Monsieur takes hold of my brush hand and dips the brush in the blue and the white and mixes the colours on a clean patch of palette. Then he mixes in an opaque substance. ‘This is glaze,’ he tells me. ‘It makes the colours less flat. So that you feel you are looking into the sky, not at a flat canvas. Now try.’
This time as I paint the colour onto the canvas, I can see there is a richer, more textured look to the blue. He takes my hand at each mixing of the colours and then lets me paint it on myself. The patch of sky grows slowly.
‘Good, Marianne,’ he murmurs. ‘You have real talent for this. A natural instinct. How unexpected.’ I glow with pride and long to prove myself further. Perroy’s voice becomes brisk again as he instructs me once more: ‘Now as you move down towards the green of the garden, you need to put some yellow and green in with the blue.’
‘Why?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘Because otherwise the change of colour is too abrupt. It looks like a child’s painting. Look here. In the greenery, I’ve put brushstrokes of blue near the sky, do you see? Not mixed, but side by side.’
I look closely, fascinated, and it’s a revelation. ‘Of course,’ I breathe. ‘It makes sense.’
I feel as though I’ve been told a secret. A sense of excitement fills me. As we continue, I become absorbed, forgetting my work, losing my sense of time. The nearness of Perroy adds to the heady thrill of the painting. I don’t know how much later it is that I’m roused by the door opening behind us and someone coming in. It takes me a moment to react. As I turn my head to look, I realize Monsieur is standing too close, one hand on my waist, the other hand on mine.
Embarrassed, I move away, letting go of the brush. It clatters to the floor, leaving a smear of green paint on my white apron.
‘Marianne?’ The kitchen maid is at the door, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene.
‘Yes?’ I ask brusquely, mortified at what she must be thinking.
‘Madame has been ringing for you,’ says the maid. ‘We couldn’t find you. She’s angry.’
‘I’ll come at once,’ I reply, but before I can leave, Monsieur catches hold of my hand, rubs a little paint from my finger, and lifts my hand briefly to his lips.
‘Thank you for your so valuable help, mademoiselle,’ he purrs, and his eyes are alight with wicked laughter. ‘The same time tomorrow?’
I snatch my hand away and flee from the studio. As I run across the garden, I press my hands to my hot cheeks.
* * *
It’s late when I climb wearily into my bed that night, having tucked Madame up in hers. Hannah is still awake.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she whispers. ‘It’s not true that you were kissing Monsieur in the studio earlier, is it?’
‘No, certainly not!’ I hiss, horrified at how the story has been twisted already.
‘What were you doing then?’
‘Painting. He let me paint. Just for a minute or two. Well, perhaps longer. I don’t remember. Oh, Hannah! He said I have a natural talent for painting!’
‘Did you ask him if you could paint?’ asks Hannah, astonished.
‘No, of course not. He invited me to.’
‘So it isn’t true that you arranged a meeting with him tomorrow?’
‘No, not at all. That is, he did say come again tomorrow. But he was teasing me, or else making mischief.’
There’s a silence for a minute, then Hannah whispers: ‘You won’t go, will you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ I reply, trying to sound off-hand.
‘Marianne, promise me you won’t. You’re my friend. I don’t want you to get into trouble.’
‘I won’t!’ I say indignantly. She sounds so worried.
There’s another pause.
‘Marianne? You told me yesterday you loved Peter. You don’t want to lose him, do you? Because if you and that awful Frenchman become lovers … ’
‘Hannah!’ I exclaim angrily. ‘It’s not like that at all. Anyway, he’s married.’
‘That didn’t stop him before,’ whispers Hannah. ‘With that other woman. Everyone knows about them.’
‘I just want to paint,’ I assure her. ‘I don’t even like him.’
‘Oh, Marianne, be careful. Don’t put yourself in a situation where you are alone with him. Please don’t meet him again.’
I scowl at her. My wonderful lesson and the praise Perroy gave me have been spoiled. The whole thing has been made to feel sordid somehow.
Hannah puts her arm around me. Annoyed, I push her away and roll over to face the window. But it’s a long time before I fall asleep.
TWENTY-FOUR
23 June 1886
The morning after I had spoken to Hannah about Perroy, I made up my mind to take her advice and stay away from the studio. Inside I was in turmoil. All day, a fear that Hannah could possibly be right battled with the longing to paint.
It was purely the paints that attracted me. The thrill of watching the picture take form beneath my brush. My secret ambition to become an artist myself. Perroy had praised me, I reminded myself. I had talent. It couldn’t be wrong to want to learn more.
But was it true that Perroy might try to seduce me? Not in a studio in the hotel garden in the middle of the afternoon. And that in itself would surely protect my reputation. Besides, I reasoned, how would Peter ever know?
I felt my resolve weakening.
Nonetheless, I kept to my decision all day. Until the late afternoon, when I found my feet treading the path to the studio. I was drawn like a moth to a candleflame. And I’ve gone there every afternoon for the last three weeks. Sometimes Monsieur isn’t there. More often he is. The lure of the oils and the canvas is too great for me to withstand.
But today is Sunday. More importantly, it’s our Sunday off. I’m still deeply asleep when Hannah shakes me.
‘Marianne,’ she says. ‘Wake up. I want you to come to church with me.’
I groan and roll over. She shakes me again.
‘Come on, it will put your thoughts in a higher place.’
I’m wide awake now and sit up crossly in bed.
‘Did you just say what I thought you said? There’s nothing ungodly about art, Hannah.’
She purses her mouth disapprovingly. ‘Perhaps not. But there is plenty that’s ungodly about a married Frenchman with a moustache,’ she says tartly.
‘I don’t think about him at all,’ I reply. Hannah looks politely incredulous, her eyebrows raised.
‘And are you quite sure he doesn’t think of you?’ she asks seriously.
Now I’m irritated again, and I don’t like to be cross with my friend. I swing my legs out of bed and reach for my clothes.
‘I’ll come to church with you, on the condition that you don’t mention him again today.’ As always, the hope of seeing Peter is an added incentive to going to church. Hannah knows that, though she doesn’t mention him.
We’re late and the church is overflowing. There’s not a single space left in the pews and many of the congregation are standing at the back of the church.
‘It’s all the summer visitors,’ whispers Hannah. ‘We should have come earlier.’
I can’t see Peter anywhere, and disappointment washes through me.
‘I don’t feel like standing up,’ I whisper back. ‘Shall we go?’
Hannah shakes her head.
‘Well I’m leaving,’ I tell her and walk away. I tell myself I don’t care whether she follows me or not, but I’m pleased when she does.
As we leave the church, Mikkel looks around from his family pew near the front of the church and catches my eye. We haven’t walked far before he comes running along Søndergade after us, sand spraying up behind him.
‘Marianne! Hannah!’ he cries, panting. We wait until he catches us up.
‘I told Mother I was about to be sick,’ he tells us with a grin. ‘She practically ordered me out of the church. Shall we bathe?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ says Hannah.
/> ‘I’m not sure that bathing will do me as much good as church. Spiritually, that is,’ I say piously to Hannah. She laughs, but turns at once to Mikkel.
‘You tell her, Mikkel,’ she urges. ‘Tell her she must stay away from that dreadful Frenchman.’
‘I’ve heard some gossip,’ Mikkel admits. ‘It sounds as if you did ask someone to teach you to paint after all. I’m not sure it was a wise choice.’
‘I didn’t ask,’ I contradict. ‘He offered. Is it all over the town?’ I can’t get used to this small community where everyone knows everything almost before it’s happened.
Mikkel nods. ‘I even heard my father discussing it with someone.’
My heart sinks, but I’m also angry. What business is it of theirs?
‘I’m doing nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say finally. But a slight flush rises to my cheeks all the same.
‘Tell her, Mikkel,’ Hannah urges. But Mikkel shakes his head.
‘Marianne wants to learn to paint. It’s important to her. I don’t think she should let a bit of idle gossip stand in her way.’ He turns to me. ‘Just ignore the talk,’ he says. ‘People will soon get tired of it and find something new to whisper about. But take care around that Frenchman. Keep the studio door open or something.’ He grins at me. I feel much better at once. As though a burden has been lifted from me. I beam at him. Hannah looks disappointed though. She expected Mikkel to support her. But Mikkel understands what it is to long to do something and have people stand in the way. He would brave anything to study science.
When we reach the sea, the water is crystal clear, and inviting. The sunlight is shimmering on the seabed. We kick off our shoes and paddle a little. The water is cold on my hot feet. I watch as Hannah and Mikkel strip down to their underwear and plunge into the shallow waves, shrieking with cold and excitement. They are unembarrassed to be wearing so little. The Skagen children bathe completely naked, even the older ones. I was shocked at first, but I’m quite used to it now. It seems natural.
‘Come on in, Marianne!’ Hannah cries.
‘I can’t swim,’ I plead.
‘Then it’s about time you learned!’ she cries. ‘It’s not deep unless you go way out. It’s very safe. Not like the west coast.’
I’m torn between the appeal of the cool water and my reluctance to undress. It’s one thing to approve of nakedness in others, and quite another to try it myself. Eventually the lure of the water wins. I bravely peel my dress and petticoat off my hot skin till I’m wearing only drawers and a shift, then I wade in. I’ve never been in the sea further than to my ankles before. It’s deliciously cool on my sun-heated skin. I stand hugging my arms to my chest, trying to gather the courage to get right in.
‘Get right under, come on,’ urges Mikkel. Hannah threatens to splash me and I hurriedly crouch down, gasping at the cold.
‘It hasn’t had time to warm up yet this year,’ says Hannah. ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘Try to float on your back,’ says Mikkel. ‘We won’t let you sink.’ I lie back, looking up at the sky, feeling the cold on my back and my head. Suddenly I panic and try to sit up. I go under, swallowing salt water. Hannah pulls me up again, spluttering and choking.
‘Try again,’ she says.
I try over and over again. I try to float, I try to swim a few strokes, but all I seem to be good at is swallowing the water.
‘Enough,’ I gasp at last, having been hauled back to a sandbank by Mikkel for about the fifth time. My eyes are stinging from the salt, and I’m starting to feel sick. ‘I’ll try again another day. You two have a swim.’
They don’t argue. I expect they’ve had enough too. They swim north along the coast, one fair and one dark head, side by side. They’re talking as they swim. I wade up onto a sandbank where the water only comes to my ankles, and enjoy the warmth of the sun. I’m still coughing up seawater.
Shading my eyes, I look out at the ships. One sailing ship is close in to the coast, it seems to me. I watch her idly for a few moments. I notice some bright flashes from the mid-deck. They’re dazzling. As they continue at regular intervals, I wonder if she’s signalling.
I run along the sandbank to Mikkel and Hannah.
‘Look at the ship!’ I cry. ‘Is she in trouble?’ They turn to look, and then Mikkel looks inland, scanning the beach.
‘She is signalling, but I don’t think it’s a distress signal,’ he says. ‘I think they have a passenger to drop off. Look!’
Two fishermen are launching a small rowing boat from the beach. We watch them as they row out towards the ship.
‘It must be an important passenger to stop the whole ship,’ remarks Hannah. ‘Shall we go and watch?’
We wade back towards the beach, and pull on our clothes. My underwear is wet, and my skin sticky with salt, making my dress cling in all the wrong places.
The rowing boat has grounded on the sand now, as close in as they can get her. The two fishermen jump out, and carry their passenger to shore between them. Not a drop of salt water lands on his expensive-looking suit or his smart leather shoes.
‘It’s Christian Krogh,’ whispers Mikkel. ‘He’s Norwegian: a writer and a painter.’
The boat is hauled onto the beach, and the valises unloaded. Krogh slips the fishermen several coins each. I see their dour faces light up as they cheerfully shoulder the luggage and follow him up to Østerby, presumably to the hotel.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,’ says Hannah. ‘Shall we go back and see what there is for lunch?’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I agree. I look at Mikkel, and can’t help but smile. He looks the picture of health, his face tanned, his hair still wet from the swim. ‘You’re going to have some trouble persuading your parents you were unwell,’ I tease.
He grins. ‘I’ll think of something,’ he promises. ‘I don’t want to pretend to be too ill, or I won’t be allowed out to watch the bonfire later.’
‘I can’t wait! See you this evening,’ Hannah calls to Mikkel merrily. ‘I’m so excited about tonight,’ she confides as we make our way through the dunes. ‘It’s my favourite night of the year.’
‘Remind me what you call today?’ I ask.
‘It’s Sankthans. The midsummer festival. Just wait until later!’
TWENTY-FIVE
The bonfire has been built of old, broken fish boxes and driftwood. It’s on the beach just down from the vippefyr, the old lighthouse that’s no longer in use. To my surprise, there’s an effigy of a woman tied to a stake in the middle of it. She’s made of old stuffed clothes and has a paper head.
‘What’s she for?’ I ask Hannah.
‘She’s the witch. We always burn a witch at midsummer. In the old days it would have been a real one,’ says Hannah gleefully.
‘How grisly.’ I shudder. ‘You can be quite bloodthirsty at times.’
Hannah laughs.
‘It’s a bit like burning the Guy on November the Fifth in England,’ I add. Hannah looks as though she might be going to ask about this when we see someone hold up a burning torch.
‘They’re lighting it now,’ Hannah says, excitedly. From where we are standing in the crowd, I can see someone thrust a burning branch into the pile of wood. We watch, delighted, as first the smoke curls, and then the flames begin to spread. It’s eleven o’clock in the evening, and only just dusk. The sky is glowing a deep blue and the wind has dropped. It’s cool now, and we’ll be glad of the warmth of the fire when it gets going.
‘Look! The witch has caught,’ cries Hannah, clapping her hands. The crackle and hiss of the flames mingles with the talk and laughter around us. I watch the flames run up the witch’s back and engulf her paper head. I shiver at the thought of what it must have been like to watch a real woman burn alive at the stake.
As the witch burns, voices around me begin singing. More join them, until only I am silent. I’ve never heard the song before. I look around at the people, their faces reflecting the flames. I see tears
gleaming in some people’s eyes as they sing. They’re singing about how much they love their country. I love it too. I love the open sky and the clear air. I love the warmth of the people I’ve met. I’ve found my home. Hannah takes my hand and smiles at me, almost as if she can hear my thoughts.
We edge a little closer to the fire as the song ends. As it burns lower, a group of men play their fiddles, and couples start to dance in the sand. The artists have donated barrels of mead to be drunk tonight, so many of the adults soon grow merry. Hannah and I stand watching the fire burn.
‘Look, Hannah,’ I say. ‘Hr Krøyer is sketching the scene!’
‘He’s not the only one,’ says Hannah, and she points out two more shadowy figures, sketchbook in hand, drawing. ‘They’ve been drawing since we arrived. Do you wish you’d brought your sketchbook too?’
‘I should have done.’ I look around at the fire-lit scene and imagine drawing it. Like so much else, the colours would be important. My mind turns to Perroy’s palette, as I wonder which paints I’d select. When Mikkel joins us and begins to speak to Hannah, I wander across to look over the artists’ shoulders. It’s the same scene each time, but viewed quite differently from different angles and by different eyes.
‘Marianne?’ The voice behind me makes me jump. I feel a rush of delight and I know who it is before I turn around.
‘God aften, Peter,’ I say. I offer him my hand, and he shakes it but doesn’t smile.
‘Can we talk?’ he asks.
‘Of course,’ I say. My heart beats a little faster as he leads me apart from the crowd, down to the water’s edge. The waves are not much more than gentle ripples tonight, lapping almost silently on the shore. The moon has laid a silvery path across the sea. The sounds of the midsummer merriment fade slowly behind us as we walk. I steal a couple of curious sideways glances at Peter, wondering what it is he wants to speak to me privately about. His face is grave.
‘I don’t know quite how to say this,’ he begins at last. ‘But please bear in mind that I’m speaking to you as a friend, with your own interests at heart.’
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