What has he done? she asked herself and was filled with a sense of dismay. In spite of her trying to guard her unity with Monet, he had managed to intrude.
‘I have a feeling when Monet sees these he may change his opinion of me,’ John Leslie was saying. ‘He told me one did not become an impressionist but I have. Perhaps now he will consider me a suitable beau for you.’
Blanche had returned to the paintings and was now examining them more closely, noting John Leslie’s method of applying paint. Colours appeared bleached and muted in the third canvas. The forms of solid objects were so thinly painted that sketch lines could be seen through the pigment. The ninth canvas was dominated by the creeping shadows of dusk, rendered by a vibrating pattern of choppy brushstrokes to simulate the effect of transient light on surfaces. In his small, nervous but controlled touches, she thought she recognised something other than impressionism’s broken brushstrokes, pure colour and emphasis on purely visual experience. There was a sense of detachment that reminded her of experimental painters such as Seurat. This struck her as a direct challenge to Monet as if John Leslie were saying: ‘Move over old man it’s time for something new.’ She was convinced that this was also how Monet would see it.
‘They are too good,’ she said.
John Leslie laughed. ‘Not jealous, are you? I wouldn’t want a painting to come between us.’
It did not, in the sense he meant but on a far wider scale, Blanche suddenly realised. If you were a painter or other kind of artist for that matter, you never wholly engaged with life or could be utterly faithful in your affections. There came that siren call to step aside, observe and try to recreate. But was it worth it in the end if it set up barriers, evoked rivalry, even hatred?
In that moment, looking back on her eleven-year-old self she wished her father had never invited Monet to the chateau, that she had never come under his influence and, most of all, that she had not been endowed with the gift to paint.
‘Put them away,’ she said. ‘Don’t let Monet see them.’
He started to protest but she held up her hand. ‘Believe me, it is for the best.’
Monet did see them, of course. Somehow word had got out though from whom? Maybe it had been Robinson, in his naivety, who had spoken of them.
He arrived at the Hotel Baudy and found them, Suzanne, Theodore, John Leslie and Blanche in the middle of a game of tennis. He strode onto the court, pointing his finger at John Leslie.
‘You! You young sir! I want you out of Giverny immediately.’
John Leslie threw a ball in the air and caught it. ‘What have I done now?’
‘What have you not done? Not content with continuing to court Blanche, you have had the audacity, the hubris to imagine you can emulate my work, steal my ideas. You are a scoundrel and a thief.’
Blanche met John Leslie’s eye and shook her head sorrowfully. He nodded. She had tried to warn him but only now he understood.
‘I’d escort you to the railway station this minute, if I had my way.’
‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ John Leslie retorted.
‘And when will that be? I require an answer.’
John Leslie’s face darkened. ‘Who do you think you are, God? You believe you can control the universe but you won’t control me. I wouldn’t stay anywhere near you if you paid me. I shall leave, next week.’
‘Very well,’ said Monet. ‘I’ll leave you to your game.’
But the pleasure had gone out of the morning. They packed up their tennis racquets, collected the balls and walked back to the hotel. They sat on the terrace and soberly drank lemonade. Before they parted, John Leslie drew Blanche aside.
‘I want to take off for a day before I leave,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me?’
Without hesitation, she answered: ‘Yes.’
– THIRTY-FOUR –
ROBERT
‘
Oh here you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Seated in the hotel garden, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, Robert watched his friend’s arrival with a feeling of dread.
‘ Aren’t you coming for a drink, it’s nearly seven?’
‘In a minute,’ said Robert.
Harry flopped down on the seat beside him. ‘God, I’m worn out, I haven’t stopped working all day.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Okay, I think, but it was one of those days when it didn’t come easy.’
Robert remarked dryly that in his experience it hardly ever did.
Harry stretched out his long legs with a sigh. ‘Ever the optimist, Robert. At least I know exactly where I am with it now, tomorrow it should be finished.’
‘Good.’
In the silence, they listened to the melody of a blackbird, its soft tones fluting through the evening air. The notes were liquid and rounded, merging into one another, each phrase slightly different and often ending in a short series of higher pitched trills. Robert relished this peace after the difficult day; Rouen seemed like a bad dream. If only he could turn the clock back and never have launched on that unwise conversation.
‘Robert?’
He realised Harry was speaking. ‘Sorry?’
‘You were miles away. I asked whether you’d got rid of Judith.’
‘I think she’ll be going soon.’
‘You think? You don’t know?’
‘It wasn’t easy, Harry,’ he snapped. ‘These things aren’t.’
He dreaded Harry’s reaction if he went on to tell him exactly what had occurred. It made him feel breathless to think about it.
‘I did my best. I told her maybe she should consider her folks in America.’
Harry laughed. That’s you all over, you can never come right out with something. You dance round a subject. Well, you’ll just have to take a stronger line.’
Robert sighed. ‘All right, all right, Harry.’
‘Because I, for one, am sick and tired of seeing that stupid girl around the place. She’s a parasite.’
And I am tired of everything and everybody tonight, Robert told himself, even you… no especially you. Love you as I do, there are times when you drive me mad.
‘Oh Harry please, stop picking on me. You’re not the only one who is tired.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Harry rose. ‘Well, I am going to get that drink. See you at dinner,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Maybe,’ Robert murmured.
The evening passes, one by one the good-humoured diners leave the table and make their way to bed. Lights are extinguished and the hotel settles to sleep but for Robert. Restless, he takes his place at the bedroom window and smokes. There is a full moon tonight, it steals silently over the garden, silvering the rose bushes and their blooms, lays a silver patina on the flights of steps, a wicker chair somebody has forgotten to bring in. He imagines the silvery roof of this building, its windows caught in moonbeams, while that scene plays and replays in his mind. Judith taunts him about being middle-aged, the terrible need arises to declare himself to the world, to express what he innately is. He sees again the sly expression creep into Judith’s gaze, their mutual recognition that now she holds the cards. ‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she’d said. But is it? he asks himself yet again. Can she keep it to herself or will it be just too tempting not to spill? If this gets out, he will have to leave Giverny, his haven destroyed. He remembers his earlier thoughts on the frailty of life, its transience in the face of the ancient, wood framed buildings of Rouen. A premonition?
‘One cannot help these things,’ he speaks to an imaginary critic. ‘It has nothing to do with morals or choice. I have committed no sin.’ He thinks of how he had always known he was different, from quite a young age. When his friends started to talk about girls, he had tried to join in but it wasn’t until he’d turned twenty-one that he understood where his preference lay.
The air was hot and dry and he felt slightly sick with the moveme
nt of the picnic wagon. There were about twenty in the party, the men in their ducks, the women with parasols and wide brimmed hats. Florence looked charming in a pale blue summer frock, she did not wear a hat but had wound daisies through her hair. Scott sat up next to the driver and occasionally took the reins.
He saw the woodland his mother had chosen for the picnic, within reach of the river. White tablecloths were laid on the ground and there was a spirit lamp to make tea and coffee. Hammocks were slung between trees and the men carried out folding chairs. There was Scott suddenly next to him, throwing a careless arm round his shoulders, pulling him away from the group.
‘Happy birthday, bubba. I wanted to give you this.’
It was the book his father wouldn’t have in the house, the adventures of the boy who wanted freedom at all costs. He sniffed the unique scent of never before turned pages, of Mark Twain’s latest, not long off the press.
He gave Scott a hug. ‘Thank you, It’s the best present I could possibly have but I’ll have to read it in secret.’
‘I thought we’d go up to the mill and read it together. no-one will see us there. Listen, you know I don’t much like these affairs, as soon as you can let’s slip off and go down to the river. We could maybe have a swim.’
Robert felt himself blush. ‘I haven’t brought my bathing things.’
Scott met his gaze. ‘That’s no problem,’ he said. ‘no-one’s going to see us.’
‘Oh here you are!’ There was Florence, sun and shadow dappled, emerging from the trees. ‘I wondered what you boys were getting up to. Hello, Scott.’
‘Hello, princess.’
Robert remembered his annoyance at his sister’s intrusion. ‘I thought you were helping Mother.’
‘Oh you know Mother, she thinks nothing is done properly unless she does it herself. Anyway I was bored.’
‘Oh, we can’t have that,’ Scott said. ‘It’s not right for pretty young ladies to be bored now is it, Bobbie?’
‘His name’s Robert not Bobbie,’ Florence pouted. ‘You can’t call him Bobbie now he’s twenty-one years old.’ She gave Scott a little push.
He pretended to stagger. ‘Hey, hey, protect me, bubba.’
‘He’s not your brother, he’s mine!’ Florence pushed him again and Scott took hold of her hands, imprisoning her.
‘Little monster.’
‘Let me go, let me go!’
Robert saw the teasing expression on her face as she laughed up at him.
‘It’s not fair, you’re so much stronger than I am.’
He thought: she knows what she wants and she will go all out to get it, whatever the cost. Scott was laughing too and he tried to join in, but it was impossible.
‘Leave him alone, Florrie.’
He remembered the surge of another, quite unfamiliar emotion. It was jealousy followed by a feeling of helplessness and powerless as his sister continued to flirt with Scott and his friend took it all in his stride. The sun burned his neck and he understood why he wasn’t interested in girls.
If Judith provokes Giverny gossip and he is forced to leave this village, which has been his haven for so many years, where would he go? America is out of the question. Morocco?
A cat appears from the dark bushes and slinks through the path of moonlight.
Morocco. They were two Yanks on holiday in Marrakech, striking up a conversation in a bar, extending the evening with dinner in the courtyard of a splendid old house with its potted palms, in the orange glow of lanterns. It started out as a light-hearted occasion but then, as they debated the pronunciation of tagine, their eyes met in an instant of recognition. For two wondrous weeks they had shared Morocco’s history, its sublime night skies and fallen in love.
His mind sees the sand hills at sunset on the night they spent in the desert. Soft taupe moving through a spectrum of amber, sienna and gold, the long deep shadows. Then a row of men on camels came sailing across one of those dunes. Darkness, an absolute silence fell and crystal stars in their thousands spread across the sky. He and Harry came from their tent to gaze up at infinity, without words, almost without thought. In the morning, they climbed the seductive dunes but the powdery surface was difficult to walk on. Robert sat and lifted up a handful of sand to watch the fine grains run through his fingers. As he watched it slip from his grasp back into the countless other grains, he imagined infinity must feel like this; footprints in the desert, gone in an hour. It was a good place to contemplate mortality and the passage of time. There was nothing sad nor joyous here, it was just quiet and endless.
In the six years they have been together, they have talked sometimes of going back, but would Harry agree to this running away? He loves his painting life here, the inspiration Normandy offers. He would have to go alone, start all over again. Can he do this at his age?
A few days later, he was out walking when he caught sight of Dorothy Young and her parasol.
Before he could escape she called out to him: ‘Why Mr Harrison, so nice to see you. I was saying to Paul only the other night that we hardly ever have that pleasure. You’re such a man for keeping himself to himself.’ She showed her large teeth in a grin. ‘How is your little friend?’
Robert felt his heart beat quicken. ‘Friend?’
‘Why, dear Judith, of course. Tell me I’m wrong but I have the feeling she is avoiding me.’
‘I’m sure that isn’t the case,’ he replied, shifting his feet, preparing an excuse.
But the woman was having none of it. ‘I hope it was nothing I said. I have so much enjoyed our girly chats. She’s such a girl for having adventures. Why, the other day she told me such intimate details of Le Pressoir.’
He thought he detected a sly note in her voice but couldn’t be sure. All right, so Judith had said she would not be seeing Dorothy again but could he trust her? And if she spoke about him to this chatterbox, it would be round Giverny like wild fire.
‘I wouldn’t believe everything that young lady says,’ he replied. ‘She has a romantic imagination.’
Dorothy gave her trilling laugh. ‘Oh Mr Harrison, I sure don’t think she imagined visiting Monet, nor hearing all his tales about his wife. In my opinion, she has a gift for reportage. She can repeat conversations she has heard verbatim.’
Robert said, dryly, ‘I am sure it has been very entertaining. Personally, I think private conversations should be just that. Private.’
Dorothy twirled her parasol. ‘I do declare, Mr Harrison, I never put you down as a prude. I can’t wait to hear more of her escapades.’
He said he would pass on her invitation, bade her goodbye and went on his way with a heavy heart.
The following morning he breakfasted before Harry was around. He had packed his easel and materials the night before. His plan was to go out into the countryside and paint. He knew he couldn’t go on evading Harry forever; sooner or later he would have to relate that conversation he’d had with Judith and he dreaded his friend’s angry reaction. But for the moment, he didn’t know what else to do.
– THIRTY-FIVE –
JUDITH
J
udith stood at the breakfast buffet table, helping herself to another croissant, aware as she did so that her hunger was not really physical. She felt uneasy with a sense of standing on shifting ground. Earlier, Harry had snubbed her and Robert appeared awkward, avoiding her eye or making banal conversation, as if he hardly knew her. They had soon left and she sat on in the empty dining room, wondering how she could fill the day before her meeting with Michel. She became aware that someone had come into the room and was silently watching her. Judith turned to face Madame Baudy who gazed at her for a moment with an expression of concern.
‘A note, mademoiselle,’ was all she said, holding out an envelope.
Judith took it, recognising the familiar stationery of Le Pressoir.
‘Thank you,’ She was about to add she would like some more coffee but Madame Baudy had already l
eft the room.
The croissant forgotten, Judith tore open the envelope, aware her hands were shaking. The note was in Blanche’s handwriting.
‘Mademoiselle Goldstein: Will you please come to the house on Saturday morning, at ten o’clock. I wish to speak to you. Blanche Monet-Hoschedé.’
It was curt and to the point, without a shred of the former friendliness in its tone.
Judith gazed at the tables, the cast iron stove, the piano in the corner, remembering that first evening she had heard someone play as she sat by the window in her room, gazing out over the twilit garden. She saw herself seated among the painters, watching their faces flushed with wine as they argued over style and theory, compared one impressionist with another, laughed and ate. Oh, that sense of exhilaration, realising she had escaped, that anything now was possible. Now she felt nothing but loneliness.
Perhaps she could visit Dorothy; at least the woman was friendly and did not condemn her behaviour. She followed her own rules and understood Judith’s desire to live. Perhaps she might do that. For the moment though, she felt as if she couldn’t move, did not want to rise from the table and face the world outside. Time seemed to be running out and she didn’t know how to halt it nor change its direction.
Her mood persisted throughout the seemingly endless day. She sat in her room and tried to read, she went out for a walk, which then seemed pointless so she turned back. In the end, she did not visit Dorothy but sat on the terrace with a book, gazing at the words without taking them in until it was time to go back to her room and change.
Half an hour before Michel was due to arrive at the hotel, she walked down the street in the direction he would come. Then she saw him sauntering towards her, stopping to gaze into someone’s garden, obviously not wishing to arrive too early.
‘Judith!’ He seemed to sense her concern. ‘What is going on?’
‘Listen Michel, we can’t meet at Hotel Baudy any more, we’ve been seen and people are gossiping about us, the garden is out of bounds.’
‘Gossiping?’
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