I picked up daguerreotype we’d brought with us from the living room.
“If only objects could talk…” I sighed, staring at the blurry photograph in the tarnished silver frame.
The old copper plate showed both the picture and its negative, depending on the angle I tilted it. The young woman in the image almost seemed to move as I tilted it back and forth.
“Shame it’s so damaged,” Tadeusz said, taking the daguerreotype from me. “But no wonder, since it’s nearly a hundred and fifty years old. Still, I wish we could see the details.”
“More than that,” Claude said, pushing his empty plate away and reaching for a napkin. “They started using the daguerreotypes in the 1830’s.”
“Hm, I don’t think so,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “The picture shows a young woman, not a teenager. Marie was born in 1815. I think she’s about thirty here.”
“How can you be sure?” Claude asked. “We can barely see her.”
“No, but her outfit is pretty clear. That’s not the kind of outfit a fashionable young girl would wear. That’s a married woman’s gown, or more likely a widow’s. I think it’s black, or dark at any case. Besides, it must have been taken later for the picture to survive to our times. The very first daguerreotypes were notoriously unstable, until they invented a way to make them last longer.”
We listened to her explanation in silence, because we really didn’t know much about the subject of early photography and daguerreotypes. It was obvious that Sophie did. In the end, even Claude had to concede the point to her.
Paris, 1832
Marie traversed the cavernous halls of the Louvre with her sketchbook in one hand and a small stool under her arm, passing through the Grande Galérie. The massive walls around her were hung with huge, dark canvasses, mostly by Guercine and Carraccio, whose work gave the whole area a rather gloomy aspect. She generally preferred the smaller halls, where the works of Dutch painters were on display. This time, however, she stopped in front of Infanta Margarita Teresa in a Pink Dress, by the Spanish painter Diego Velázquez. She found herself fascinated by Infanta, and impressed by the workmanship of the artist, so she decided to make that her project. She had heard a rumor that the painting would soon be returned to its home country, along with all the other paintings that had been plundered by Napoleon, so she felt a sense of urgency to make the most of it while she could.
A ray of light fell on Margarita’s golden hair and lit it up like a halo, and the details of her dress glimmered with color, painted by a master’s hand. Marie set up her stool, opened her sketchbook, and set to work.
The Great Gallery was an enormous semi-circular vault, and today it was filled with students copying the masterpieces on the walls. Fortunately, it was a Tuesday so there were less visitors than normal. The biggest crowds always flocked to the Louvre on Sunday, since that was the only day off most people had. Today, the Gallery was filled with easels and young artists in colorful costumes. Museum staff leaned against the metal railings separating the patrons from the artwork, looking quite bored.
“Miss, do you have permission to draw here?” A staff member appeared out of nowhere, looking quite pleased just to have something to do.
“Of course, it’s in here somewhere…” Marie hurriedly searched the pockets of her coat. In her haste, her sketchbook fell to the ground, scattering its pages all around.
“Ha! Look how much you’ve already managed to draw!” The museum employee picked one of the sketches up and waved it around. The other young artists nearby glanced in their direction, with a mixture of irritation and curiosity.
“No, those are from my previous visits.” Flustered, the girl didn’t know whether she should pick her sketches up first, or keep searching for her permit, which a friendly painter had helped her obtain the week before. “I’ve been in here nearly every day since I got my permit.”
“But I haven’t seen you!” the employee replied stubbornly. After a second, he softened his demeanor just a little. “I’m sure would have noticed a pretty young lady such as yourself if you’d been here before.”
“I was in the other galleries before,” she protested, waving her hand in undetermined direction. “I was studying the antique sculptures. See?” She snatched up a couple of other sketches and shoved them under his nose. The images contained fragments of the naked torsos, obviously from statues, and an assortment of sketches of hands in different angles and positions.
The man looked over the sketches with exaggerated attention. “Well, well. Not bad.”
“Pardon me.” She grabbed the page out of his hands, reversed it, and handed it back. “That was upside down.”
“Well, alright,” the guard said, looking flustered. “Just keep drawing, but please make sure you have your permit with you in the future.” He handed back the sketches and walked away, vanishing back into the depths of the hall.
Marie, still a little shaken from the encounter, suddenly found her permit, but the man already moved on to harassing some lad who, in his opinion, had stopped too long in front of one painting. She shook her head and put it out of her mind.
Let that poor sod deal with that fellow, she thought to herself. There’s no time to waste. The light is perfect for catching details right now.
She rose and moved closer to the painting. All of the brush strokes, smudging and gradation merged into a single entity, creating a perfect blur of color. She took a few steps back again, and everything began to organize itself anew: angles sharpened, space deepened, reflections appeared. Every feature had its own light and color.
“Unbelievable,” she murmured, captivated. “How did he do it?”
She took her sketchbook out, and began eagerly copying down all the rich details of the dress. She regretted that she didn’t have her paints with her today. Pencil simply wasn’t capable of capturing the complexity of the colors, or the way the rich satin gown reflected the light so beautifully across each fold and crease, in shades of yellow and cream.
A young woman sitting nearby, with a woolen shawl draped over her shoulders, muttered something under her breath and rubbed at her drawing with a small ball of bread. Marie smiled internally; she was obviously having the same problem. Pencil is good for copying sculptures, sketching hands and feet, and capturing the angles of a body, but not for these beautiful, colorful canvasses. Next time, she would bring her paints. In the meantime, she’d just try to copy the details of the outfit, the silhouette of the girl, and her sweet yet proud expression. She glanced around, looking for the best angle to continue her work.
She noticed a young man in a shabby coat hunched over an easel near the opposite wall, paintbrush in one hand, palette in the other. Suddenly, he straightened up and stepped back to examine his work. Marie smiled, pleased by the aura of intense concentration and hard work that seemed to permeate the Louvre as of late. She returned to her own work, and was soon thoroughly immersed again in the enchanted world of Velazquez’s imagination. The sounds of the gallery stopped reaching her, so intense was her focus. The master still had secrets to teach her, even from beyond the grave.
After an hour, she rubbed her burning eyes and reluctantly began to pack her things. It was time to go home, especially since she had to stop in and pick up some paint for Albert on her way back. She’d recently started posing for him, and he was introducing her to the secrets of painting in return.
Although her aunt had been reluctant about their meetings at first, she’d eventually decided that there was no one better to teach Marie art than a promising young artist like Albert. She’d personally placed Marie’s tutelage in his hands, and she was a woman whose whims were always given close consideration in Paris. She was something of a patron of the arts, and many young painters and musicians were glad to take her up on her invitations to dinner – especially since that may be their only proper meal of the day.
Marie hurried out of the museum. Although she should have plenty of time to spare, she didn’t want to be late fo
r dinner. Auntie hated it when someone was late to a meal. Every household member was expected to be dressed, ready, and waiting outside the dining room’s door at a specific hour, ready for the signal to enter. After dinner, they’d also planned to take a trip to the Opera, so she’d need plenty of time to get ready. Best to hurry.
The bright light blinded her for a moment as she exited the Louvre and stepped out into daylight. The sun had come out from behind the clouds, and the day seemed warmer than it had when she’d arrived. A crisp breeze blew, bringing the stench of poverty and decay from the nearby slums. The few livable buildings there were crowded with Gypsies, fowlers, and assorted trades that didn’t really belong anywhere else. She’d heard there was everything there from people who grew bait worms for fishermen, to match-sellers and pipe-makers, to people who bred fleas for use by the apothecaries.
Marie had also heard about a guardian angel who lived in the area and watched over the drunkards, and a leech farmer who sucked the blood from one patient before he sold it to the next. It was terrible neighborhood, and few people dared to venture there. There were stories of corpses abandoned within the rubble of the Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre Church, after it had collapsed and killed six priests the previous century.
Marie wrapped her coat tighter around her, and glanced at the pile of rubble and building materials that had been waiting for years for the restoration to begin. There was no sign that any work had been done yet. It was a sad sight: the proud, regal building, falling into ruin year after year. Although the exhibition halls were still fairly well-maintained, the rest of the building was in a deplorable state. It was all broken windows, damaged masonry, crumbling walls, and cavernous empty spaces within.
Somewhere in there, probably in the nooks and crannies on the upper floors, lived a community of squatters, homeless artists, and the desperately poor.
Marie hopped over a puddle in the derelict courtyard and hurried towards the street to hail an approaching carriage. The coachman was a familiar one. He smiled at her as he stopped the horses. “Heading home, Miss?”
“A quick stop on Rue du Colombier first, please,” she said, climbing the vehicle’s steps. “I must collect some paints I ordered.”
The carriage moved off, it’s wheels clattering steadily over the uneven cobbles. Marie put a blanket across her knees and looked out the window, relieved that she didn’t have to talk home. The sight of the pedestrians trudging by in the muddy, freezing streets made her shiver.
Only the children didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold nor the mud. They danced back and forth between the carriages, laughing and playing. It was a dangerous game; there were drains on either side of the street to channel wastewater into the sewer canals, but they were often unsecured or insufficiently covered. Sometimes, unfortunate accidents happened, especially amongst small children. If they fell in, they could easily become lost in the labyrinth of sewers under the city.
Marie remembered when the cook’s little daughter had fallen into a drain while playing in the street. They’d never found her body. It had probably been dragged along by the underground currents, and ended up somewhere in the Seine.
The carriage rumbled across the bridge to the other side of the river. She watched as a barge laden with coal sailed under it, leaving a wide wake in the river’s steel-gray waters. The boulevards seemed empty and sad, thanks to rickety rows of young trees planted along the quays to replace the adult trees that had been cut down not so long ago. Cold and dampness seeped from the river. Marie wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. They passed stalls selling fishing equipment, and groups of washerwomen with hands red from the cold, carrying heavy baskets full of freshly-washed undergarments.
After few minutes, the coachman tugged the reins and brought the horses to a stop in front of a small building.
“We’re here,” he said. “I’ll wait for you, miss. Take as much time as you need.”
“Thank you.” Marie smiled gratefully at the older man. She was relieved not to have to worry about trying to find a new coach in an unfamiliar part of town.
The shop, Madame Poitiers’, was popular amongst artists on both sides of the Seine. Her paints were good quality, the prices reasonable, and the fact that the owner allowed payment by means of convenient installments meant that she was never short of orders.
Marie entered the dark room, lit only by a pair of small, dirty windows. The scent of paint and something else, something undefinable but pleasant, welcomed her. Much like a painter’s studio, the shop was filled to the point of cluttered. The owner, who was also steeped in that mysterious fragrance, led her to a large wooden table covered in containers, bags, mortars, and other strange objects that she could only guess were most likely used to mix and prepare paints.
Two young boys in stained aprons hustled through the mess with the confidence and swiftness of people who knew exactly where everything was and what to do with it. They ignored her as she looked around curiously.
“Here we go, this should be everything you ordered,” Madame Poitiers said, checking the order against a sheet of paper. “Six bladders of lead white, six of Napoli yellow, two of ochre yellow, two of cobalt, and two peach black. All ground extra smooth, just as Monsieur Artiste wanted.”
Marie handed over the money and picked the basket up. It wasn’t as heavy as she expected. She bowed and said a hurried goodbye to the merchant, and ran back to her coach. Time was starting to run short, and she still had to dress for dinner.
“Did you get everything? Nothing was missed?” The young, unshaven man in the red flannel shirt dropped his brush and palette to grab the basket. He dug around inside it for a moment, then grunted in satisfaction. “Good, good. Get undressed and prepare yourself. I still need to finish one more detail on this piece. You fidgeted so much yesterday that I couldn’t finish it properly.”
“But…” Marie stopped mid-step, in the middle of the studio. “What about dinner? Auntie will be upset—”
“Dinner?!” Dark eyes glared at her from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Dinner, you say? Nonsense! I haven’t eaten anything today and it hasn’t killed me yet, as you can see.” He executed a deft twirl, nearly losing his balance in the process. “But if dinner is more important to you than my teachings – and remember that I was going to teach you how to paint a landscape later – then fine, by all means, go to dinner—but forget about the lessons! I only agreed to teach you because your aunt asked, in the name of our old friendship. I’m very busy, you know!”
“Oh…” She feigned a resigned sigh. “I’m sure Auntie will understand that your work is more important than dinner with her, but how am I going to tell her? She’ll be so terribly disappointed.”
Albert shifted uneasily. He glanced at the canvas, sitting on its easel, and scratched his head.
“Well,” he mumbled. “I suppose we could put this off until tomorrow. The light isn’t great right now, and you already wasted so much time getting here. Just be punctual tomorrow,” he raised his voice to a yell. “Or I shan’t be held responsible for my actions!”
Marie was gone before he could finish scolding her.
Rue Le Peletier was a narrow street at the best of times, and that evening it was crowded with people driving towards the grand, brightly-lit Parisian Opera building. The coach carrying Marie and her aunt and uncle was stuck amongst the others and moving at a snail’s pace, to the ever-growing agitation of all the passengers trapped in the quagmire. The impatient shouts of coachmen and their masters could be heard all around.
“Out of the way!”
“Make room!”
“Don’t block the road, you blasted rabble!”
Marie’s uncle tapped the golden knob of his cane on the roof of the carriage.
“Stop here, Gaspard,” he ordered when the coachman’s bearded face appeared in the window. “We’ll get out and go on foot, otherwise we won’t make it before the second act. Find a nice spot and wait for us there.”
“As you wish,
sir.” Gaspard pulled the reins and stopped the horses, drawing a chorus of protests from the vehicles behind them.
The spacious foyer was equally crowded and loud. Some people were using the time before the show started to purchase newspapers, binoculars, periodicals or sheet music, while others used the time to socialize.
“Good evening, Countess!” Monsieur Potignac, the greatest gossip in all Paris, swept into a dramatic bow before Marie’s aunt. “Where is your dear husband, madam? I heard that he’s been rather ill, as of late. Or is it problems with the business, perhaps?” Insincere sorrow etched itself across the man’s ugly face.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my dear uncle is very robust in both health and business,” Marie snapped, to the very obvious disapproval of her aunt. “Apparently you either misheard, or you have bad informants. I suppose that’s just how it goes when one deals in hearsay!”
“The young lady has a sharp tongue, I see – and speaks without being spoken to. Oh, how terribly rude indeed.” Monsieur Potignac shook a finger at her, as if in jest, but his eyes were cold. “Fortunately, she’s in good hands with you, Madam Countess. I have no doubt that she will quickly learn the errors of her ways. She must not have been taught proper manners out in the provinces.”
“My dear Monsieur Potignac,” the countess said with a forced smile. “I apologize for my niece, she’s still barely more than a child. Please forgive her. I am also very grateful for your interest in my family, but I wouldn’t want to waste your precious time. Let me say goodbye, if you wouldn’t mind? My husband is waiting.”
“Of course, Countess, of course.” The man doubled over in an exaggerated bow. “As always, I am at your service.”
Auntie took Marie’s elbow and gently guided her away. They were soon joined by her uncle, and walked together towards their box.
Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin Page 7