Monet's Angels Read online

  Blanche drops her knife with a clatter. ‘Oh Papa, what an exaggeration, she is nothing like Camille. I still remember how beautiful she was, with such a fine character. Mademoiselle Judith is attractive but…’

  Claude gulps some wine… a white Bordeaux, fresh, fruity and dry, to be sipped not gulped he knows, but he is annoyed.

  ‘She is also well educated and informed,’ he continues, ignoring Blanche. ‘We have some lively conversations.’

  ‘You should not listen to her, she is naïve,’ Blanche breaks in. ‘Too young and innocent of life, she has no idea of the risk. I speak for your own good, Papa.’

  Claude gulps more wine. ‘And you like me to be helpless and in your power because then you feel you have some function in life.’

  He has gone too far, he realises that, but he has never been one to apologise. Blanche is staring at him with tears welling up in her eyes, then she turns away. Georges clears his throat and stares at his plate where his second helping of fish remains uneaten. Suppose I have been too pessimistic, Claude asks himself, suppose an operation could restore my sight? What joy that would be. Blanche is set in her ways; I’d do better to discuss this with Judith.

  ‘I am beginning to think that perhaps Mademoiselle Judith’s influence is not all for the good,’ Blanche is saying. She turns to Georges. ‘You know what these new young women are like? They think they know everything. In my day, you listened to your elders. Papa would be foolish not to heed his own feelings on this matter.’

  ‘Yes Blanche.’

  Poor Georges, Claude thinks, watching his friend’s gaze shift from one to the other, wanting to please both of them.

  ‘Eat,’ commands Claude, indicating his plate. ‘We are neglecting the pike. Come on, eat up and let’s stop all this depressing talk, we’ll change the subject. Tell me, what do you think about this Balkan League business? Will they go to war?’

  As Georges launches onto his views of this alliance, of how Turkey has every reason to be nervous, Claude helps himself to another choice morsel of the pike and settles down to enjoy his meal.

  – TWENTY-EIGHT –

  BLANCHE

  T

  hat luncheon marked a turning point at Le Pressoir, a shift from the light-hearted atmosphere of the past few weeks to a more sombre mood. The meal had proceeded from the magnificent pike to apple tart and cream, finished with coffee and calvados. Georges recovered his appetite and departed in a cheerful mood. Blanche, without another word to her stepfather, went up to her room. The afternoon felt sultry as if another storm might be brewing, there was a dull ache at the back of her head. For a while, she sat at her window, gazing down over the garden where Breuil and Michel could be seen working along the main path, which was now invaded by a blaze of brilliant nasturtiums. This calm scene did nothing to soothe her, instead she felt on edge and out of control. She realised that while she had often baulked against the uneventful routine of the household, the known rhythm of her daily life, she now viewed it with something like nostalgia. In a way, Papa had been right when he said his dependence gave some sense of purpose to her life, but now that status quo seemed to be shifting. He did not ask her to sort his paints and was irritable if she went to his studio but, more disconcerting, she felt he was keeping something from her. Now that she came to examine this, there was an air of something similar about the young woman, Judith; it was as if they shared a secret, which excluded her.

  I’ve only myself to blame, she thought, it was I who encouraged these visits, I who told her she was doing him good. He would never have met her in the first place if it hadn’t been for me. I wonder now why I did it.

  Blanche cast her mind back to that first encounter with Judith at Robert Harrison’s birthday picnic. The girl had intrigued with her modern clothes and manner, her perception of the occasion, arousing in Blanche a mixture of envy and curiosity. She remembered how Judith had addressed Papa as an equal, been uncaring of how many strawberries she ate, laughed about the wine she had spilt on Mr Harrison’s jacket. Blanche had an image of Judith and Monet, intent on each other, drawing away from the rest of the party, her father gesturing to the landscape, the girl’s rapt expression. She recalled the compelling vitality about her, a sense of being utterly self-centred, fully aware of the picture she made in that pretty summer frock. How taken aback she had been, asking herself was this how American women behaved, seemingly uncaring of their effect on those around them.

  The impression had faded and later she had chosen to ignore any misgivings she might have had; seeing Papa so much happier, she had only encouraged him to have more of her presence. Now, it began to seem, he preferred Judith’s company to hers, he was even considering her advice about cataract operations! The phrase came to her, a cuckoo in the nest. Unable to sit still any longer, she went to stand at her easel to examine her half finished painting. Over the last few days, it had come on quite well. She had felt the return of her old command over colour and begun to paint with much more confidence, using the brush strokes Papa had taught her. She gazed at it critically, the mass of roses among leaves, a slice of blue sky, and now it seemed to her laboured. It hadn’t the freshness, the lightness of touch, which had always been her forte. She felt she had failed to convey the image she saw onto the canvas. Was that true? Or was it these doubts creeping into her mind that made her see it that way? She hardly knew but certainly didn’t feel like painting today, if she ever got round to finishing it. And if that was the case, did her life really have meaning?

  Her wardrobe stood ajar, she went to close it and saw that some of her clothes had fallen off their hangers and lay on the floor. As she picked them up and laid them on the bed, she noticed a light summer gown of cream muslin scattered with blue flowers. It must have been pushed to the back of the wardrobe for she hadn’t seen it for years. She remained holding it for a moment, remembering all those years ago, when the world had seemed to offer so much. It was a gown she had worn in those days with John Leslie.

  1889

  ‘He knows,’ she said. ‘Monet knows. Perhaps he’s seen it all along, we’ve been together a long time.’

  They were sitting by the river. When she had arrived at the Hotel Baudy and John Leslie had seen in her face something was wrong, he had seized her arm and hurried her here. The day was bright but there was a chilly wind that sent the clouds scudding across the sky. That morning as she had walked through the garden, she had noticed the blaze of autumn colour, scarlet and hot pink dahlias, smoky blue asters, the grass under the paulownia tree was scattered with leaves.

  John Leslie said: ‘He would have to have known at some time, perhaps its better now.’

  Blanche thought, you didn’t see the coldness in Monet’s eyes, you didn’t feel the rejection. But she couldn’t blame John Leslie; no-one was to blame. What had happened had happened and it must be confronted. A flock of geese flew overhead. She looked upward to marvel at the perfect V of the birds’ formation, envying their lack of conflict.

  ‘It is going to be very difficult,’ she said. ‘Can you face the problems it will cause?’

  He took her hands and gazed into her eyes. ‘Of course.’

  She felt the shadow of a division between them. He didn’t really understand, how could he? He hadn’t lived alongside a great painter for most of his life, not come under the influence of his work until her canvasses were sometimes indistinguishable from Monet’s. Their lives had become so intermingled, had she the strength to unravel hers?

  ‘All I know,’ John Leslie was saying, ‘is I want to be with you for the rest of my life.’

  He was voicing the words she had longed to hear. Why then did she feel a sense of panic, of being torn apart?

  ‘I need to think about all this, John Leslie.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Will you give me a little time?’ Let me try to work things out?’

  He frowned. ‘If that is what you want, darling, but please don’t let a
nyone persuade you.’

  Nothing was mentioned at Le Pressoir. Blanche resumed her day-to-day life, spending time with her mother and sisters, painting, joining in the family meals. Suzanne took her aside. She wanted to know how the romance was progressing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blanche replied.

  ‘You don’t know! I thought you were madly in love with that American.’

  ‘Please Suzanne, his name is John Leslie.’

  ‘Of course, they just seem like a foreign species, so exotic.’

  Blanche laughed. ‘They are just like any other men with the same capacity for love and loyalty.’

  ‘They are certainly fun,’ her sister said thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could fall in love with one of them. But I haven’t met one I really like. Not yet, anyway.’

  Blanche shook her head, ‘I wouldn’t advise it. It brings far too many complications.’

  Her sister would have none of this. ‘But that’s all part of a fine romance, all resolved in the end.’

  Blanche sighed, ‘I’ve said this before, you are an incurable romantic.’

  And I am not? She asked herself. Maybe I am too much of a realist and can see things as they are.

  As the days passed, she found it increasingly difficult to imagine her existence anywhere else with John Leslie. Insidiously, life here was taking over and the task of escaping it seemed insurmountable. Then Monet asked her to come to his studio, that evening.

  As she entered he was sketching but laid down his charcoal stick and stared at her unsmiling. ‘Tell me, what has happened to you and me? We were happy together.’

  She said nothing for a moment, looking back on their intertwined lives, the young girl enthralled by a real artist come among them, the realisation of her own talent under his eye and guidance.

  ‘We were happy,’ she said. ‘At least most of the time.’

  ‘Yes. We were happy until the Americans came along.’

  American, she thought, John Leslie. Maybe I believed I was happy because I didn’t know anything different. It was innocence. I was a child until I met him and then I realised I was also a woman and wanted the kind of love and joy that meant.

  ‘We were happy,’ Monet persisted. ‘Yes, we were.’ He reached for his cigarettes. ‘And we can be happy again when all this is left behind.’

  In that moment the uncertainty, the doubts she had been feeling over these past days left her and Blanche knew she wanted John Leslie with her heart and soul. He was where her true path lay.

  ‘I can’t leave it behind,’ she cried out. ‘I don’t want to. He has made me come alive.’

  ‘And you are willing to sacrifice all the time we have been together, worked together, how I have helped you develop into the artist you are today? Blanche, we have been constant companions, doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  They gazed at one another and she saw how her life here had been jolted into self-awareness by the love of a man.

  She said at last: ‘I don’t know how to live without him.’

  Silence filled the room. A wind had got up and a branch tapped on the window.

  ‘I don’t want to let you go,’ Monet said. ‘I need you here, working with me.’

  She took the gown to the mirror and held it against her, almost expecting to see the young woman who had worn it all those years ago, and was dismayed. Blanche folded it quickly and laid it aside. She would give it to Lilli, it was too pretty to be hidden away and should be worn again.

  The room seemed stifling and she decided to take a turn in the garden. As she came out onto the balcony, she heard the snip of secateurs and saw that Michel was pruning the Reine des Violettes; that last bloom had faded and died, two days ago.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked him. ‘Don’t be too harsh, I’m hoping it will bloom again in the autumn.’

  ‘I hope so too, madame. I’m only following the instructions of M’sieur Breuil. You see, if you cut off tips of the new strong growth, you may force side shoots that can give more buds. It’s worth a try.’

  ‘I am so fond of that rose,’ she said. ‘It deserves special treatment.’

  He turned to smile at her. ‘It is certainly very beautiful, I too want it to bloom again.’

  Gazing back at him, noting the dark eyes and smooth olive skin, she thought, yes, I can see why Lilli is so mad about him, but she is a little beauty, too. They make a handsome couple.

  ‘I hear you are becoming a very good gardener,’ she said. ‘I know my father hopes you will stay with us.’

  ‘Yes, madame.’

  He seemed embarrassed and she wondered why. Papa had told her how enthusiastic he seemed about working in the gardens.

  ‘I thought you seemed very happy here, especially…’ She was going to say, especially now that you are walking out with Lilli, but changed her mind. ‘…as you seem to have a wonderful way with plants.’

  ‘Thank you, madame.’ He hesitated and in that pause she felt again the sense of concealment, of something unspoken. Papa, Judith and now this young man, it began to feel like a conspiracy.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you from your work, Michel.’ She turned away.

  While they were having supper, the storm broke. The dining room had become so dark they had had to light the lamps, although it was only a little after seven. There came a flash of lightning, which briefly illuminated the room, followed almost immediately by a deafening clap of thunder. Annette screamed. The tureen of vegetables she was carrying crashed to the floor.

  ‘Oh I knew this would happen,’ she wailed. ‘My mother’s cat was sitting with her back to the fire yesterday!’ She crossed herself. ‘Holy Immortal God have mercy on us. Amen.’

  Blanche eyed her stepfather who had drained his glass and now sprang to his feet.

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, girl,’ he shouted. ‘It’s only a storm. I’m more concerned for the vegetables. You had better fetch a bucket and cloth. Then go and ask Marie if there are any more, especially those beans.’

  Blanche was pained by the sight of Annette clumping in and out with the bucket and awkwardly clearing the porcelain fragments. It was clear she was terrified of the storm, she bit her lower lip, obviously afraid to show it. Meanwhile the thunder growled overhead with intermittent flashes of lightning, which glinted on the glass and cutlery.

  ‘You should not shout at Annette, Papa,’ Blanche scolded when the girl had carried in more vegetables and left the room. ‘You know how self-conscious she is.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but she aggravates me so. You know how I cannot bear these local superstitions. A storm is a storm and we know how they come about.’

  Even if Blanche agreed with him that such beliefs were irrational, she had no intention of admitting it. ‘They’re such a poor family, be nice, Papa. I know how grateful to us they are for employing Annette with her… her disability. Imagine, it must be difficult to make sense of a world, which gives you a baby with a clubfoot. Perhaps putting the blame on superstition helps.’

  He gave a deep sigh. ‘Ah Blanche, always so comprehensive of other people’s difficulties. You put me to shame.’ He pushed a dish of tiny green beans towards her. ‘Come on, take some of these, they are absolutely delicious, tender and sweet.’

  She gazed at him, thinking how wonderful it must be to take such joy, such comfort in food. He was so at ease with the world of his senses, a quality she seemed to have lost. But then she had lost so much.

  It began to rain, a dull and persistent sound. She imagined the garden inundated by this downpour, the world obliterated beyond the windows. It added to her sense of uncertainty, the feeling that everything was in flux. She was grateful when it was time to go to bed.

  In the early hours she started up from a nightmare, soaked in sweat. The room was in total darkness and the night air came through her open window, sweet scented and silent after the rain. But the storm seemed to have entered her sleeping mind and she dreamt she was drowning i
n marshy ground, fighting to gain control but gradually being sucked under. Vividly she remembered the feel of the cold mud, the tug of it against her body drawing her down, the dreadful panic.

  The sensation preyed on her mind so that it was the events of the following morning, which seemed unreal, as if she were one step removed from them. She heard voices in the garden and understood that plants had suffered in the downpour. Her stepfather was saying something about the hollyhocks, grumbling to Breuil they had not been properly staked.

  At luncheon he was morose and when she failed to answer some question, he barked at her: ‘what’s wrong with you, Blanche? You look as if you have seen a ghost.’

  In the afternoon she made up her mind to try again with the painting, but could not concentrate and in the end she gave up and went to the kitchen. It was time to help Lilli with the laundry. As they settled to the task of sorting once again, Blanche found herself glancing at the girl who had scarcely said a word. After a while she asked her if she felt well.

  ‘Yes thank you, madame.’

  ‘You’re very quiet today.’

  ‘Am I madame? Pardon.’

  Blanche eyed a food stain on one of her father’s shirts. ‘I was sorting some of my clothes, yesterday,’ she remarked, ‘and I came across such a charming summer frock. I thought you might like to wear it when you next walk out with Michel.’

  Lilli raised her face to gaze at Blanche who was struck by the suffering in her expression.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What has happened, Lilli?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the girl said. ‘I don’t understand, madame. He has become like a stranger. Everything was going so well but when we sheltered from the rain he seemed awkward and scarcely spoke to me.’