Previously, Amélie had delighted in being seen, by everyone. Now she wanted to be left alone. In the hours it took to return to Paris, she made up her mind never again to subject herself to public scrutiny. She would be a recluse.
Amélie became obsessed with avoiding her image. In her homes in Paris and Brittany, she had the mirrors removed from every room, so she would never have to look at herself. The woman who had once lived in front of the mirror, happily attending to every detail of hair, makeup, and wardrobe, could not bear the thought of seeing her own face.
As Amélie withdrew from the world, Madame X continued to step out. Three years after the Carfax showing, it traveled to the London International Society. In 1909, as the Kaiser had hoped, Madame X went to Berlin. Sargent gave in to the ruler’s request after having denied Amélie the satisfaction of making the arrangement.
With every exhibition, the portrait was winning new supporters and growing more renowned. Amélie, by contrast, was fading.
During a routine visit to Paramé, where his family still maintained a home, Gabriel Pringue saw Amélie after she had withdrawn from society. She was no longer the woman who had dazzled an impressionable teenager. Amélie almost never received anyone, and Pringue had not seen her in several years. But on this occasion, while he was visiting Louise, she surprised her daughter and other guests by dispatching a servant to summon him to her room. Perhaps she was making an exception because of a fond memory of her night with him at the opera.
With no idea what to expect, Pringue walked nervously up the stairs leading to Amélie’s boudoir. He found her dressed in white from head to toe, surrounded by white furniture. The shutters were closed, blocking the light. The effect was ghostly and disturbing; she looked like a statue. She seemed so otherworldly, in fact, that Pringue was startled when she spoke.
She welcomed him imperiously and kept their conversation formal and distant. When Pringue opened his mouth to pay Amélie a compliment, she raised a finger to her lips in protest and stopped him before he could get any words out. “One must never lie to women, even to please them,” she cautioned. After decades of praise and adoration, Amélie could not bear to hear empty flattery, even if it was well intentioned.
At fifty-one, Amélie existed at the center of a small cluster of companions, consisting primarily of her mother and her daughter; her trusted personal maid, Gabrielle; and on occasion, when he was at Les Chênes, her husband. They made her feel comfortable and secure. When Marie Virginie died in 1910, at age seventy-three, Amélie’s world grew even smaller. Marie Virginie left her jewels, laces and silver, and home furnishings to Louise, and her Parlange plantation property to both Amélie and Louise.
One year later, Louise died suddenly in Paris, only thirty-two years old. Losing both her mother and her daughter within twelve months, Amélie must have been devastated. Marie Virginie had been a faithful companion, dedicating herself to her daughter’s future when she could have made a life for herself. Louise had been indulgent of Amélie too. She overlooked her mother’s inattentions and petty vanities, staying close to her despite her faults. Without Marie Virginie and Louise, Amélie was alone.
Amélie rarely emerged from her self-imposed prison, venturing out only under cover of darkness. Late at night, swathed in white veils, she would walk the beach at St.-Malo, remembering the crowds who once gathered to watch her when she was young and beautiful. The beaches were empty now, with no traces of admirers—or detractors. But even if she had run into people during her midnight excursions, they would likely not have known who she was.
On July 25, 1915, Amélie died in Paris. No cause was noted on her death certificate, but it is believed that she had suffered a serious fever. Soon after she died, her body made a last trip from Paris to Paramé. Although she and Pedro were estranged, he allowed her to be buried in the Gautreau family mausoleum, in a cemetery not far from Les Chênes.
Amélie’s will detailed instructions for the distribution of her property. Gabrielle, the faithful maid who stayed with her until the end, was to receive 1,000 francs, a generous amount for a domestic. Amélie left nothing to Pedro. She named two men, Brigadier Amédée Caillaux and Dominique “Henri” Favalelli, as her principal heirs.
Sixty-four-year-old Victor-Amédée Caillaux, who inherited 2,000 francs, listed his residence as the Ministry of Finance in Paris. He gave sworn testimony that he had met Amélie in 1890 and had enjoyed “very friendly relations” with her since then. He said that he saw her every New Year’s, and at other holidays.
Henri Favalelli identified himself as a sixty-year-old tax collector. He testified that he had met Amélie in 1906 and that he saw her yearly in the months of September and October. He had seen her more frequently in the past few years, and he offered to produce letters as proof of their relationship. Favalelli inherited everything Amélie owned, including her three-quarter share of the Avegno tract of Parlange plantation. Pedro held the other quarter, which he had inherited from Louise.
Amélie’s will was a mystery. These two men seemed to have come from nowhere—had Amélie been so alone in her final years that mere acquaintances took the place of loved ones? Her relatives in America had never heard of Favalelli and were shocked by the prospect of having a total stranger in their midst. But Favalelli and Pedro were not sentimental about their legacies. They had no interest in owning land in America and no affection for Parlange plantation. They sold their property in 1918 to Pelican Realty Company and a man named Thomas Madison Baker for $20,000.
Amélie was condemned to live in the shadow of Madame X. Like Dorian Gray, she was tyrannized by her own image, driven to new levels of vanity in her endless, and ultimately foolish, pursuit of fame and immortality. Sargent’s portrait compelled her to be painted over and over, by Courtois, Gandara, Sain, Carrier-Belleuse, and others, first in an unsuccessful attempt to obliterate Sargent’s painting, and then in an even more futile attempt to equal it. Both painting and woman were works of art. But Madame X, not Amélie, proved the real and enduring masterpiece.
A Man of Prodigious Talent
Sargent returned to London in the fall of 1885 with vivid memories of the summer and renewed faith in himself and his future. He delighted Henry James by announcing his decision to give up his Paris studio and move permanently to London. His studio on the Boulevard Berthier was taken over by Giovanni Boldini, an Italian artist whose career trajectory would unfold as Sargent had once imagined for himself. Boldini became a portraitist in Paris and elsewhere on the continent, sought after by prominent men and women.
Sargent’s family had fallen back into the habit of moving frequently. They wintered in Nice and traveled to Venice, Florence, and other European cities the rest of the year. While Sargent remained in constant touch with his parents and sisters, he lived on his own, planning trips that did not include them.
In London, Sargent moved into a studio on Tite Street, near James, who was ready as always to take charge of his friend’s social life. The Millets and others at Broadway were already talking about the next summer, when the painter would return to finish Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. Sargent sent lily bulbs to Lucia Millet during the spring so he would be assured of having the right flowers to paint the following summer. It was a practical act that demonstrated how carefully Sargent planned ahead. Whenever possible, he left nothing to chance.
The lily bulbs had a symbolic significance as well. Sargent was putting down roots in a new life. He was unwilling to sever all ties to the past, though, and moved two meaningful canvases to his London studio: a depiction of Albert de Belleroche, and the portrait of Amélie.
Madame X was locked away in Sargent’s studio, visible only to the artist and his guests, but it remained an obstacle he could not overcome. Prospective clients, afraid he would produce something radical or unflattering, were still reluctant to entrust him with their images. With its taint of scandal, the portrait kept Sargent from receiving the important commissions he needed.
The best way
to carry on during this difficult period was to keep painting. Sargent returned to Broadway in the summer of 1886 to finish Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. He was at once drawn into the Millets’ antics and celebrations, including a birthday party for Lily Millet. Edwin Austin Abbey boasted, “We have music until the house won’t stand it,” and even stuffy Henry James was persuaded to dance until he was breathless.
Sargent’s daily ritual of working on the canvas continued as it had a year earlier. Some observers questioned whether the painting would ever be completed, since Sargent worked and reworked his canvas every night, repeatedly scraping it down “to the quick” and starting over with fresh paint at the next session. But the nightly attacks were purposeful and productive: after five weeks of work, he was finished with the painting.
Measuring 68½ by 60½ inches, Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose depicts two children standing in a lush garden amid a riot of colorful lilies, poppies, roses, and carnations. An affirmation of life, innocence, natural beauty, and spontaneity (even though every effect was meticulously planned), the painting is in every way—artistically and thematically—the antidote to Madame X.
At Broadway, Sargent had developed a genuine appreciation for the pastoral, and he expressed that feeling spectacularly in this work. But the painting also signaled the return of sound business instincts. There was a very good chance that the same people who rejected Madame X because they thought it was decadent and artificial would find this idyll more to their liking.
Sargent took the painting to London in October, where it joined Madame X on his studio wall. He started to move about in society again after his weeks in the country, and often spent time with the progressive young artists of the New English Art Club. While meeting new people, he began to discover that the lingering memory of Madame X was working in his favor. Now there were women, especially in America, who liked the idea of appearing seductive in a portrait and who believed—as Amélie was coming to realize—that any kind of fame was better than anonymity.
Isabella Stewart Gardner, a wealthy American patron of the arts, was one of these women. She had heard about Madame X—news of the scandal at the Paris Salon crossed the Atlantic quickly—and was eager to meet the artist who had created the notorious portrait. Gardner, born to a wealthy New York family, was rumored to have climbed out of a convent window to elope with John Lowell Gardner II, called “Jack,” the son of a wealthy and aristocratic Boston family. She was a flamboyant society woman who refused to observe the rules of etiquette imposed on ladies of the time: she served tea to her guests—male and female—in her boudoir, she dressed daringly in form-fitting gowns, and she made no secret of the fact that she preferred the company of men to that of women.
In 1863, while in her early twenties, Gardner gave birth to a son, named after his father. Jackie died two years later of pneumonia, and Gardner was instructed by her doctor to take a long trip to lift her spirits. Like Mary Sargent, she hoped that travel would distract her from her grief. She and Jack went to Europe, where she listened to music in Vienna, shopped for gowns at Worth in Paris, and became a connoisseur of fine jewelry in London. Over the next twenty-three years, the Gardners traveled frequently, visiting Paris and London regularly, and venturing farther, to the Holy Land, Cambodia, and Japan.
A fabulous fortune generated by the family shipping business enabled them to indulge every whim. Gardner owned among other items a necklace strung with forty-four perfect pearls and topped with a giant diamond clasp; she habitually purchased magnificent rubies and other jewels. The Gardner house in Boston, featured in magazines, had a novel glass-roofed atrium and was packed with expensive furnishings.
The Gardners spent lavishly but without any real purpose, until they began collecting rare books and manuscripts. Following the examples of nineteenth-century American millionaires such as the steel magnate Henry Clay Frick and the industrial and banking titan John Pierpont Morgan, they turned their attention to paintings. Gardner liked to be an informed shopper, so before she made any purchases of contemporary work, she would try to meet the artists. Thanks to the Madame X business, Sargent was on the list of artists whose work she wanted to see.
In October 1886, while on one of her tours of Europe, she begged her friend Henry James to take her to Sargent’s studio to see the famous portrait. As soon as she saw it, she knew she was in the presence of a thrilling talent. She was determined to have Sargent paint her. This woman who gladly disobeyed rules of propriety loved the idea of shocking staid Boston society. If she returned to the States with a portrait as daring and controversial as Madame X, it would affirm her as a social maverick. Unfortunately, she was unable to linger in London for a sitting. She arranged for Sargent to paint her the next time she came to Europe.
In May 1887, Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose was shown at London’s Royal Academy of Art, at an exhibition much like the Paris Salon. The painting was a smash hit. Critics were charmed by its dazzling display of color and light. The Spectator described it as “purely and simply beautiful,” while Art Amateur said it was “the talk of all the studios, as it is now the talk of the town.” Sargent was paid the highest compliment when the Chantrey Bequest, a fund dedicated to the acquisition of great works of art, paid £700 to acquire the work for the Royal Academy’s permanent collection.
Sargent’s Broadway friends, many of them Americans, carried the news of Sargent’s triumph to their acquaintances in New York and Boston. Henry Marquand, a banker and avid collector of Vermeer, Van Dyck, Hals, and other old masters, who in 1889 would become president of the Metropolitan Museum, had heard compliments about Sargent’s work from Lawrence Alma-Tadema and other artists he trusted. He invited Sargent to the United States to paint a portrait of his wife.
Sargent, sensing he was on the verge of recognition in London, was reluctant to accept the job. Half hoping that he would be refused, he named an inflated fee—at a time when artists far more established than he typically made $3,000 for a portrait, he asked for $2,000 to $2,500—and was shocked when Marquand agreed to pay it. Sargent had no choice but to pack his bags and head for the Marquands’ summer home in Newport, Rhode Island. He planned to make quick work of the portrait so he could return to London as soon as possible to profit from the success of Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose.
Newport during the 1880s was a popular destination for the rich. Every summer, affluent vacationers from New York, Boston, and other cities would arrive in this picturesque seaside town, lured by its scenic beaches and exclusive social scene. In the 1850s, in an ostentatious display of fortune, wealthy families had begun building enormous mansions, their summer “cottages.” They brought with them massive amounts of luggage and troops of servants, maintained full households, and kept busy social schedules through the season, which sometimes extended into the early fall. Days were devoted to swimming and lawn tennis and arranging extravagant entertainments for friends and associates. One summer, the owners of Chateau-sur-Mer, the first of the monumental Italianate residences bordering posh Bellevue Avenue, hosted a French picnic attended by two thousand guests. It was not unusual at the time for a family to spend as much as $70,000 on a lawn party or a ball.
By the time Sargent arrived in Newport in the early autumn of 1887, new wealth had begun to move in. The Vanderbilts and other self-made barons, who had amassed large fortunes in short periods of time through ingenuity and industry (but also through more questionable means), and who tended to spend their cash as quickly as it came in, were building Renaissance-style palaces even more elaborate than existing mansions. The houses built with new money were deliberately ostentatious, routinely boasting dining rooms large enough for dozens of guests and ball-rooms trimmed in real gold leaf.
Sargent’s clients the Marquands were, however, long-standing members of Newport society. A local paper announced their guest’s arrival: “Mr. J. S. Sargent of London who has become somewhat renowned as a portrait and figure painter is in town and is staying with Mr. H. G. Marquand on Rhode Island Avenue.
” Sargent set up a temporary studio in the Marquands’ home and warmed to them instantly. He considered the portrait of Elizabeth Marquand carefully, because he liked her personally and because he knew this was his chance to impress a new audience in a new country. He decided to emphasize the sixty-one-year-old Mrs. Marquand’s refinement and dignity, seating her in a tasteful Chippendale chair and having her wear a simple yet expensive-looking gown with a lace shawl and cuffs. He worked on the portrait from late September to the end of October, and as he had intended, the result was quietly glamorous, even noble. The painting was admired by critics and socialites alike.
Mrs. Henry Marquand initiated a rapid social and professional ascent for Sargent in America. With the attention he was receiving, he abandoned his plan to rush back to London. American aristocrats, it turned out, appreciated the European flair Sargent demonstrated in his painting. They liked the flashy brush-work, the startling poses. The same affluent men and women who shopped for couture clothes in Paris and commissioned homes resembling Italian palazzos and French châteaus desired the services of an artist who could make them look grand. Observing his portraits, said the English writer Osbert Sitwell, rich people “understood at last how rich they really were.”
For the next three months, from November to January, Sargent traveled from Newport to Boston, Boston to New York, and then back to Boston, winning lucrative commissions in each city. Henry James helped him by seizing every opportunity to promote his name. He wrote an article that appeared in the October issue of Harper’s New Monthly Magazine that celebrated his friend’s virtuoso talent and technical genius. Sargent, James proclaimed for the benefit of upper-class America, was the only artist worth patronizing. The writer praised Sargent’s ability to recognize and accentuate the individuality of his subjects. Sargent, he said, saw “each work that he provides in a light of its own” and did not “turn off successive portraits according to some well-tried receipt which has proved useful in the case of their predecessors.”
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