Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  I nod, but this is a bad start.

  ‘There’s been a great deal of talk about you recently, Marianne,’ Peter says at last. ‘I’ve heard gossip that has surprised me.’

  My heart plummets. It’s the last thing I want to hear.

  ‘Gossip?’ I ask, cautiously. I feel anger as well as disappointment at his words. I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

  ‘About you and that French artist.’ Peter spits the words out as though they burn his mouth. ‘That you’re meeting him in secret. Some even say … ’

  ‘Say what?’ I demand angrily. ‘You might as well tell me the worst.’

  ‘That you’re lovers.’ Peter almost whispers the words. He looks drawn and sad in the darkness.

  ‘Do they?’ I reply icily. I want to defend myself and explain. But my pride is in the way and keeps me silent. I’m shaking with hurt and anger. How can Peter believe such stories?

  He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Tell me it’s not true, Marianne?’ he begs.

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ My voice is stony. ‘This place is just like England,’ I snarl suddenly. ‘Full of malicious gossip.’

  ‘Malicious?’ Peter shakes his head, puzzled. ‘No, I don’t think so. Your friends are worried for you. You’re very young, and that man is an experienced flirt, and worse. He’s taking advantage of your innocence.’

  I’m slightly mollified. We walk on, my hand still in his, and it’s comforting.

  ‘But you believe the stories,’ I persist.

  ‘Why would there be such rumours?’ Peter asks. ‘You’ve been seen late at night together on the beach.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ I cry, angry again, and I snatch my hand away. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve only painted with him in the studio. Who’s been saying such things?’

  Peter turns to face me. ‘So you admit you’ve been meeting him alone?’ he asks.

  ‘To paint! In the middle of the afternoon. Nothing more,’ I insist. I’m close to tears. I never realized before how important Peter’s good opinion is to me.

  Peter is silent for a moment, watching me. ‘I believe you,’ he says at last. ‘But it would be better if you had nothing more to do with him. Will you promise me to make sure you are never alone with him again?’

  ‘Don’t ask me to make a promise like that!’ I beg, distressed.

  ‘Listen, Marianne,’ he says. ‘This may be innocence on your part, but it’s not on his, I can assure you.’ This sounds uncomfortably like what Hannah said. I don’t want to hear it, so I turn away. Peter follows. ‘Everyone knows about him and that married woman he was painting,’ he continues. ‘Why do you think she and her husband left Skagen in such a hurry? Everyone knew she was his whore.’

  The word, even in Danish, triggers a reckless rage in me. That’s the word they used about my mother. And it was a lie.

  ‘He’ll ruin your life, Marianne.’

  ‘I’m not such a fool. I won’t let him.’ I stamp my foot in frustration, but then take a deep breath to try and calm myself again. ‘I have to learn to paint,’ I explain, and my voice only shakes a very little. ‘Perroy says I have talent, Peter. He says I could make a living from painting. Don’t you see … ?’

  ‘There must be some other way to learn,’ Peter argues reasonably.

  ‘No,’ I reply flatly. ‘Not for me there isn’t.’

  ‘Marianne,’ says Peter in a different voice. He’s changed tack. His voice is coaxing now. He’s taken my hand again, drawing me towards him. ‘Is learning to paint more important than everything else?’

  He’s close now, like when we danced together. I can feel the warmth of his arms about me and his breath on my hair. My senses are swimming, my anger forgotten. I think he might be about to kiss me and I want him to so much. Peter puts one hand under my chin, pushing it up, until we are looking into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Please promise me you won’t see him on your own again, Marianne,’ he whispers.

  I sense that this is a battle of wills and it’s vital that I don’t give in. If I do now, I always will. I’ll never be able to stand my ground, or explain to him when something is important to me. But he’s so close to me, it would be so easy to promise, just to forget everything else.

  ‘Promise me?’ he repeats, and he just brushes his lips against mine.

  ‘No,’ I say, and it comes out as a gasp. I feel him tense at once.

  ‘No?’ he asks incredulously.

  ‘No. I have to learn to paint. It matters to me, Peter. I wish I could explain how it makes me feel. How important it is to me. But I do promise you that there is nothing more than painting between myself and Perroy. And there never will be.’ I can hear the pleading note in my own voice. I don’t want to choose painting over Peter; I want both. I want him to understand. But he doesn’t. He releases me abruptly.

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ he says, breathing fast. Before I can take in what he’s said or think of a reply, he turns and stalks off down the beach, away from the party.

  I watch him walk away, and feel I’m being torn in two. Blindly, I turn and walk back towards the bonfire. The heat it’s giving off is intense. I’m vaguely aware that I’m shaking.

  I search for Hannah or Mikkel. When I see them, they are sitting a little apart from the crowd, hands clasped. Hannah looks so happy. I don’t want to disturb them. I try to be pleased for Hannah, but it just makes me feel the yawning emptiness inside me all the more acutely. I can feel sobs building up. I need to get away from here before they escape. I stumble away from the fire.

  On the way up the beach, I pass Monsieur himself, standing in the shadow of an upturned boat. He’s deep in conversation with someone. I see him receive a roll of something, and put it into the inside pocket of his jacket. My surprise is distant and detached; my own troubles are uppermost in my mind. It’s not until the man he’s with turns around that I pause. It’s Christensen. He sees me staring at them, and clears his throat loudly. Monsieur looks around and spots me at once.

  ‘Ah, ma petite Marianne!’ he says suavely. ‘Surely you’re not leaving the party already?’

  I feel a wave of pure hatred towards him, and turn and walk away before I say anything I regret.

  My pillow is wet through with tears before Hannah comes in. I don’t even try to control my sobs which are shaking the bed. Hannah doesn’t say a word. She just puts her arms around me and holds me tight.

  TWENTY-SIX

  July 1886

  ‘It’s very good, Marianne. A little more yellow. Bien!’

  Monsieur’s voice is in my ear.

  ‘Please don’t stand so close, Monsieur,’ I beg.

  ‘Ah, won’t you call me Jean-Pierre, ma cherie?’ He laughs softly and I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. I shiver slightly.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be proper,’ I tell him, edging away. He moves even closer and takes my hand in his, guiding my brush to put a little more paint on the canvas just where it is needed.

  ‘Always so cautious, the little English girl,’ he mocks gently.

  I hate it when he tries to flirt with me. It makes me feel confused and anxious, and I wonder whether everyone who has told me not to come here to paint with him is right and I am wrong.

  But then he retreats behind his own easel without being asked again. He never goes too far. I suspect he just likes to tease me. And he is an unexpectedly good painting teacher.

  I’m attempting to paint Lise gathering flowers. As she bends over, plucking the blossoms, the sun is shining on her. I’m frustrated because I can’t get it to look as I want it to. I don’t have the time to spend on it, nor the skills I need. Frowning, I try a different colour combination, and then a little more glaze.

  ‘You look cross today, Marianne. You’ve looked out of temper for over a week now,’ Monsieur Perroy remarks.

  I shrug. ‘Have I?’

  I’m hardly likely to tell him what’s wrong. That half the town thinks we are lovers, and that
Peter’s either so shocked or so jealous that he won’t speak to me. Annette, too, passed me in the street with only a distant nod. Some days I feel my heart will break. If only I could explain to them the importance of what I’m learning. How painting transforms my life, and makes me see everything differently. I dream that it will be a way out of my poverty too. Thank goodness Mikkel still supports me. Without his constant encouragement, I might have given in by now.

  This hour in the afternoon, when Madame is resting in her room and I take up a paintbrush, is reward enough, I tell myself. I’ve learned more than I could have imagined in so short a time.

  But now my time is up for today. It always goes in the blink of an eye.

  ‘I must go. Madame Perroy will be ringing for me any minute,’ I tell her husband. I put down my brush and remove my borrowed smock. I put my painting discreetly against the wall to dry, and go to look at Monsieur’s painting. He too has made faster progress by spending more hours in the studio.

  But today he hasn’t been painting. He’s been sketching.

  ‘But, that’s me!’ I say, astonished. ‘You didn’t ask if you could draw me.’

  ‘If I had, it would have been a different picture. You would have become self-conscious,’ he says without remorse.

  I tilt my head to one side, looking at the sketch critically. ‘Did I really look as cross as that?’ I ask.

  He chuckles quietly to himself. ‘The last few days, certainement. I shall name it La Bonne Qui Peint.’ The Maid Who Paints.

  I snort crossly. ‘And what happened to your painting?’ I ask.

  ‘I sold it,’ he tells me. I’m surprised.

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘An admirer, bien sûr!’ is all he will tell me. ‘And that brings me to something else I wish to speak to you about. Stay a few moments longer. Henriette can wait.’

  ‘She’ll be angry,’ I object, but he just laughs. It’s an unkind laugh.

  ‘She’s always angry. I have something to ask you.’ He adds a few more touches to his sketch and frowns slightly. ‘Henriette and I are leaving in a few days,’ he says abruptly.

  For a moment I don’t comprehend what he’s saying. Then it begins to sink in. The implications for me are very great.

  ‘Leaving? Already? I thought … ’ I don’t know what I thought. That they would stay all summer, I suppose. My lodging and wage are dependent on their stay.

  Monsieur holds up a hand.

  ‘Un moment! My wife asks if you will come with us when we leave.’

  ‘Go with you; where?’

  ‘To Paris, of course. Think of it, Marianne. Beautiful Paris. The centre of artistic excellence. You can continue your painting. We will learn together.’

  His voice is low, seductive, and for a moment I’m drawn by the idea. I imagine myself in Paris, painting, perhaps even as a student of art. Then reality breaks into my brief daydream.

  ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why would you want to take me with you?’ I think of the cost of the journey, and how much cheaper it would be to engage a new maid when they reach France. Monsieur hesitates before he replies. But the answer, when it comes, is as smooth as ever.

  ‘Because we’ve both grown fond of you, of course,’ he says lightly. I look at him through narrowed eyes, but his face remains bland.

  ‘Can I think about it?’ I ask. ‘I can’t take such a decision in a rush.’

  ‘Of course,’ Monsieur Perroy replies. ‘But you will have to let me know tonight. I need to arrange the journey.’

  ‘Tonight. Very well.’ I nod, and leave the studio. When I reach Madame’s room, I find her still asleep, cucumber slices laid over her eyes.

  ‘Madame?’ I say quietly, drawing back the curtain. The early evening sunshine pours into the room, waking her. I lay out her blue evening dress with the matching shoes.

  ‘It’s too bright!’ she complains pettishly.

  Strange that Monsieur should have spoken of her being fond of me. I’m quite sure she’s not fond of anyone, least of all me. She’s affectionate and bad-tempered by turn, but I’ve sensed no warm feelings in her. Nor in him, now I come to think of it. So why do they want to take me with them?

  I pour a bowl of water out for Madame to wash, and fetch a clean towel for her.

  She yawns, and casts a glance at the dress I’ve laid out.

  ‘I’ll wear the pink dress tonight, Marianne,’ she says languidly. ‘With the pink scarf and shoes. And my yellow dress needs washing. Why did you hang it back up?’

  Smothering my annoyance, I hang the blue dress up again. It doesn’t suit me to be at this woman’s beck and call. Do I really want to leave my friends here and go with these people? I know the answer to that. But there’s the question of what will become of me here once they go.

  Madame Perroy hums to herself as I brush and arrange her hair.

  ‘Madame is happy tonight,’ I say. ‘Is it the prospect of going home?’

  ‘Ah, so my husband has spoken to you,’ she replies. Her reflection in the mirror is watching me. ‘Yes, we leave this horrible place on Friday. Do you come with us?’ Her dark eyes take on a sharp, almost greedy look.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Tiens! But of course you must come! What is there to stay for? It stinks of fish here, and it’s always windy. There are no real shops, it’s so dull. Bien sûr you will accompany us.’ Her eyes don’t leave me.

  I look at her in the mirror as she speaks. You are thinking of your life, not mine, I think. What do I care for shops, I have no money. I love the wind and the open landscape here. For me it spells freedom. A Parisian garret could so easily be a prison. I say nothing more.

  I pace our tiny attic room, waiting for Hannah. I want her advice. It’s late when she comes, almost time for me to go and put Madame to bed. I scarcely give her time to come into the room before I begin speaking.

  ‘Hannah, I have something to ask you about.’ We sit down on the edge of the bed, and I tell her about the offer. She looks more and more horrified as I speak.

  ‘Friday? Three days’ time? Marianne, no!’ she says at last. ‘You can’t go with them. I can’t believe you’re considering it. They haven’t even paid you yet. Do you trust them? What would you do alone in Paris if they decided they didn’t need you any more? You’d have nowhere to go.’

  ‘I have nowhere to go here,’ I point out ruefully. ‘Once they leave, I lose my place here. That’s my main consideration.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything yet, but mother and I have already agreed to ask you to stay next winter with us,’ Hannah says quickly. Her eyes are large and sorrowful as she looks at me. Impulsively I hug her.

  ‘You’re so kind,’ I whisper. ‘But how can I possibly be dependent on your goodwill?’

  ‘You won’t be dependent, you’ll be able to pay your way with the work you have. Please, at least consider it.’

  It’s delightful to see Hannah so earnest about keeping me here. Perhaps I asked her advice because I wanted to be persuaded to stay. My father is dead, there’s no reason for me to be tied to Skagen. Except that I no longer want to leave.

  ‘And another thing,’ Hannah says after a pause. ‘How do you know Monsieur won’t get bored with teaching you to paint? Then you’ll have left your friends for no reason at all. What if he tries to seduce you once he’s got you living in his own house? Do you know what I think? I think you are running away, because of the gossip and because you’ve had a fight with Peter.’

  I think about what she’s said and sigh. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It’s been very hard these last weeks.’ I feel sure that I’ve lost Peter for good, but I still can’t bear the thought of going right away, of never seeing him again.

  Hannah senses me weakening, and slips her hand in mine. ‘I thought you liked it here,’ she says softly.

  ‘I do, I love it. I love the sea and the sky and the landscape. I love the way of life and, best of all, I love you and Mikkel,’ I tell her.

  ‘And Peter,’ she
adds provocatively. I don’t reply. It’s too painful to think about him. Our estrangement is an empty ache I carry around inside me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say at last. ‘For helping me decide. You are right: I do love it here. Perhaps I hadn’t fully realized it before, but Skagen is my home now. It really is.’ I pause a minute, thinking how true that is, and wondering why it took the chance to leave to make me understand it.

  Then I groan.

  ‘I won’t be able to learn any more painting.’ My heart plummets sickeningly as I realize this. I’ve given up so much in order to paint, and now I’m losing that too. I haven’t forgotten that I still have my pearls. But even if I buy the things I need for painting, who will teach me?

  I hug Hannah and hurry off to Madame’s room.

  I don’t find her at her dressing table as I expected, but sitting in a comfortable chair, reading, with an oil lamp on the small table beside her.

  ‘Ah, Marianne,’ she says, as I knock and come into the room. ‘I don’t need you to put me to bed tonight. I’m not at all sleepy. I’ll read for a while. But you look very tired; you should go to bed at once.’

  I’m not the least bit tired. I stare at her in surprise, then remember my manners and lower my eyes.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable reading in bed?’ I ask.

  ‘No, just go,’ she says. ‘Oh, and by the way, my husband wants a word with you. He’s downstairs in the sitting room.’

  I withdraw, wondering at her. She’s never put herself to bed before, nor expressed any interest in how I might be feeling.

  Monsieur is ensconced on a sofa, laying a game of patience. It’s late now; his companions have evidently gone to bed.

  ‘You’ve come to tell me that you’re coming with us, n’est ce pas?’ he asks quietly, as soon as I come into the room. I shake my head.

  ‘No, Monsieur,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve come to tell you that I’m sorry, but I can’t go with you. I don’t wish to leave Skagen. I belong here.’

  He looks surprised for a moment, but then he laughs softly and shrugs.