Monet's Angels Read online

  ‘No shadow is black, it always has a colour, white and black are not colours.’

  There lay the difference in their work, she had thought.

  ‘I’m sure you must have come along by leaps and bounds,’ she said. ‘You’ve been in Giverny for some time, haven’t you?’ And John Leslie was one of your friends, she added, silently.

  ‘Over twenty years, yes, I’ve seen some changes.’

  ‘Robert?’

  A young woman had approached them and now stood at his side. Blanche frowned, resenting the interruption, but he turned, drawing her into the circle.

  ‘Hey, let me introduce you. Madame Blanche, this is Mademoiselle Judith.’

  What Blanche saw, startled her. The girl was young but there was an assurance about her, an air of being accustomed to such social occasions. She proffered her hand in the most gracious way and murmured ‘enchanté’ with the American accent Blanche always found charming.

  She noted the bobbed hair, the summery dress with its simple collar, the blue and white birds eye spot silk cravat. She held herself well and obviously had no need of corsets. Blanche watched every eye including Papa’s drawn to this freshness, this youthfulness.

  It was his turn to murmur ‘enchanté’ and bend his head over her hand. ‘Well, mademoiselle, you look as if you have stepped straight out of a painting.’

  Those nearest to him laughed. The young woman joined in, making a little bow to her left and right. She had the air of seeming poised, ready to dance. Blanche immediately scolded herself for being fanciful.

  ‘Why, thank you sir for the compliment and I guess that’s quite something coming from you!’ She addressed him as an equal, there was no deference in her tone.

  Robert filled their flutes and she clinked hers against Monet’s. ‘Santé.’

  ‘Santé, dear mademoiselle.’

  It occurred to Blanche she was witnessing an extraordinary scene as her stepfather now turned his full attention on the American girl and she to him. He took her arm and led her about, pointing out the line of poplars, indicating the poppy fields, while she listened, apparently rapt. Blanche wasn’t near enough to hear what they were saying but guessed he was talking about painting, the inspiration of these landscapes, his way of seizing on a moment and making of it something. There was nothing sexual about it, nor in the least flirtatious. ‘The master and his acolyte’, the title swam into her mind as if she were observing a painting. For Judith with her short hair and slight figure was androgynous, might almost have been a boy at the feet of this bearded, esteemed old man. They were seated now, he indicating a chocolate gateau, she shaking her head. He laughed and the sound was strong and joyful.

  Judith said loudly, ‘I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long.’

  Everyone agreed the picnic had been an enormous success, the company, the food and drink, the general ambiance. It would be an afternoon to be talked about for many months to come. For Blanche, the experience had been something quite other. While she had, of course, accepted the plates heaped with food and several glasses of champagne, her attention was directed onto Judith, how she looked, what she did, what she said. The thing that struck her most of all was the girl’s insouciance. She knocked a glass of wine over Robert and mopped him with her handkerchief, laughing as she did so. She had three bowls of strawberries, emptying the cream jug over her final portion with no concern for anyone else. Blanche watched her, feeling a mixture of envy and curiosity. Was this the way American women behaved, uncaring of their effect on those around them? Giving Papa a playful little cuff over something he said, seizing another young lady’s parasol and calling out: ‘Has anyone got a camera?’ Oh, to be twenty again or whatever age this child was, twenty and permitted to behave like that, uncaring, concerned only with self… what dreams she might have fulfilled. What was I doing in my twenties? Carting Papa’s canvasses behind him, always prepared to produce the next that would correspond to a particular moment in the day. Locked in his world of art, his expectations of me, so much to lay on the shoulders of a young girl.

  1888

  After that brief time with John Leslie her whole world changed. She might have thought that going back to her normal surroundings, it would all seem the same but of course it didn’t. She forgot to post her mother’s letters, sat dreaming in the hen house when she should have been collecting the eggs. She felt life at Le Pressoir was surreal and the true one was with John Leslie.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ Maman asked. ‘You’re not sickening for something?’

  ’Perfectly all right, Maman.’

  ‘Well, I am worried about you. You haven’t seemed yourself for the past few days.’

  It was true. She had lost her normally healthy appetite, her impatience to be out painting with Monet, her thoughts were obsessed with John Leslie. That evening, she made an attempt to clear her plate, fearful that her mother would send for the doctor, but when pressed to more she had to refuse.

  Monet was talking about a walk he had taken the day before, his interest in a haystack’s reaction with light, both absorbing and giving off refracted colour. An idea was growing in his mind, something to do with registering these effects with passing time, she could scarcely be bothered to listen.

  ‘So Blanche, up and off very early tomorrow morning!’ his loud tone jerked her out of her reverie. ‘I want to make a start.’

  With a sense of surprise, she realised that, for the first time in years, she could not care less about painting. Neither did she want to get out of bed at the crack of dawn. Suzanne was right, she thought, remembering that conversation on the day they had first met the Brecks. There is life beyond sitting before a canvas. Immediately she felt guilty that she was having these mutinous thoughts, she who had always been Monet’s willing assistant, his ‘pack horse’ as her sister called her, trundling behind him with the wheelbarrow loaded with canvasses.

  ‘Not necessarily haystacks, it could be anything,’ he was saying, ‘another kind of structure, a wall even. That is not the point… the point is…’

  Impossible, she thought. Was she thinking it was impossible to change her life or impossible to go on as it was?

  On Saturday, they celebrated Jean’s birthday. Maman had asked her to help prepare the table, knowing he was her favourite stepbrother. They brought in greenery from the garden and laid a rose by each plate. Sunlight streamed into the yellow dining room and she felt dazzled and disorientated,

  ‘Salmon mousse to begin with and then a saddle of lamb with new potatoes and garden peas,’ her mother was saying. ‘Marguerite has made a surprise dessert, she refuses to tell me what it is but I think it might be banana ice cream.’

  Blanche heard herself laugh but the sound seemed to come from someone outside herself.

  When everyone was crowded round the table, Suzanne laughing at Monet as he solemnly decanted the champagne, she tried to join in but felt adrift and separate from all of them.

  ‘Do you remember that year when Jean was twelve and we asked him what he wanted for his birthday and he said a chemistry set?’ Maman was saying.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Monet, ‘and he mixed hydrogen sulfide with ammonia and filled the place with such a stink!’

  ‘And what about the time when he singed his hair on the Bunsen burner?’ put in Michel.

  Jean laughed. ‘Ah well, ten years on and I’m still here.’

  Blanche watched them all, talking and joking and they seemed remote even Monet. She had a strange feeling of their being strangers and the only person who was familiar was John Leslie. As she sat there, her plate untouched before her, she thought about him and was sure he was thinking about her. She remembered his kisses and longed for him so desperately she clenched her fists and felt her nails digging into her palms. She seemed to be watching this scene as if from a great distance. Her mother leaned across and asked her once again whether she was all right. How could she explain this feeling that nothing was real exce
pt John Leslie? She thought back over of her life with Monet since he had arrived at her parents’ chateau, the excitement of having an artist among them, this exotic creature with long hair and a beard. She had taken to him straight away and he to her. She remembered the joy when he had praised her painting, the years they had worked side by side. He had been her lodestar and she had worshipped him, wanting only to please. Life here, at Giverny had been filled with company and laughter. How had this happened… in a day, an hour, and what could she do about it? Monet would expect her to be out with him all day tomorrow painting and for days after that. There would be no opportunity of meeting John Leslie. She felt weak and helpless, sick with longing. As the week progressed so did her feeling of apartness grow, her yearning to be with John Leslie again.

  ‘You look thoughtful, madame.’ The gamine had arrived beside her. Close to, she was even more astonishing, the marble complexion against the dark auburn hair.

  ‘Oh just observing it all, mademoiselle, I am something of a spectator.’

  ‘I guess a painter has to be, especially a painter of your skills. Why there is difficulty to tell the difference between some of your work and M’sieur Monet’s.’

  ‘Oh! Where have you seen my paintings?’

  ‘I haven’t actually seen them but they are famous, of course. I’ve heard them spoken about in New York by the most respected artists and at lectures, of course, in the museums and art galleries.’

  ‘So, you are a serious student, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Yes, I am and of impressionism in particular. The moment I saw the exhibition in New York, I fell in love with that vision, the happy, carefree lives they must have led, you know, drinking wine in cafés, having long earnest discussions about art. My family have everything mapped out for me, you see but I…’

  She looked so earnest Blanche was forced to smile. ‘I think that is an over romantic view. Yes, they discussed art but also there were all the arguments and jealousies as there always are with a group of creative people.’

  Judith seemed not to hear or want to hear. ‘Oh, if only I’d been alive then… the fashion, the bohemian life of artists. It would have been my era.’ She hesitated. ‘Madame Blanche, I said my dreams had come true today but the final dream would be to visit the house.’

  There was something about her hunger for life, her preoccupation with self that reminded Blanche of her stepfather. Like him, she appeared to see no reason why she should not have what she wanted from life. She felt a grudging admiration for Judith who behaved as she had once dreamed of behaving. It would be intriguing to study her further.

  ‘Well then, I will make sure he invites you.’

  – TEN –

  ROBERT

  A

  t this hour of night, he cherished his solitude; he needed this time before sleep to settle his mind. He liked to go over the events of the day, remembering moments that pleased him: the smell of coffee, sunlight through leaves, a sparrow pecking crumbs, before putting them to rest. He had gone through this ritual for as long as he had lived in Giverny but tonight, somehow, was different. This young woman with her energy and demands had unsettled him. Her urgency to achieve her goal at whatever cost, her irresponsibility had stirred up the past, summoning to his mind images he had believed laid to rest.

  He saw himself sitting by the creek with his dog. Cautiously, he pursued the memory further. There he was with his arm round Rusty’s neck, the animal leaning slightly against him as he watched the play of light on the water beyond the willow trees. He felt the peace around him and his reluctance to leave it. He saw them walking, that other Robert and his dog, back along the path through the trees, a path beaten hard by the children coming down to swim in the creek.

  As he pushed open the back door he saw his mother standing at the sink. She turned and gave him a wry smile. ‘Good to see you, son. Maybe you can help quiet Florrie a little. She’s a mite overexcited.’

  There he was in the dining room where his father and Florence were already sitting at the table. Now he remembered back to those family meals when his sister was wilful and funny, making them laugh in spite of themselves. These were that other Robert’s memories: the house in small town America and his life there, the boy he had been. There was a loaf on the table and a jug of water. He sat down and poured himself a glass. Florence was giggling as she told his father something and he was pretending to scold her. Then he saw Robert and gave him a quick grin. His mother came into the room, carrying a casserole of meat and dumplings and sat herself down at the table.

  ‘Hey, Annie!’ his father said. ‘Just listen to what Florrie has been up to today. Tell your mother, Florrie, go on.’

  He saw his little sister’s blonde curls, her wide blue eyes. He watched his parents’ patient gaze as she told how she and Elsie had jumped from a low garden wall onto the walnuts Elsie’s father had laid out to dry before he stored them in his attic.

  ‘And cracked them all?’ His mother shook her head. ‘Every man jack of them! You naughty little girl, what am I going to do with you?’

  She turned to Robert as if for support and he shrugged. Florrie had a will of her own, even at six years old.

  There was a chocolate pudding made with tapioca. They were always eating tapioca, it was supposed to be good for you. He found his mother’s cooking heavy. He preferred to nibble apples and nuts from the trees when he was out in the country. Aunt Mattie had an old English cook book and she sometimes made him a crème brûlée, which was light and tasty and which he loved. He never told anyone where he went on those jaunts with Rusty, roaming the fields or just sitting by the creek. He could be himself then, a nine-year-old boy let loose from watching over Florrie. He sensed his father’s gaze on him and wondered what he was thinking.

  ‘Are you going fishing on Sunday, Father?’ Robert asked for something to say.

  ‘That’s right, are you coming?’

  ‘Oh Frank don’t be silly, you know he isn’t,’ his mother said. ‘He’ll be taking Florrie to Sunday School.’

  Robert met his mother’s gaze, and making sure she behaves herself, her expression implied.

  His father was exploring the chocolate pudding again and saw none of this.

  Robert stirred himself and gazed at the garden sinking into the night but he was wide-awake, sniffing the scents of drowsing flowers, hearing the hoot of an owl. After a while, he rose and wandered along the path, eased open the studio door and stepped inside. There was a full moon, which shone through the window directly onto the easel where a painting was propped, the one he knew Harry had worked on over the past three days. He was far more single minded. In fact, he came out with it the other day: ‘she’s a disruptive influence, Robert. Do as you want but I am not going to allow her to distract me from my work.’

  The picture was almost finished, it gleamed in the silver light, the paint not yet dry. It showed a local woman washing clothes in the river, a subject Robert wouldn’t touch. He never had any figures in his paintings, preferred landscapes, fields of corn and poppies, willows by the river. Harry had a gift for capturing movement; his figures looked robust, planted fair and square in their setting, although he found it strange that Harry never painted men. But then, he needed people as Judith did, they were both physical, he with his tennis and rowing, she ready to break out in dance, and they were both much younger than he.

  This place had been his home far longer and he had memories they couldn’t share. For them it was a quite affluent place where people had transformed their cottages with flowers, roses in particular. Giverny’s inhabitants felt themselves superior to the other surrounding villages, which did not have an artist in their midst. But he recalled a time when he had held his breath as he passed the hen yards with their terrible smell and watched the local people rise with the sun and go to bed with it. They had been wary and kept themselves apart but, in his view, it was much more authentic. He was one of that first small colony; now youthful Americans
journeyed here because it had become known as the place to visit. One saw them everywhere, lounging in cafés, cycling to Vernon and painting, of course.

  In those days, the community had centred on the Hotel Baudy where Lucien made himself responsible for the guests after the secret police had watched them for six months. He smiled as he remembered how cheap it was, all that free red wine. He cherished Giverny as his sanctuary from that awful event he had left behind. He stayed on the outside, observing the couples who came and went, the very young man who arrived with his tutor from Paris. There had been a group of pretty young women, the Hoschedé and the Perry sisters. They seemed to be having a fine old time with the Americans. ‘Don’t tell Monet,’ one of them had pleaded. Her name was Blanche Hoschedé who joined them sometimes to paint, whose easel was set up near to John Leslie’s and he knew they were falling in love.

  Fine looking man, John Leslie, high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, but it was his eyes that drew one, his penetrating, enquiring gaze. He was a master of composition and, for a time, he had seemed close to Monet but then…

  – ELEVEN –

  CLAUDE

  H

  e takes a turn around the garden, pauses by each rose arch to satisfy himself that the work has been done. He gazes upward and the sun dazzles his eyes so much he has the sensation of blindness. It never used to be like that but then Doctor Coutela says it is another of the symptoms and to be expected. He pulls the brim of his hat down over his eyes and pokes at the ground with his shoe, pleased to find the soil is damp. He sees Michel with the hose, directing it towards the nasturtiums. Thirsty plants, nasturtiums, but they grow like wildfire and give you such a show with their pretty plate-like leaves that catch the dew, their jolly reds and oranges and yellows. That’s what he loves about his garden, this cheek by jowl arrangement of classic varieties and so called humble plants. He has no time for manicured lawns and clipped privet; there is lushness here, a combined energy of thrusting growth and flowering.