Monet's Angels Read online

  ‘Bonjour, Michel.’

  The young man is grinning, his shirtsleeves and the bottoms of his trousers are damp. He is like a boy with a water pistol.

  ‘How are you enjoying working for us?’

  ‘It’s good, m’sieur. I am learning a lot.’

  ‘Better than working on the land, eh?’

  Michel gives an expressive shrug.

  ‘Be good and maybe you will take over M’sieur Breuil’s job when he retires.’

  They laugh at this. Breuil has said he will work until he drops.

  He stays a moment longer, watching Michel watering the roses. The boy has wide shoulders and powerful arms though his legs are short and if he is anything like his father, he’ll have a belly on him in a few years’ time. But this morning, with the sun glinting on his black hair, arm thrown back to direct the spray, and backed by hollyhocks, rose, white and yellow, he becomes abstract.

  ‘One could paint that,’ he murmurs and Michel looks across in question.

  ‘Nothing, nothing, I’ll leave you to your work.’

  In the studio he is still thinking about the garden and why he created it. From the very beginning, from those days when they were all out here working, he had in his mind what this store of flowers would offer to impressionism, the use of colour without resorting to line. Light, colour and detail: his forte. What was it Cézanne said of him? ‘Only an eye but what an eye.’ The important thing is to know how to use the colours. That came with practice, was a matter of habit. He’d soon moved away from dark colours and never used pure black, rather obtained an appearance of black with a combination of blues, greens and reds. It is wonderful what shades you can achieve with a limited choice. Even when his palette became much lighter and brighter, he stuck with white lead, cadmium yellow, vermilion, madder, cobalt blue and chrome green. That was all.

  But now this invasion of reds and yellows, distortion of colour in his work as his vision deteriorates, details fade, shapes blur, he sees everything through a mist. Even so, he finds it beautiful and paints it because he is accustomed to paint what he sees. Others have said this is artistic development; he knows it is because of his sight. That is why the ordering of his paints is crucial, their labels trigger memory, call up colours in his mind’s eye. This morning, no doubt about it, they have been disturbed. He calls, ‘Blanche, Blanche!’ No reply.

  Lilli passes with an armful of linen. ‘Madame is in one of the children’s rooms, m’sieur.’

  ‘What on earth is she doing there? Blanche!’ he bellows up the stairs.

  ‘Oh dear, is something wrong?’ She comes hurrying down. ‘What is it, Papa?’

  ‘I can’t paint. Everything is disturbed. That girl…’

  ‘Hush. We’ll soon put it right.’

  He watches her deft sorting of the paints and marvels at her patience with him. His irritation ebbs away, she has always been a calming influence. He sees her in a pinafore, what would she be, about eleven years old? She trails behind him with the wheelbarrow, they set up their easels. Every time the light changes and he calls out: number five or seven or thirteen, she selects the right canvas with the same surety as now. And she paints, adapting his style to her own palette, her brush marks, though often they are very much the same as his.

  She looks up and meets his eye. ‘Remember how we said we shouldn’t work together, that I was becoming too influenced by you?’

  ‘You were good in your own right, my dear.’

  ‘Yes. It would be easier if I weren’t.’

  ‘You should still be painting now.’

  ‘How can I when I am taking care of you, making sure you carry on?’

  ‘ I’m sorry. I’m a nuisance, I’ll have the operation and then it will be easier for you.’

  ‘We have discussed all that and come to the conclusion you’re too old.’

  ‘I feel so helpless.’

  Blanche sighs. They stare at the names of the paints: vermilion, cobalt blue.

  ‘I can’t tell you to give it up, can I? It is life itself for you.’

  There is a pause. His thoughts go to yesterday’s picnic, of how, for a short time, he had felt like his old self.

  ‘What was the name of that vivacious American girl? I took to her.’

  ‘Judith Goldstein.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘She’d like to come and visit you here.’ Blanche’s tone is casual.

  ‘Why not? Perhaps it would cheer me up.’

  ‘You could certainly do with that.’

  ‘Take the strain off you a little. Very well, invite her please.’

  For the rest of the morning he paints and by lunchtime is satisfied with what he has produced. There is another, unfamiliar feeling: he has something to look forward to.

  – TWELVE –

  ROBERT

  T

  here was to be no getting out of it, Robert told Judith. The painting trip was arranged and she was coming with them. ‘It will take you out of yourself, keep you from moping about, waiting for news.’

  When she protested she really didn’t feel like painting, he put his hands over his ears.

  ‘I can’t hear you, Judith.’

  This was his opportunity to resolve something that was bothering him and he was determined to take it.

  They set out immediately after breakfast, he, Harry, Judith and a young couple, Rupert and Hattie, who were staying at Hotel Baudy for a few weeks. He planned to take a favourite route that led across fields, through woodland until they arrived at an expanse of cornfield. It was a marvellous day of blue sky and breeze blown cloud, the poplar leaves gently shaken. They were all in high spirits, striding through the countryside, walking among trees, along sun-dappled paths. Rupert whistled When It’s Apple Blossom Time In Normandy and they all joined in, laughing when they failed to hit the higher notes. After a while, Judith seemed to catch their mood and brighten.

  Robert fell into step beside her. ‘See those hedges, they’re a special feature of this area. They’re made up of such a wide variety of trees and shrubs: oak, ash, sweet chestnut and cherry. Most of the ones you see here date from the middle of the eighteenth century through to the last when they went in for enclosure in a grand way. They were planted largely for firewood and known as the Peasant’s Forest. Oh look…’

  He broke off and stooped to peer at a small purple orchid. ‘No, don’t pick it,’ he snapped as she made to do so.

  ‘It’s just so pretty.’

  ‘That’s no reason to have it. This is where it belongs.’ Robert felt a stab of annoyance. This girl was used to having her every whim satisfied. He was unreasonably delighted she had not been granted this one.

  ‘Okay.’ Judith shrugged and changed the subject, ‘I was thinking of what you told me, the other day, about Camille. Was she very pretty?’

  ‘If the paintings of her are anything to go by she was beautiful. She had a magic about her, a gift for striking a pose. There’s a picture of her sitting on the grass, wearing the purest of white dresses, spread out grandly around her. Her little boy, Jean, has thrown himself down beside her and she holds a red fan. Both Monet and Renoir painted her in the same pose but Renoir makes her features more vivid. What a time it must have been for her with these great artists wanting to paint her.’

  ‘So the family had some money by then?’

  ‘Oh yes, Monet was selling well, they had a lovely house and garden in Argenteuil. The Camille in that painting must have felt life was perfect.’

  ‘But you said she died.’

  ‘Yes, in her thirties, I believe. It was very sad.’

  ‘I’d say it was romantic, to have led that glamorous life and then to die before she started to get old and ugly. All the heroines in the books I read die young.’

  He caught a flash of the extraordinary intensity about her, the glittering eyes and earnest expression. Once again she provoked that sense of déjà vu, disconcerted him.
Robert wondered what was behind this studied interest in Monet’s first wife.

  He shaded his eyes and gazed around, the others had walked on and almost reached the cornfield. They must hurry to join them. As they arrived, the breeze ruffled the full ears of corn and ran through the trees, crows rose up complaining and for a moment all seemed to dance with life. He was reminded of the painting of Van Gogh, his use of intense colour, impassioned brushstroke, the movement and vibration of form and line. Poor tormented Vincent, trying to interpret what he saw beyond the veil. The thought reinforced his own delight in the world around him, his ability to paint it.

  There was good-natured teasing as everyone set up their easels. Judith moved a distance away from the group. They opened their paint boxes and then there was silence.

  Using a broad bristle brush, Robert applied himself; this was what he enjoyed about painting landscapes as opposed to the figurative genre Harry used. Large areas of sky, fields and wide horizons allowed loose broad brushstrokes, ladling the pigment onto the canvas, working with a limited palette. It meant the work could be completed in one sitting. First, he killed the whiteness of the canvas, priming it with permanent rose and cadmium yellow. While he waited for it to dry a little, he took the opportunity to watch Judith. She wore the pretty summer frock he had seen the other day and the plain straw hat, but beneath it her expression was grave. She dabbed with her brush then sighed and paused, then dabbed again. After a while, she sat back from the canvas, reached for her handbag and powdered her nose. She looked out of place among the absorbed painters yet she’d told him how much she had enjoyed her painting lessons in New York.

  Robert turned back to his work. He made a sketchy composition with a soft pencil and began on the palest colour of the sky. Then he added a little burnt sienna and ultramarine to the mix and dabbed it onto the darker areas of the clouds. He lit a cigarette.

  This time he caught Judith’s eye and she made a little grimace then turned away. She seemed to be using her brush like a knife, slashing it across the canvas. He wondered how she was seeing the scene before them. Was she giving it that special attention it required? He always wondered about perception and marvelled how there could be so many interpretations of the same subject. He knew he would never paint like Van Gogh though he continued to strive for Monet’s style. Judith’s mind seemed elsewhere.

  He went back to the clouds; he had given them a rippled effect, which would echo the texture of the corn. He added a little blue and sketched the sky using a few brush strokes to add cumulus clouds, then sat back to examine his work.

  Judith was gazing off into the distance, the picture of someone who wanted to be anywhere else but here.

  Robert mixed again, adding burnt sienna and viridian. He took up a sable brush to sketch in detail around the cypress trees, moving the brush in the direction of the trees’ growth. He glanced up and noticed that Judith was attempting to paint again. A part of him felt guilty he had pushed her into this situation, she was very young, after all. On the other hand, he was doing it for her own good.

  Now the corn itself: going back to the bristle brush, he dabbed around the distant area, allowing the paint to skid across the canvas. For the foreground he returned to permanent rose mixed with a little burnt umber. It only remained to knit the areas of colour and tone with a clean soft brush and, voila, the painting was complete.

  Time had passed unnoticed and his stomach rumbled. He looked across to where Judith sat frowning at her canvas, her hands idle.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Robert stood up, stretched and strolled over to look. There was a pause. ‘The purple shades are interesting. Was that how you saw the cornfield?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Robert, you can see with your own eyes what it looks like. My painting isn’t anything like it.’

  ‘Painters see subjects in all kinds of colours.’

  ‘Oh, stop humouring me.’

  ‘Judith, please.’

  ‘It’s a terrible painting. I’m useless at it, can’t you see?’

  She flung down her brush, jumped up and hurried away in the direction of a small wood.

  Robert sighed and followed her. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘I’m not a painter,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you invited me to come with you, today.’

  ‘Oh Judith, it was just meant to be a bit of fun, painting in the open air together. Not a competition.’

  ‘I envy you all, your talent. You are artists, you have a reason to be here. I envy you, don’t you know? This life you all share.’

  Robert steered her to a fallen tree trunk and they sat down. ‘So that’s what it’s all about.’

  He lit a cigarette, recognising the opportunity to say what he had planned. ‘Listen, maybe you’re making yourself unhappy with this notion of staying on here. If you could treat it as a long vacation and not take everything so seriously…?’

  Judith turned on him. ‘You’ve lived here for years and years. You told me you could never go back.’

  ‘But it’s completely different for me, Judith.’

  ‘How is it different?’

  Above their heads a blackbird sang, melodious and flute-like, unhurried in its delivery. Robert caught sight of a butterfly with rich brown wings, its yellow dappling a perfect match with the lightly shaded wood. There was harmony here, the myriad pieces fitting so beautifully together, the whole a great artist’s creation. The only note that jarred was Judith’s persistence.

  He sighed. ‘I had to leave America. I’ll tell you about it some time. It just wasn’t possible to go on living there. But you have a loving family who wants the best for you.’

  Judith had been staring ahead, now she turned to glare at him. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘I know it may not seem like that, at the moment. But they sound like good parents to me. Look how they are supporting you here, three whole months in Giverny. But I can’t imagine they would go on doing that indefinitely. Then where would you be without money? Judith, I don’t think you have much choice.’

  ‘Of course I do. Everyone has the right to decide her own destiny. If my parents won’t support me I have other ideas.’

  She leaned down and picked a dandelion; once again the action annoyed him.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Tell me how you intend to go about it.’

  ‘The other day at the picnic, Monet was very taken with me. He said I reminded him of his first wife. My hair is dark like hers was, he said, and he liked the way I dress. He told me I knew how to wear clothes, just as she did. I made him laugh, you saw that, unlike that frump, his stepdaughter. He needs a new interest in his life, someone to make him feel young again. Maybe I can be his new muse.’

  ‘And what about Blanche?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘That woman is a saint. Remember what I told you? She sacrifices her life to him.’

  ‘Then she is very stupid.’ Judith tore the dandelion into pieces and scattered them on the ground. ‘She should employ a nurse. That’s what my mother did when grandmother went batty.’

  ‘It would bring shame on the family here. People would see it as disrespectful.’

  ‘Well it certainly didn’t bring shame on my mother, but it allowed her to carry on enjoying her life. Grandmother doesn’t seem to mind but then she’s hardly compos mentis. Golly, I never ever want to get old like her.’ Judith kicked at the undergrowth with her foot. ‘I don’t understand what it is about these folks in Giverny. Why do they care what others think? They all seem mighty interested in each other’s business.’

  ‘It is a close knit society here,’ he said, weary of the subject, ‘that’s why I like it.’

  ‘But to sacrifice everything the way this Blanche is doing! Women are changing, Robert. Look what’s happened in America, the demonstrations in England. I just adore Emily Pankhurst, I’d chain myself to railings if I were there. No, I would never dream of devoting my life to old relatives.�
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  Robert grunted. ‘It is called being accountable for your actions, Judith, of being aware of their repercussion on others. That is why you would never fit in.’

  There was a pause, from the corner of his eye he saw her purse her lips.

  Then she said: ‘I’ll wager Camille didn’t think that way.’

  He did not care to answer. After a long silence, he cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, it’s time for luncheon. Let’s go and open the picnic basket.’

  Judith muttered she was not hungry. In the end he left her sitting on the tree trunk and went to join the party, to fall on the quiche, the juicy tomatoes and little sweet apples Angelina Baudy had packed for them.

  ‘Isn’t the young lady joining us?’ Rupert asked.

  Robert shook his head.

  Hattie sipped her wine. ‘Sulking, is she? I cannot imagine anyone who possesses such wonderful clothes feeling any need to sulk.’

  They laughed and Rupert remarked that happiness was more than having nice frocks.

  ‘Sure,’ replied his wife. ‘But they go an awful long way.’

  While he ate, Robert thought of their conversation. Far from putting his mind at rest, it had made him more anxious. He hadn’t meant to be harsh but there was something about Judith, an egoism he felt he wanted to crush. It was more than that. The sense he had had on their first meeting that she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted, had intensified. Just what was she capable of doing?

  ‘How did the painting go?’ Harry asked him.

  His friend was watching him. Dear Harry with his self-contained take on life. He’d stated already he wanted to have nothing to do with Judith, didn’t like the girl.

  ‘Well, I think. I never tire of painting cornfields. There is something about them that is so joyful.’

  ‘You and your landscapes,’ the other teased. He clinked his glass to Robert’s. ‘À ta santé.’

  They smiled at each other.

  After the picnic, they made a tour of the canvasses, commenting upon each other’s work. When they came to Judith’s, there was silence, no-one seemed to know what to say.