Monet's Angels Page 5

  ‘M’sieur?’

  He starts, dragged back to the present, embarrassed that Breuil has heard him talking to himself again. Old man getting a bit soft in the head, he can imagine him thinking.

  ‘What is it?’ he snaps.

  ‘Excuse me, but there has been a delivery from Belgium, the plant you have been waiting for and I thought…’

  ‘The erythrochaete?’

  ‘Yes, m’sieur.’

  ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘In the greenhouse.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’

  ‘Pardon, is it all right with you if Michel comes with us? He is keen to learn.’

  He notices the young man standing behind Breuil, dark eyes meet his, then shy away. Something about his stockiness, the way his hair grows reminds him of his dead son at that age, and impulsively he puts aside the notion that he wanted his first sight of the new orchid to be shared only with his head gardener.

  ‘Certainly.’

  In the greenhouse there is silence while Breuil unfurls the cocooned plant and hands it to him to examine. For Claude, this moment of encountering a specimen is akin to seeing a newborn child, the same emotions of wonder and respect. A moment later and he has become the botanist.

  ‘Come here, Michel, let me show you. This is the red tufted Dracula as it is commonly called, the scientific name derives from the Latin, little dragon. It refers to the shape of the flower which some think resembles a small monster face.’

  Michel gives a nervous giggle, which he quickly stifles.

  Claude searches in his mind for what he has read about this variety among his library of horticultural books. ‘They have no pseudo bulbs, that is the thickened part of the stem that lies above ground as with many other orchids, and they grow by sending out rhizomes to make thick clusters.’

  Aware this is probably going over Michel’s head – the boy’s been here only a few weeks – he suddenly turns on him. ‘What is your family name, young man?’

  ‘Duval, m’sieur.’

  ‘Louis Duval? The farming family? Huh! I’ve crossed swords with him in the past. All that business over the water lily pond: poisonous plants, I ask you! And you have escaped. What do they think of you, then, tending flowers and shrubs? They look beautiful, smell wonderful, yes, but cannot be eaten.’

  ‘They are not happy, m’sieur, but I have always loved gardening.’

  Michel turns his hands palm upward as if to demonstrate his capacity for this work. They are big, square hands, the hands of a Normandy peasant. They please Claude; he has never been afraid of getting his own hands dirty. When even the thickest brush won’t achieve his desired effect, he daubs with his fingers. This young man might have the makings of a good gardener.

  ‘Have you indeed? Then tell me which is your favourite flower?’

  ‘Roses.’

  ‘Roses. Well, there are rather a lot in Giverny. It would be hard not to like them, not very original, try again.’

  Michel shifts his feet. ‘Er… iris.’

  ‘Ah ha! Iris was a Greek goddess, messenger of love, did you know that? The word iris means a rainbow and you certainly find them in many different shades. Yes, and in the language of flowers iris symbolises eloquence.’

  ‘Well,’ says the head gardener. ‘You learn something new, every day.’

  Michel reddens.

  ‘Now we’ve embarrassed the young man, but I like your choice, I share it with you. I’ve painted them many times, haven’t I, Breuil?’

  ‘Yes, m’sieur.’

  ‘And the water lilies, of course.’

  He thinks about the two small boats moored on the edge of the pond and the numerous times he and Breuil circulate the lilies, checking their state, making sure they are pristine. If there is a speck of soot from the passing trains, he cannot paint them. He remembers Alice reporting to him something the gardener had said: ‘He’s painted them once, I don’t understand why he has to keep on doing it. And when he’s finished, they don’t even look like lilies, just a blur in my view.’ He is aware that the other’s admiration is not for his art but his knowledge of flowers and shrubs, his creation of the gardens.

  ‘How long have you been with us, Michel?’

  ‘Six weeks, m’sieur.’

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three, m’sieur.’

  ‘I moved here before you were even born, spotted it on my way to Vernon and knew it was for me. At the beginning, the whole family worked here. I used to dig the ground, plant and hoe up the weeds myself. And at night, the children would water the plants. As the money started to come in, I kept on extending the garden, eh, Breuil?’

  ‘That’s right, m’sieur. When was it you built this greenhouse, early nineties?’

  ‘I was becoming famous, you see, young man, I could afford it and the gardeners, of course, seven of them.’

  He catches Michel’s glance going to Breuil and can well imagine what the older man is thinking: silly old fool, I’ve heard all this before. He doesn’t care, he enjoys the retelling too much; it has become like a fable, that far off joyful era when the sun always shone and he saw colours acutely. If he wants to bore them stiff, he will do so.

  – SEVEN –

  BLANCHE

  T

  he boy brought the invitation when Blanche was sorting the personal laundry. The large wicker baskets were overflowing as usual and they stood at the kitchen table, she and the laundry maid, Lilli, dividing delicate from more robust items: Papa’s silk shirts in their pastel colours with the pleats that were such a devil to iron, one of his white linen suits, her own sensible blouses, bloomers, petticoats, camisoles and night gowns. They were almost finished when she came to a folded item at the bottom of a basket.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘On a shelf in the landing cupboard.’

  Blanche shook out the creased cotton and held it against her. ‘My old painting smock.’

  Lilli eyed her in amazement. ‘I never knew you were a painter, madame.’

  The remark was innocent but it wounded.

  ‘Of course I am a painter. My stepfather gave me palettes and brushes when he saw I was interested. I used to carry his easel and canvasses on a wheelbarrow out into the countryside and then set up my own easel and paint beside him.’

  She thought of the eleven-year-old girl who had taken to him immediately when he and Camille shared the house at Vétheuil with Papa and Maman. The hours she spent sitting in his studio watching him work were bliss; his presence seemed to bathe their surroundings in a clear light and a bond was created between them. There was the year when he was creating his series, Haystacks. She had come utterly under his influence, using the same palette and colours to produce pictures which some said were almost indistinguishable from his.

  ‘Next time you take linen to my stepfather’s bedroom look at one of the paintings on the wall: Haystacks. It is mine.’

  ‘Well I never.’ They usually discussed domestic matters, now Lilli was swimming out of her depth. ‘I never dreamed…’

  ‘Oh Lilli, you have no idea of how it felt to be out in the open air with a great painter. He was so much younger then, so lively, we used to laugh such a lot.’

  ‘He never seems to smile, these days,’ Lilli remarked. ‘What did you paint?’

  Blanche gazed at Lilli’s corn coloured hair, her large blue eyes but seeing in her mind’s eye the collection of canvasses and framed pictures stored away upstairs. She hadn’t looked at them for a long time; it was too painful.

  ‘I did landscapes mostly, meadows by the river, the house and gardens here in Giverny, and Rouen too when my husband was alive. My work has been exhibited at the Salon des Indépendants and two years ago, I had paintings in an Artists of Rouen show.’

  ‘Well!’ Lilli busied herself, returning the clothes in their layers into the basket. ‘And then Madame Alice died?’

  ‘Yes,
I couldn’t leave him on his own after that, not with these cataracts and him so depressed. I had to come back here, he needed me.’ As he has always needed me, she thought and sighed.

  ‘And now there is no time for painting, eh? You are always too busy round the house.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Difficult?’

  Surprised by this perceptive remark, Blanche smiled at the young woman. She liked Lilli, she seemed different from the other servants, intelligent, observant. Blanche felt she could carry on a conversation with her almost as if they were equals. It was good to tell someone her story, the only other person who really sympathised was Georges, of course.

  ‘I find it very difficult. It was what I had always done, you see, what gave me the most satisfaction. I thought I might be able to carry on but… well, you can see all there is to do here. My stepfather needs to know that everything is running like clockwork. In my day, we were brought up to believe duty to the family came first, particularly if you were a woman. Of course now, with all this talk of women’s suffrage in England, things are changing. They are fighting to have the right to vote,’ she added, seeing Lilli’s puzzlement. ‘Decide who rules the country.’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t want to do that,’ the girl said. ‘It’s men’s work, my father says.’

  ‘Well now, Lilli,’ Blanche was curious. ‘What is it that you want out of life?’

  ‘I would hope to marry, madame, have a little house of my own in the village.’

  ‘You don’t want to leave Giverny?’

  ‘Why should I? I was born here.’

  ‘Have you anyone in mind?’

  Lilli dumped the basket on the floor and lifted up another. ‘Well, there is someone… he came to work in the gardens, a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Ah Michel? Yes he is an attractive young man. Is he courting?’

  ‘I don’t think so but I wonder how to make him notice me. I thought… there is a dance in the village next week, all the domestics will be going.’

  ‘Then you should, too. Certainly you should. Have you something nice to wear?’

  ‘There is my blue Sunday frock.’

  ‘Very well, and I have an Indian shawl that will set it off nicely. It has blue and rose in it. I will lend it to you.’

  ‘Oh, madame, would you? Thank you. You are so like Madame Alice, she was always so generous.’

  ‘Yes, she always wanted those around her to be happy. She gave me the shawl one summer over twenty years ago.’ Her gaze went as it often did to the pattern of tiles above the oven.

  1888

  The next time she saw John Leslie was when they almost collided outside a café. As before he bowed his head to her, and politely excused himself. Instead of moving on, he paused and, fixing her with those disconcerting eyes, complimented her on the colour of the frock she was wearing. Blanche felt herself flush.

  ‘May I offer you coffee?’

  She hesitated. ‘Well I… I have taken it already.’

  He laughed. ‘Surely another would do no harm.’

  To her surprise, she found herself following him into the café, aware of the inquisitive glance of the proprietor.

  ‘Where is your charming sister?’ John Leslie wanted to know.

  ‘She is at home, reading in the garden.’

  She thought of her sister who loved nothing more than immersing herself in a book. Face hidden by the large sun hat she liked to wear, she would be lounging under the paulownia tree wishing luncheon didn’t have to be so early so she might finish a few more chapters.

  John Leslie lit a cigarette. ‘It must be a swell garden.’

  ‘It is now but it wasn’t when we first arrived. There were just a lot of trees and an orchard. Monet has created it all himself though the whole family has been involved with the clearing and weeding. He is devoted to his garden.’

  In the pause that followed, she knew he was looking at her but couldn’t raise her eyes to look at his face. She felt she must speak, break this silence, but did not find making conversation as easy as her mother who always seemed to know the right thing to say.

  She cleared her throat. ‘So how are you settling in, you and the family? Does your mother find it easy to be in a strange country?’

  ‘She’d do anything to help me in my career. She and my brother are a wonderful support.’

  They seemed to be carrying on the conversation at one level but at another she wasn’t thinking what she was saying and felt that neither was he listening.

  When he told her they would be staying at least until winter, she felt the tightness of joy under her ribs.

  ‘It will be a chance to get to know you and your sister better,’ he continued. ‘And even, dare I hope, pay a visit to the house. I understand that Theodore Robinson is already a guest.’

  She thought of the shy man who sat in Monet’s studio and discussed the theory of impressionism by the hour. Sickly but courageous, Monet had labelled him. ‘He has suffered from asthma all his life and yet he travels, he paints. I admire a man like that.’

  ‘They are good friends and fellow artists,’ Blanche replied. ‘But as I told you the other day Monet does not admit many people into his circle. He spends all his time painting.’ She did not add that he would certainly disapprove of her taking coffee with an American.

  Again there was a pause. She felt the closeness of his hand resting on the table, of her own lying in her lap. She had an urge to reach out but fear suddenly overcame her happiness. She glanced round the café and caught the proprietor’s eye; how they loved to gossip in Giverny.

  ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘But of course you never know in this life.’

  ‘You never know.’ Blanche met his gaze then glanced away as she picked up her gloves. ‘And now I must go. I only came into the village to post a letter. Thank you for the coffee.’

  They came out into the bright day where they paused, both it seemed unwilling to say goodbye.

  ‘We are taking our meals at the Baudy family’s establishment,’ John Leslie said. ‘The cooking is excellent. Would you and mademoiselle Suzanne give us the pleasure of coming to luncheon there, one day?’ He was looking directly into her eyes. It took her breath away. ‘Please.’

  The luncheon was the first of several during that summer. Soon they were invited to dances on the terrace and picnics in the countryside – Maman had persuaded Monet there was no harm in the girls enjoying themselves and broadening their narrow circle as long as they stayed together at all times. Robinson had vouched the Americans were reliable young men. When she was with John Leslie, Blanche felt intoxicated with the joy of being alive, seeing everything around her so vividly that it seemed to take on a special meaning.

  It was during one of these soirees, the terrace hung with Japanese lanterns glowing like exotic fruit among the leaves of the trees and John Leslie playing his guitar, that the fear struck again. This was too good to last. She was Monet’s chosen one, his painting companion and he would never allow this to go any further than friendship. Blanche shivered and pulled the Indian shawl closer round her shoulders.

  ‘Are you cold?’ John Leslie had taken a break from his playing and come to sit beside her.

  ‘No, not really,’ she replied. ‘Just… a goose walked over my grave.’

  He had taken her hand and gently stroked it. She felt the light touch as if he were kissing it. In this corner of the terrace they were alone together for the first time, out of sight of the others. She could believe that the world extended no further than these, their immediate surroundings. She gave him her other hand. She wanted him to take her in his arms. She looked down at their joined hands and the pattern of rose on the blue silk of her shawl. He said her name. She looked up and saw a query in his expression, one that she was at a loss to answer.

  She knew he felt too the sudden need to draw closer together and it came to her that she was falling in love with him. She had never felt like this before and s
he panicked. What would she do when autumn came and he returned to Paris?

  He was looking questioningly at her so that she thought her expression had given her away.

  ‘Blanche? It’s lovely to be here, with you.’ She felt a knot of happiness and fear of where this might lead. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and fell unnoticed to the ground.

  Annette came into the kitchen, holding out an envelope. Blanche took it, turned it over and saw the Hotel Baudy stamp. Oh dear, another note from the American woman, asking yet again for an audience with the great man. There was no point reading this third one to Papa, it would simply irritate him. She opened the envelope and read.

  A picnic by the Seine (Déjeuner sur l’Herbe) has been arranged to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of Mr Robert Harrison. You are cordially invited to attend. RSVP.

  Reply if you please. Oh it would please her so much to reply: yes, yes, yes to a picnic by the sparkling Seine where John Leslie once rowed them, singing,

  Row, row, row your boat,

  Gently down the stream.

  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

  Life is but a dream.

  1888