“Why don’t you take Augustine?” he suggested. The three of us were dining together that day. “She has always wanted to travel.” He winked at me. Antoine invited me in that tone of voice that expects a refusal and was surprised when I promptly accepted.
When I later thanked Girodet, he said, “Take care of Antoine, I’m worried about him. David won’t let up on him – whatever he does isn’t enough, or isn’t the right thing. He can’t see all the good in Antoine and acts as if it is of no account. And Antoine takes it to heart. He’ll need someone to console him. I’d go if I felt better, but I can’t. Please, go with him and take care of him. I know David is a trial for you, but Antoine will need you there.”
Impulsively, I embraced him. He was a true and loving friend to my husband, knowing his faults and weaknesses and accepting them with much better grace than I. It’s too bad Antoine couldn’t have married you, I thought, only realizing when Girodet gave a startled laugh that I’d spoken the thought out loud. I gave a gasp of embarrassment and covered my mouth with my hand.
“Oh, I did ask him, in a manner of speaking,” he confessed, “years ago. The affection was there on his side but not the physical inclination. He remained my friend anyway. Many men would not have,” he added, his face darkening as a troubled memory passed across it.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “Whomever that frown was about, he’s not worth it,” I told him. Dear Girodet! He died the following year, but my good memories of him are very much alive.
It was a sunny but cold day when we set off for Brussels on the public coach. We brought fur lap robes to keep us warm and I was glad of my fur muff as well. I brought my sketchbook and pencils and amused myself by drawing en route, fixing the outlines of the landscape in my memory; the faces of our fellow passengers (I gave these away as gifts); one of the coach horses eating his oats; even Antoine, once, when I was sitting across from him and he had fallen asleep. He slept very decorously, with his mouth closed and his hat tipped rakishly on his head. My fingers grew cold and stiff outside the muff, but it helped to pass the time.
On the last day we were joined by a mother and two young children who were on their way to visit those loyalists of the Revolution and Napoleon who had emigrated to Brussels, just as we were. The woman’s father-in-law had been a member of the Old Guard; her husband had died at Waterloo; her daughter had been born eight months after the battle. The boy, she said, was her orphaned nephew. It was a struggle to keep the farm going on her own, even with her husband’s pension. She and the children were barely adequately dressed against the cold. I sat the girl on my lap under the fur robe, felt the shivering body gradually relax and fall asleep, and had the keen pleasure of pretending for a little while it was my daughter I held there. When we parted in Brussels, I gave the fur robe to the mother for their return journey.
“I don’t take charity!” she said, and made to give it back to me.
“It’s not charity,” I smiled, “it’s a Christmas gift for you and the children.”
Her face softened, then crumpled for a moment before she regained control of herself. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Antoine watched this from a little distance with an air of tolerant amusement. “Are we so well off that we can just give these away?” he asked, gesturing toward the other fur that lay neatly folded over his arm.
“As a matter of fact, we are,” I replied, tucking my arm in his. “You earned the money for these painting the deeds of Napoleon and his soldiers. They are the widow and children of those soldiers. Who could be a more appropriate recipient?”
“True,” he said shortly and hailed a cab to take us to our hotel. Usually Antoine stayed in a modest establishment in the émigré quarter, but because it was my first visit to Brussels, he said, he had arranged for us to stay in one of the comfortable hotels on the Grand Place, the main square of the city. I was glad that he did. After three days of indifferent meals it was a pleasure to eat fine food in a restaurant and be served and soothed by solicitous waiters.
After an early dinner, wanting to stretch our legs, we went for a stroll through the Grand Place. It was our first long holiday to a far-away destination since our honeymoon in Toulouse, fourteen years before, and the first time I had traveled outside France. I looked around me with delight – the variety and beauty of the painted buildings of past centuries, their gilding picked out here and there by the lamps and torches that lit the square at night, the village of Christmas market booths selling toys and trinkets, snatches of conversations in French, Dutch, English and Scandinavian languages I could not identify – I felt I truly had been lifted out of my everyday life. A brass band was playing at one end of the square, and the delicious smells of hot coffee and hot chocolate, roasting chestnuts and crisp waffles added to the holiday atmosphere. Snowflakes began to fall, gently at first and then more thickly, adding their beauty to the scene. I held out my muff to catch them so that I could examine their brief crystalline perfection before they melted from the warmth of my hands. I laughed with sheer happiness and looked up to find Antoine regarding me with a curious expression.
“I haven’t heard you laugh like that for a long time,” he said, a wistful note in his voice.
He’s right, I thought, remembering the days of laughter and satisfying work in Marie’s studio. I pushed those thoughts away and returned to the happy moment in the present. I put out my muff to gather more snowflakes and held it out for him to examine. “Look how beautiful they are!”
He looked, nodded, and smiled back at me. We returned to our hotel arm-in-arm.
Antoine had dispatched a note to David to say that we had arrived, and a reply had come while we were out, inviting him to lunch the next day. I was not included – David knew only too well how I felt about him and he had never been one to tolerate a challenge to his authority. Wives, he believed, should make themselves useful, not interfere in a man’s real life spent away from them. Certainly he had never taken Madame David’s feelings and opinions into account. Antoine was apologetic but I assured him that I would welcome the chance to go Christmas shopping. The exercise would do me good, I said, after sitting in the coach for so long.
The snow had stopped overnight, leaving an inch of clean whiteness that made the Grand Place even more beautiful in the daytime. With my stout boots, I made the rounds of the shops and stalls, bargaining for my purchases: handmade lace scarves and gloves for Pauline and a man’s cravat suitable for Antoine’s appearances at court. (He wore it the following year to Charles X’s coronation.) I visited chocolatiers and other luxury food shops, enjoying the sweet smells, the velvety textures of the chocolates, the grainy nature of the marzipan, and the bright jewels of the candied fruits. One bakery offered rich, rum-soaked fruitcakes from England, and I bought two on impulse, surprised by how heavy they were. More than once I returned to the hotel to deposit my purchases.
The crowd was different in the daytime, more children with their parents or grandparents. Young voices filled the air with their excitement, their wistful – or demanding – requests for a particular item or treat, and the occasional howl of disappointment when it was denied. Sellers of hot chocolate did a brisk business as did the man who served thick, crisp waffles spread with confitures.
One little boy took off like a flash with his in hand, his eyes so intent on it that he did not notice where he was going. He ran straight into me and dropped his waffle, leaving a sticky trail of jam down the front of my coat. He lifted his face in fear of a scolding and then lowered it in dismay at losing his treat. Before he could emit a wail of sorrow, I leaned down and said, “That’s too bad. Let’s get another one, shall we?” Happiness returned and he nodded eagerly, taking my hand and pulling me to the stall. His mother came up to apologize. Had the same thing happened in Paris a week earlier, I would have snapped and growled, but I was on holiday here, and happy. I assured her my coat could easily be wiped off and bought waffles for the three of us. We parted with wishes of Jo
yeux Noël.
I was still laughing as I walked back to the hotel. The little boy had stirred old longings for a child. I was only thirty-four. Perhaps Antoine and I could try again, tonight. Smiling, I requested at the desk that a pot of tea be sent up to our room.
The manager gave my order to one of the assistants and then told me, in a low voice, that my husband had returned a little while before. “Pardon me for saying so, Madame, but he did not look well. I suggested a brandy but he refused it. I thought you should know. We can, of course, send for a doctor should you need one.” I thanked him and mounted the stairs to our room, my good humor gone, thinking grimly, “David.”
Antoine was asleep when I came in. He had not bothered to draw the curtains against the dullness of the day, and his face was wretched in the grey light, looking much older than his fifty-two years, with the tracks of tears on his cheeks. He awoke when the maid came with the tea. I poured him a cup English style with milk and two spoons of sugar. He made a face as he drank the syrupy stuff, but he looked better afterwards and reached eagerly for a cup of strong black tea to wash away its taste. I lit the lamps and the fire the maid had laid and drew the curtains against the now gathering dusk. Antoine joined me in the upholstered chairs by the fireplace, as I sipped my tea and we watched the flames take hold.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head but after a few moments started to talk in a dull monotone. “It was the same as the other visits. He welcomed me warmly at first, introduced me proudly to his assistant Navez, asked eagerly after my work, and nodded approvingly when I told him about the Biblical and historic subjects I have in hand. ‘You have taken the right path,’ he told me. He showed me the painting he’s working on, a scene from Roman history. He likes to hold forth on the superiority of its subject matter, a speech I’ve heard him give for over thirty-five years, since the day I entered the studio. I’m older now than he was then, but he’s still giving me the same speech.” He shook his head ruefully.
“When it was time to eat, Navez took his leave. The housekeeper brought up a tureen of boeuf bourguignon. David poured burgundy wine for us. He ate sparingly, saying he had little appetite these days, but he continued to drink the wine, opening another bottle to give me my second glass. By the time the housekeeper returned with fruit and cheese, I realized he was drunk. I could tell by the expression on her face that this was not the first time. She shot me a worried glance with a warning in it; but I was relaxed with food and wine. David had been pleasant and complimentary, and I did not see what was coming.
“He started by saying how good it was to see me and hear the news straight from Paris. He missed France. Life in Belgium would always be exile for him, no matter how pleasant. He was first and foremost a French patriot and he was proud of the work he had done. Changes were needed, he said – in France and in the way she was governed – and only difficult decisions could bring them about. He was proud to have been part of the Parlement that crafted the changes and unrepentant at having voted for the death of Louis XVI even if it meant his exile now. France was better off without the Bourbons. Even though they had returned to power after the Emperor’s defeat, their tenure could not last forever. France would grow tired of them again – I would see! He hoped he would be alive to see that. Then he could return.
“‘You can return now if you like,’ I reminded him. ‘I’ve worked it out to obtain a pardon for you. Louis XVIII regards you as one of the treasures of French art and would like to see you on French soil again. All you need to do––’
“‘—is sign a paper saying I repent of my vote for the death of his brother. I have told you before and I tell you again, I will never sign such a paper! You may have been bought by the Bourbons and their patronage,’ he sneered, ‘but I remain true to my principles.’
“After scolding me for being a turncoat to the Bourbons, he turned his scorn to my paintings. I had never done a true history painting from mythology or the Bible, merely political works that showed the transitory triumphs of mere mortals––”
I had to speak up. “This from the man who said of Jaffa, ‘One could perhaps do as well – one could not do better.’ I was there that day; I heard him. The man who painted the Coronation and the Distribution of the Eagles and the Crossing at Saint Bernard? He was willing enough to do those subjects at the time – and demand exorbitant prices for them. How dare he look down on you?”
My husband gave me a long wondering look when I had finished my outburst. His face had lost that grey, drawn look, and there was some pink color in his cheeks. The hint of a smile played around his mouth. He reached out and squeezed my hand, saying “Thank you, my dear.”
I was startled. Such moments of agreement and sympathy had become all too rare in our marriage.
“How much more of this did you have to tolerate? Or did you just leave?”
He sighed. “He finally stopped when I started to cry. He always does. He clapped me on the shoulder, told me to take courage – things could still be put right if I make the correct choices henceforth. Then he grew maudlin, blamed himself for causing me pain, reminded himself of all the good things I had done, and looked so miserable I found myself reassuring him that what he’d said hadn’t been so terrible after all.”
“What a shameless manipulator!”
“Finally, I was able to leave. I don’t know how I found my way to the hotel – I was exhausted physically and emotionally.” Two tears rolled down his cheeks. “Perhaps a brandy would have helped, but I had seen enough of the effects of drink for one afternoon.” He held out his cup for more tea and drank it eagerly, then fell silent, watching the flames in the fireplace. I picked up the novel I had purchased that morning and began to read. When next I looked at Antoine, he was asleep.
We were at breakfast the next day when a letter arrived for Antoine. My heart sank when I saw the large D in the sealing wax. Antoine opened it with some trepidation but his face cleared as he read it.
“He asks to see me again today. He apologizes for his behavior yesterday and blames it on the wine. He wishes me to come to lunch so that he can make amends.”
So that he can be reassured you’ll keep running back to him, I thought.
“Will you go?” I asked.
“Of course.” He sounded surprised that I should ask.
“Then I’m coming with you.” He started to protest, but I held up my hand to stop him. “I’ll bring my knitting, I’ll sit quietly in a corner of the studio. But after yesterday, you shouldn’t have to face him alone.” My coffee cup made a determined click as I set it in its saucer.
He stared at me for a long moment but in the end he said simply and quietly, “Thank you.”
Antoine sent a note to say we would both be coming. I went up to the room to change into my best dress and its matching red coat, so that Antoine would know I was properly honoring the occasion. I busied myself wrapping the gifts I had bought and Antoine sketched me as I worked. Neither of us mentioned the pending visit.
David’s home and studio occupied a modest brick building with a typical stepped gable in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood that Antoine told me was a particular favorite of the émigrés. The names of some of the shops and restaurants we passed – Au Vieux Paris, Le petit Véfour, La Joséphine – confirmed this. A maid opened the door to our knock and took our coats. A young man then came forward to welcome us, greeting Gros warmly, saying what a pleasure it was to see him again so soon. Gros presented him: “Monsieur François-Joseph Navez.” Navez had the easy manners of the professional portrait painter. Antoine must have been like this at his age, I thought, and smiled at the young man. He led us up the stairs to the studio.
Here David came forward to greet us, embracing Gros like a son, hesitating how to greet me, then kissing me on both cheeks like a daughter. I received his kisses with the same false enthusiasm with which he gave them, but the occasion seemed to call for it. It was the first time I had seen him in eight years. His
hair had gone from grey to white and his face, in repose, fell into lines of disappointment. His figure was slightly stooped and thickened, but his person and his clothes were clean – he was well looked after.
Several of David’s paintings hung on the walls, chief among them the Death of Marat of almost thirty years before, which he had brought with him from Paris. Easels held several students’ paintings in varying stages of progress. The master suggested to Navez that he show them to me while we waited for the food. Antoine gave a brief nod in response to my inquiring glance: he would be all right. As I moved off with the young man, I heard David make his apologies. Perhaps his good behavior would hold for the afternoon; but if not, I was ready for him.
I was disappointed as I examined the canvases. The application of paint could not be faulted, but none of them had the breadth of subject or theme I would have expected. Whatever he was berating Gros for not doing, his current students were not doing either.
Navez pointed out with pride the sole canvas on which David himself was working, a scene of ancient Roman honor that seemed to require, as they so often did, the death of someone at the hands of his best friend. The drawing and brushwork were so loose and sketchy, lacking his usual tight control, that I could not make more of it than that. I was dismayed.
A table had been set with four places for lunch; Navez would be joining us, as Madame David was indisposed. Perhaps my presence at Gros’s side made David feel he needed reinforcements on his. I was glad of someone whose speech was easier to understand – the impediment caused by a dueling wound to his mouth had grown worse with age. Listening to some barely coherent words, I wondered how Gros could have understood half of yesterday’s tirade. Perhaps, I thought uneasily, what he told me was just the half of it.
An Artist in her Own Right Page 17