news that Camille was pregnant. He loves her, of course, and almost more, he loves her belief in his work, her understanding of what he is trying to achieve. What would he do without his muse? But if he goes against the family’s wishes, he’ll be cut off without a franc. The dilemma haunts him.

  In the early morning, he stands to watch the mistiness over the sea, the waves tipped with rosy light. He thinks of her alone in Paris in the room he found for her, awaiting the birth. How must she feel, worrying about the lack of money, wondering when he will return? She is being very good about it, reasonable, but how can he think of supporting mother and baby? Bazille, dear friend that he is, thinks only of Claude. In his opinion, the child should be placed in a foundling hospital. Sensible of course but how does he feel about separating a mother from her child?

  Judith, who had been sitting quietly, let out a sigh. ‘That is so sad.’

  ‘So you see, my child, it wasn’t always roses. We struggled for years.’

  Judith was having difficulty with the lack of chronology in his story telling. Last time, he seemed to have moved to a much later event when he told her about the kimono. Her imagination was captured by the image of Camille alone in Paris, how lonely she must have felt, of Monet commuting between the city and Le Havre. He wanted to hold on to everything, just as she did, seize life and live it to the full.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I know you and Camille stayed together but what about the baby?’

  ‘I was coming to that.’

  August arrives, the lion sun beating down at midday, erasing shadows. Sometimes, it is too hot to paint outside. He sits in the shade, sipping a glass of cider and thinks how stifling it must be in Paris, with no sea breeze to stir the air. He pictures Camille’s awkward figure walking through the Batignolles district to the market, among all that noise and dust. He knows she is near her time and he wants to be with her for the birth.

  His father watches him closely, compliments him on his painting, hints of forthcoming money. ‘As long as you continue to behave yourself.’

  By the time he manages to slip away to Paris, the baby has been born, Jean Armand, his beautiful big son. In spite of everything, he feels a surge of love. The decision is made, he cannot part with the boy.

  They go to the city hall and register him as ‘the legitimate son of Claude Monet and of Camille Leonie Doncieux, his wife, born on Sunday, eleventh of August.’ The date is altered to conceal the fact Claude had not been present at the birth. One of the witnesses knows the document is false but because he was illegitimate himself he turns a blind eye.

  Camille is very emotional, she weeps. ‘How shall we manage, Claude? We have no money.’

  He strokes her dark hair, he kisses her mouth and beautiful eyes. ‘I will work and I will succeed,’ he tells her.

  The day after, he rushes back to the coast, fearful of upsetting the family and also because he has insufficient money to stay in Paris. Camille is left with the new baby, without two francs to rub together. However, he feels he has reassured her by creating the fiction of a marriage ceremony that never took place.

  He remembers how, during the autumn and winter that followed, he divided his time between his family in Le Havre and Camille and Jean in Paris. On New Year’s Day, he cannot afford to pay for heating and the baby has a cold.

  ‘We were so poor, Judith, you cannot imagine. I was fo
rced to write to friends asking for money. But nothing destroyed my joy in becoming a father. I did a painting of Jean, snuggled in his cradle with his nurse watching him.’

  ‘I thought you said you had no money,’ Judith couldn’t help remarking.

  ‘Ah well you see, Camille could not feed the child, so a dear friend hired and paid for a wonderful nurse. She did excellent work and the little doll became a beautiful baby. It is an astonishing thing to watch a child develop. No doubt you will have that pleasure, one day.’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Judith. ‘One day.’

  He laughed. ‘I like it when you do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Lean back, fold your arms and scowl. I’d like to paint you, one day. If I don’t go blind before that.’

  ‘Blind!’

  ‘That’s what happens eventually when you have cataracts. Even now, things are blurred, colours look different.’ He picked up a tube of paint. ‘Blues, for example. Fortunately I have a good memory for colour, at least I have that.’

  ‘How awful! You could have them operated on, though.’

  ‘I know, but I am afraid in case it wasn’t a success.’

  ‘But they’re doing some wonderful things with surgery, these days,’ she protested. ‘A friend of my father’s had cataracts and now he can see perfectly well. You shouldn’t be afraid.’

  ‘You think not? Well, it’s good to hear someone being positive about it instead of trying to discourage me like…’

  ‘There was a tap on the door and Blanche came into the room. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, but supper is in half an hour and I am sure Mademoiselle Judith will need to return to the hotel for her meal.’

  Monet’s gaze sharpened at the mention of food. ‘And what delight is Marie preparing tonight?’

  ‘Asparagus braised in thyme.’