Monet's Angels Page 4

  She imagined if a painter saw her now he would think what a charming picture she made, the sun coming through the leaves, dappling her new sailor blouse and plain straw hat. She just loved this garçon look, especially as it went right against Mother’s opulent dressing, all that silk and furs. Whatever Charlie said, and he could be awfully old fashioned, she intended to carry on in the same style over there. That was of course unless a way opened up for her to stay here, which somehow depended on meeting him. Now she was back to the nagging anxiety, the lack of power to do anything while her first and then her second letter remained unanswered.

  A smatter of applause from the courts and, a few moments later, Robert appeared, smiling as he came along the terrace to join her. His face glowed and he looked tired but triumphant as he sank into the opposite seat. Judith felt immediately soothed by his presence. It was only a few days ago he had collected her from the railroad station but already he was an important part of her life here. He understood her sense of not belonging in New York society, the quest for a life that was unbound by social conventions and what other people thought of you. It was all so delightfully bohemian in Giverny; they were already on first name terms.

  ‘You can be yourself here,’ he’d told her. ‘You don’t have to pretend any more.’

  She could not make out what he thought of her, whether he found her attractive. He certainly made a point of sitting next to her at dinner and, that morning, had invited her to come to the studio to watch him paint. She didn’t mind that he scarcely spoke about himself but seemed content to listen to her, as she talked about London and Paris, the seventy-eight George Apperley watercolours she had seen at the Walker Gallery, the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries at the Cluny, of course, and the hours she had spent in couturier houses. She loved his attention and compliments, his open admiration of how she had engineered her stay in Giverny.

  ‘And all on the strength of what Dodgson told you? That man is always fooling around.’

  ‘He was just so enthusiastic about life here, how free and easy it all was. And when I told him how tired I was of trailing around with Emily he perfectly understood and said he knew you folks would welcome me with open arms.’

  Robert had sighed. ‘Good old Dodgson, setting the cat among the pigeons.’

  What did he mean by that, she wanted to know?

  ‘Nothing, carry on with the story.’

  ‘Well, the thing was I had to rid myself of Emily.’

  ‘Exactly. How did you?’

  ‘I tell you, this was destined, I really believe that, Robert. I was meant to come here.’

  Judith recalled how a few days after her conversation with Mr Dodgson she had come across Emily, head bent over a book, weeping quietly. Questioned, she had explained she had left behind a sick mother but had had no alternative, as they needed the money.

  ‘Let me finish,’ Robert had interrupted. ‘You paid her off and went along with Dodgson’s charming suggestion?’

  ‘Something like that. I told her there was no question but that she should be with her mother. I would give her her wages and something more besides. When she asked what I would do, I told her I knew an old schoolfriend of my mother’s who lived in a little Normandy village where I should be perfectly safe.’

  Robert had raised an eyebrow at this. Judith went on to tell him how she had telegrammed her parents suggesting that, as she had found London and Paris quite tiring and in view of the forthcoming wedding, a relaxing stay in Giverny was just what she required.

  There was a pause while he lit a cigarette and appeared to ponder. ‘There is one thing that still foxes me: why you found it so appealing to come here. Surely, it must seem like a bit of a backwater to a girl like you.’

  ‘It’s where Monet lives,’ she had replied.

  ‘And so?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure but somehow I think Monet holds the key.’

  ‘Key?’

  ‘To my destiny, of course.’

  ‘Hey, that’s a bit of a tall order.’

  Judith had shrugged, ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’

  They were quiet for a while before Robert spoke again.

  ‘So what’s wrong with the little lady, this afternoon?’ He was teasing her now. ‘You look as if the weight of the whole world is laid on your pretty shoulders.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘That’s a stylish blouse you’re wearing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Chanel, I guess.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He poured himself a glass of lemonade, lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat. He glanced up at the leaves above their heads and gave a contented sigh. ‘Mmm, what a glorious afternoon. The roses are blooming, the bees are humming and we just beat Gervase and Thomas by three sets. Harry was on top form. What more can you want?’

  She had noticed that he often spoke of his tennis partner. Harry was quite a bit younger than he, tall and blond with cornflower-blue eyes. They were often in the studio, painting together. She was somehow reminded of uncle Simon who always brought a young man called Gerald to her mother’s dinner parties. ‘That pretty boy,’ Father called Gerald and her mother would say, ‘Please, Maurice, they’re just friends,’ which made him laugh.

  ‘You’re right,’ Judith said. ‘It is lovely and I’m happy to be here but…’

  ‘But?’

  She sniffed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ Her sudden change of mood startled him.

  ‘Hey, hey, no need to cry.’

  She fumbled for a handkerchief and Robert handed over his. It was large and white, smelling of the same lavender scent as her sheets.

  ‘Now come on,’ he said. ‘A big blow.’

  She obeyed, dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘I guess you didn’t get a reply.’

  ‘I’m desperate, Robert. He must get back to me, he must. If he doesn’t I think I’ll die.’

  Robert seemed to find this amusing.

  ‘I mean it.’

  She gazed at her hands screwing the handkerchief as if it were a rag. At the same time she was aware of how sweet and innocent she must look, her eyes shining with tears. ‘To be here almost on his doorstep and not able to see him…’

  She realised his attention had been distracted. He was waving to someone, pointing to his watch, a Cartier model she recognised because Charlie had one, and then holding up six fingers. She turned to see the person was Harry who averted his head and went into the hotel.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Judith, you were saying?’

  ‘He just ignores my letters. Oh, what can I do, Robert? I might as well throw myself in the Seine.’

  ‘I told you it wasn’t going to be easy, Judith.’ Robert’s tone was patient. ‘He almost never sees people, these days, especially us Americans. He just shuts himself up in Le Pressoir and paints.’

  She tossed the handkerchief on the table. ‘But I’m not people, I’m me. I shall send another letter, I’ll just go on sending letters until…’

  ‘Whoa. Whoa! You’re a very stubborn young lady, I have to say. But that isn’t the way to go about it, he can be just as stubborn unless it’s something he wants to do himself.’

  There was a pause. She took her compact from her bag and inspected her face, put it away again and still he was silent. He didn’t really care, no-one here cared, they were just too busy playing tennis, eating and drinking and, of course, talking endlessly about art. She gazed at the half empty jug on the table, the sweep of countryside beyond the terrace. It suddenly felt pointless being here.

  But now Robert was smiling. ‘Hmm, yes, I think I have an idea. Listen to this…’

  Dinner that evening was once again a noisy affair, they were celebrating Thomas’s sale of his Normandy Landscape to Monet’s art dealer Durand-Riel and the wine jugs emptied rapidly. Madame Baudy had risen to the occasion and prepared a splendid coq au vin. Judith passed her plate for a second helping and n
odded to Robert as he poised a jug above her glass.

  ‘Feeling better?’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh yes! It’s a swell idea.’

  ‘We’ll take a stroll in the garden later and discuss it properly.’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  They had had to cut their conversation short when Robert realised it was time to catch up with Harry. Judith ordered a cocktail and lingered on the terrace a while longer, she watched the shadows lengthen across the tennis courts, relaxed now and confident the meeting would occur. Later she had spent an hour in her room doing her nails and dressing for dinner. She hung up the sailor blouse, deserting Chanel who had not seemed to offer much in the way of evening frocks and put on a Fortuny. She loved these Delphos models of his, the long clinging sheath that rippled with subtle watery shades, the feel of fine silk against her skin. She gazed at her reflection in the cheval mirror, admired the effect of pale skin and dark hair. What would be the effect on Robert, she’d wondered.

  ‘Pretty dress,’ he had said and Harry on his other side agreed but that was all.

  Now she sat among the group of noisy diners, silent herself, content to savour Robert’s plan. She sipped her wine and gazed at the paintings round the walls, a still life of fruit and flowers, two women in a garden, a poppy field. Most of them as Robert had told her, were accepted by Angelina Baudy in lieu of payment for board and lodgings. They were discussing the painter, Pissarro and she listened eagerly.

  ‘They’d known each other a long time before that, of course,’ Thomas was saying. ‘They met at the Quai des Orfèvres when he and Monet were studying at the Academie Suisse. He soon turned his back on the traditionalists, far more interested in the way scenes and objects imprint themselves on the mind.’

  Robert took it up. ‘Particularly conditions of light: Pissarro considered light as inseparable from the things it illuminates. I find it amazing that those paint strokes of his took him beyond just seeing into the realm of emotion.’

  ‘It’s comic how the term “impressionist” came about though, isn’t it?’ said Harry, ‘As a criticism of their work.’

  ‘Well, it foxed the Salon, didn’t it? They’d been so used to technical detail and photographic accuracy, they simply thought this technique was childish. He had a hard time convincing anybody.’

  ‘He certainly had a profound effect on Monet.’

  The wine jug was poised again and she nodded. She was intent on absorbing all this information, committing it to memory; it would come in very useful for what she had in mind.

  Richard, the pianist, carried his glass over and played Silvery Moon again. Judith went to stand beside him and sang the words; she was feeling pleasantly tipsy.

  ‘I hear you’re a swell dancer,’ he spoke above the music.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Robert. He said you entertained the whole of Vernon railroad station with the Turkey Trot.’

  ‘Well, yes, I did.’

  ‘Why don’t you give us a demonstration now?’

  As he changed the tune to ragtime, Robert rose from the table and came over to them.

  ‘Not now, young lady, we’re taking a stroll in the garden, remember?’

  Outside, the air was still balmy though pleasantly cooler after the scorching day. They took a small flight of steps that led to the second level of the garden and strolled along paths edged with the ghostly blossom of roses. She could smell their scent, faint and sweet on the night air. Below them the lights were still on in the dining room, the pianist played and sang:

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  For the black bat, night, has flown,

  Come into the garden, Maud,

  I am here at the gate alone;

  She felt overwhelmed by it all: the shadowy garden, Robert’s presence beside her, the moon silvering the foliage. It seemed impossibly romantic.

  ‘It was fascinating what you said about Pissarro.’

  ‘He was a wonderful man, generous with his gift. But it’s their personal lives that really interest me, his relationship with Monet. When you see that wonderful house and the gardens, the fame he has today, it’s difficult to imagine how the great man struggled in the early days.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well for a start, he kept being refused by the Paris Salon when Pissarro and some of the others were accepted. At one time, he hadn’t a sou. He was living with this young model, Camille, and they had a hard time of it. Pissarro and another artist, Bazille, kept them going.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘If you call not paying the bills and not being able to afford to eat romantic then I would agree with you. Our friend Monet took it badly and as for Camille, she had to go without the fashionable clothes she loved. There’s a marvellous painting of her. She’s wearing a green and black striped gown and fur-trimmed jacket all set off by a little feathered hat. The pose is inspired. She has her back to us but her face turned in profile, her hand is raised to adjust the tie of her hat. We wonder what she is doing. Leaving? She was a young, local girl but in that painting he’s transformed her into an elegant, mysterious Parisienne.’

  ‘She sounds like a girl after my own heart. What happened to her?’

  ‘She died.’

  They went up another level, passed thick shrubbery, retraced their steps and came to a wooden seat.

  ‘Let’s sit here,’ Robert suggested.

  Once again they were enveloped in the scent of roses from the arbour above their heads. The pianist sang.

  There has fallen a splendid tear

  From the passion-flower at the gate.

  She is coming, my dove, my dear;

  She is coming, my life, my fate.

  The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’

  And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’

  The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’

  And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’

  She felt like the heroine of a Henry James novel, one of his heiresses come to Europe. Maybe Robert would fall in love with her and the problem be solved; she could stay on in Giverny.

  ‘You look like a moth in this light,’ he was saying. ‘A beautiful, exotic moth.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful dress,’ he continued. ‘I was looking at it earlier; the effect of the colours is extraordinary. I’d love to try to paint them.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to paint me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said and changed the subject. ‘As I said to you, this afternoon, it will be my birthday in ten days’ time and I thought… do you know Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party?’

  ‘No.’ She wasn’t going to admit she had once spent ten minutes gazing at it in the Phillips Collection museum. She was just disappointed he had switched his attention from her.

  ‘It is a wonderful work of art, beautiful young people enjoying a day by the river. You can almost hear the voices, the jokes and the laughter. It’s such a happy painting, the way the light shines through the awning, the rich colours, the texture…’

  She sighed in her breath and Robert paused.

  ‘Sorry, it is such a marvellous painting, you could discuss it for ages but I’ll get to the point. The luncheon in the picture took place at the Maison Fournaise, a restaurant by the river. In the seventies and eighties, most of the major impressionists went there and painted nearby, including Claude Monet. He could have been one of the people in the picture. Now, if we create a magnificent picnic luncheon by the Seine in memory of those happy summer days, I’m hopeful Blanche will be able to persuade the old man to come.’

  ‘Who’s Blanche?’ Judith was alarmed. ‘I thought his wife was dead.’

  ‘She’s his stepdaughter but as she married his son she is also his daughter-in-law. When I first knew her she was a good painter but I understand she’s given it all up and just looks after Monet.’

  ‘How sad.’


  ‘The French have a very strong sense of values, of family loyalty, respect for hard work and financial security. Blanche would have thought it her duty to care for him.’

  Judith found this turn in the conversation dull and boring. ‘So, what about this picnic?’ she said. ‘Do you think it will work?’

  ‘We can but try.’

  – SIX –

  CLAUDE

  I

  t is approaching the blue hour, that time between sunset and nightfall when everything seems to be azure tinged. He has longed for this moment, the day too bright, everything seeming too focused, exposed and raw has worn him down. At luncheon, they had been tetchy with each other, like an old married couple. Blanche said the yellow dining room disturbed her, took her appetite away. He complained about Marie’s cooking, compared it with Marguerite’s, the way she’d had with lobster. They were both feeling the heat.

  ‘You’d better speak to that girl again. I’ll swear she moves the paints around on purpose. I’d started with the wrong colour before I realised.’

  ‘You’re imagining things, Papa. There is no reason why she should do that.’

  ‘If you only knew what it is like to rely on labels when you paint; I never thought I’d reach that point.’

  Usually she would have commiserated, congratulated him for carrying on in spite of his disability but today Blanche merely remarked that at least he had the time and the opportunity to paint. He hadn’t known what to say to that and then there was too much peppercorn in the salad.

  ‘Impossible!’ Blanche had sighed. ‘You can never have too much.’

  Now she has gone to the churchyard with flowers once again and he is in his garden. He ambles up and down the straight paths between the flowerbeds, pausing to examine a particular flower that catches his attention, a geranium, salvia, a drift of nepeta and, of course, the misty colours of the Reine des Violettes, that Blanche had remarked on the other day. The evening is bringing out the scents of honeysuckle, the white flowered Graham Thomas, jasmine, and nicotiana, whose fragrance will soon draw moths. As usual, he ends up in the water garden and here he stands on the bridge, gazing down at the reflection of wisteria in the green water. He is remembering when the family first came here, all those years ago, the chain of events that brought him to Giverny: Camille’s illness, the birth of their second son, Michel, the household chez Hoschedé, then Alice helping him with the boys after their mother’s death. Above all, he recalls the joy of making this house and gardens a work of art. He speaks aloud: ‘Remember that afternoon when I had you sitting so long for that painting, cherie? You were always restless, scolding me that there were things to be done. “Alice, please, just a few more minutes,” I said and you looked up at me and smiled and I felt so much love for you. But you were alarmed about this bridge, weren’t you? You said, “you’re not going to paint it red are you, Claude?”’ He chuckles at the memory.