To Capture What We Cannot Keep

by Beatrice Colin

  “What luck,” William Arrol had said at the interview. “I have been looking for a woman of exactly your quality.”

  He went on to tell her that he’d discounted a dozen women already for reasons he would not go into. But then he leaned forward and began to laugh.

  “Between you and me, one of them was so old,” he said, “that she needed a companion of her own just to get up the stairs. Another, too young. She looked as if she was out to snatch any eligible man for herself. But you, you’re a mature woman. You dress well. You’re educated, refined, and you have a reliable manner. Mrs. Wallace, you’re the perfect lady’s chaperone.”

  He sat back, pleased with his appraisal. Cait did her best to hide the effect of his words.

  “Before I agree to anything,” she said, “I’d need to know what the job involves.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Arrol. “I’m jumping ahead of myself. You’d be a lady’s chaperone to my niece and, to a lesser extent, my nephew, for six months. They’re going on the Grand Tour, as I believe it’s known, to absorb the culture of the Continent and complete their education. I would pay all expenses and offer a generous stipend. If that sounds acceptable, then the position’s yours.”

  Alice and Jamie Arrol arrived at the station fifteen minutes late, in a fluster of umbrellas and excuses, accompanied by four men carrying two huge trunks. Most of their friends had come along to see them off. As the porter installed them in their carriage, the guard gave all three a good talking-to. He wouldn’t wait, not even for the likes of them. Then, as the train finally pulled out of the station, Alice had opened the window, waved goodbye to the crowd, and cried a little.

  “I’ll find her a rich husband,” Jamie called out. “A German baron or an Italian prince.”

  “What you need is a wife,” someone called out. “To take you in hand.”

  Even as the train began to gather speed, Cait still thought there was time to change her mind. She stared out of the window as they sped south and, just for a fraction of a second, caught a glance of her flat, its windows black and empty. It was then she realized there was absolutely nothing to go home for.

  The London train was busy, but as they sat in the first-class restaurant, she was the only one who steamed gently as her clothes dried. In Dover, waiting for the boat, the sun came out. She hadn’t packed a parasol and so she let the autumn sun warm her face. Behind her were eight years of rain.

  The steamboat was about to depart, the gangplank raised and ropes stowed. A carriage drew to a stop on the road and three young men and three young women clambered out. A couple of them ran down to the pontoon and begged the captain to wait for them.

  “Why can’t they catch the next one?” Alice said.

  “Maybe they’re trying to escape from the asylum?” Jamie whispered.

  The captain waited; the boat wasn’t full. The gangplank was lowered again and the group came aboard lugging baskets and bottles, blankets and pillows. The men wore colored shirts and bright silk waistcoats under their coats. One of them carried a small wooden guitar. The women wore tea gowns in pale blue, dusty pink, and deep red velvet. One carried a bouquet of flowers.

  “I don’t think they’re lunatics,” Alice whispered. “They look like artists.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?” asked Jamie.

  “I think it’s a wedding party,” said Cait.

  Alice peered through the window and watched as they set everything down on the benches outside. And then she sat back and looked disappointed.

  “Why aren’t we sitting outside?” she said.

  “Because you didn’t want to,” Jamie replied. “Remember?”

  “Why did you listen to me? You never usually listen to me!”

  Jamie caught Cait’s eye and sighed. His sister, his face seemed to say, was impossible.

  They had been in Paris for a month, staying in a small suite in the Hôtel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli. If it had been up to their uncle, they would have found cheaper lodgings. He wouldn’t discover until later, however, when he received the bill in the post. But what would William Arrol know? Alice had insisted that they had to mix with the right sort of people, and he was clearly the wrong sort.

  The son of a spinner, William Arrol had started work at nine and studied­ mechanics and hydraulics at night school. By the time he was thirty, he was running a successful engineering business, the Dalmarnock Iron Works. The firm had won contracts for dozens of projects, including the Bothwell Viaduct and the Caledonian Railway Bridge, and made him a small fortune. When his own wife, Elizabeth, failed to produce any heirs, he turned all his attention to his widower brother’s children, Alice and Jamie. His nephew, he hoped, would eventually take over the business, while his niece, with his financial support, would make a decent marriage. His money was new, but his values were resolutely conservative.

  With the steam up, the paddles spinning, and the funnel puffing smoke, the boat moved out into the middle of the river and began to head down­stream. They chugged under bridges, along the edge of open fields, and past the dripping brick walls of factories. Sometimes they stopped to let more passengers on and others off, but never for more than a few moments. As they approached the center of Paris the river’s edge became built up with ware­houses. The city relied on its waterways, and the barges they passed carried everything from flowers to cattle, fresh fish to coal.

  The Seine divided around the Île de la Cité, and the narrow channels be­came congested as they passed Notre-Dame. At the Hôtel de Ville, half a dozen barges were unloading and the air was sweet and tart with the smell of apples. On the deck one of the artists picked up his guitar and started to pluck it. The woman in red velvet, the bride, Cait guessed, laid her head in the lap of a young man with a pale beard and stared up at the stone spans of the Pont Neuf. Another man poured a bottle of red wine into six glasses and broke a baguette.

  “À votre santé!” he called out to his friends, to the other passengers, to the people who peered down at them from the bridge above. “Bonne chance!”

  A little farther on, they passed the Louvre in silence. Alice had refused to go inside; she had balked at the suggestion of any more Grand Masters or ancient Egyptians. Surely, she had insisted, the Uffizi in Florence had been enough art. The steamboat moved on, stopping at the Jardin des Tuileries and then, on other side, the lavish Hôtel des Invalides.

  “It looks bigger from the river,” said Alice. “What’s inside it again?”

  “The tomb of Napoleon,” said Jamie. “I think we should visit it.”

  “Haven’t we seen plenty of dead people already?” Alice asked. “How long did we spend in Père-Lachaise Cemetery? Hours and hours.”

  “Not long enough,” said Jamie. “It’s only out of consideration to you that we’re not visiting the catacombs.”

  “What on earth is interesting about a pile of bones?”

  “If you would take a look, maybe you’d find out,” he replied.

  Jamie glared at his sister. He had become increasingly less diplomatic as the trip progressed. Alice, no matter how sweet, had never been reasonable.

  At the Champ de Mars, piles of earth were heaped along the quayside. Several horses and carts were carrying away loads of rubble. A dozen men were digging with spades. The sound of hammering echoed across the water.

  “What have they done?” Alice lamented.

  “It’s the tower,” said Jamie. “They’ve started on the foundations.”

  At the far side of the site, Cait could make out a couple of men taking notes. She wondered if one of them was Émile Nouguier.

  “I’m going out,” said Alice. “For a breath of air. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

  She glanced around to see if either Jamie or Cait would challenge her.

  “Go on, then,” said Jamie. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

  Cait suddenly felt sorry for him, stuck with two women in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

  “You don’t have to st
ay with us all the time,” she said. “Why don’t you get off at the next stop? We could meet you for dinner at the hotel later.”

  Jamie stood up, the tension in his face immediately lifting.

  “Now, there’s an idea,” he said. “I would rather like to see the Titians in the Louvre before we leave. And do you think I should call on my engineering friend? He might consider me rather remiss if I don’t. Now, where’s the card he gave me?”

  He pulled it out of his waistcoat pocket.

  “ ‘Émile Nouguier,’ ” he read out, his accent poor.

  Cait felt a flush of heat in her face as she corrected his pronunciation.

  “You’ll have to send a note first,” she said. “You can’t just turn up unexpectedly.”

  Jamie turned and stared at her. “You think I should just forget it, don’t you?”

  The boat bobbed on the swell; they were simply passing through the city, tourists ticking off the sights one by one, nothing else. She should stop wanting more, stop craving the unattainable, especially with her history. But then again, what did it matter? They were going home in a couple of days. There was nothing at stake, nothing at risk.

  “On the contrary. I’m sure Alice would like to go too,” she said. “If you arranged it.”

  “Alice?” Jamie repeated with a frown. And then he smiled. “I’m sure she could feign an interest in engineering for a little while at least. Good thinking! I’ll ask him if he can receive all three of us.”

  The boat was pulling in to moor at the Trocadéro.

  “Go on, then,” she said. “If you’re going.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wallace,” he said as he placed his hat back on his head. “And would you tell my sister that I’ll see her at dinner?”

  “In due course. Right now I think she is somewhat occupied.”

  They both looked out the window. Alice was clutching the boat’s railing. But her eyes weren’t on the view. Instead she watched, with a mixture of horror and delight, as one of the women, still with a glass of red wine in one hand, pulled up her skirts to reveal purple bloomers and danced alone on the deck.

  4

  ____

  “THAT’S GEORGES SEURAT,” Gabrielle whispered to Émile. A tall, thin man with a high forehead and pointed beard stood in the corner. “And those are his paintings.”

  They were landscapes, mostly, hung from floor to ceiling among hundreds of other canvases. The one nearest was called Le Pont de Courbevoie. Émile stepped a little closer. It was made up of tiny dots of paint; what looked like purple from a distance was in fact bright red beside pale blue. Elsewhere, Seurat had used light beside dark and warm colors beside cold.

  “I know where this is,” he said. “It’s the north side of the island, La Grande Jatte. Didn’t he paint the island before? What’s the work called?”

  “A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte?” said Gabrielle. “You’ve seen it? Isn’t it terrible? The people look like dolls. Did you hear about what happened when he exhibited it in Brussels last month? There was an outrage!”

  She was whispering; the gallery was crowded. Everyone wanted to see what the fuss was about and now they peered at Seurat’s work, some blinking rapidly, as if the bright colors and the vibrant tones were too much for their eyes.

  “I doubt he’ll ever sell the thing,” Gabrielle went on. “It’s huge too. Such a waste of time!” She looked up and Seurat caught her eye. She gave him a small bow of her head.

  “That’s him, you say?” said Émile.

  “Please don’t speak to him. You’ll be stuck for hours while he goes on and on about science and harmony and all these theories he’s dreamed up with his friend Paul Signac, who, incidentally, is even worse.”

  “Maybe I should buy it?”

  Gabrielle looked genuinely shocked.

  “La Grande Jatte? Have you lost your mind? It would be a criminal waste of money, money you’d never get back. Besides, what would you do with it?”

  “I’d hang it in my apartment,” he said.

  “But Émile! You’d never get it through the door!”

  She laughed, her head tossed back to reveal her throat. It wasn’t just for his benefit. As well as the general public, the gallery was full of artists and dealers—the former in clothes of unusual colors, with large mustaches or the brown-weathered skin of a long stay somewhere hot; the latter in sober, expensive suits with pocket watches. This was the opening of the third exhibition of the Société des Artistes Indépendants. Unlike the official salon, the Société had no rigid selection policy or jury and was open to any artist as long as he or she paid a small fee. By coming to the opening of the exhibition, everyone wanted to be noticed, to be acknowledged, to be appreciated. And yet, to what end?

  “Nobody’s selling anything anymore,” Gabrielle whispered a little later. “It’s not like the old days. And those hideous paintings by Seurat. I’m sure they put people off.”

  The show was being held in the cavernous Pavillon de la Ville de Paris on the Champs-Élysées. Two stories high with a ceiling of glass, the Pavillon had been built for the World’s Fair in 1879. Now the colonnaded foyer was used for exhibiting sculpture while thousands of paintings had been hung in the galleries. The private view wasn’t particularly busy, and yet still hundreds of people swarmed up the stairs and along the balconies to cram into the galleries, most of them looking for artists they’d read about in the news­paper.

  “Look at that,” said a young woman in English. “If I half close my eyes—”

  For an instant, Émile thought the voice sounded familiar and turned. It was a girl and her elderly mother, a pair he didn’t recognize, who started when he looked at them as if he had just asked for spare change.

  “Pardon,” he said in French.

  That morning he’d received a letter from the young man he had met in the balloon, requesting a tour of the workshop. It wasn’t unthinkable, he told himself, that they would come to the private view. They might even be here, in another gallery, at this very moment. And he suddenly remembered the chill of the air, a hand on his sleeve, the taste of smoke on his lips.

  “Who on earth gave her a ticket?” Gabrielle said.

  A large woman had appeared at the door of the gallery, unaccompanied and a little out of breath. She wore a pink ruffled evening gown with a huge bustle, in a style that was long out of fashion. A velvet ribbon was tied around her neck and her ample cleavage was decorated with artificial flowers. Even in the pale light that filtered through the blinds that covered every window, it was impossible not to notice the splatter of something dark across the hem of her skirt—wine perhaps, or mud. Émile felt a pang of sympathy for her. He wondered if she’d noticed. She would most likely notice later, when it was too late, and would feel the slow seep of shame spread across her body like the stain.

  “The Folies-Bergère is on the rue Richer,” someone whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The woman jutted out her well-padded chin. She had no time for these people, her face seemed to say; she had other business to attend to. Her eyes ran over the crowd several times before they fell on Seurat. And then she adjusted her bodice, pulled back her shoulders, walked right over, and kissed him full on the lips. The room inhaled as one, a mass suction of indignation and barely disguised horror.

  “His mistress,” Gabrielle mouthed. “Aren’t they both perfectly awful? Let’s go.”

  Gabrielle took his arm and they wandered on through other rooms, rooms hung with hundreds and hundreds of paintings.

  “So much mediocrity,” she said. “Everyone thinks they can be an artist now. And the thing is, they can’t.”

  “And where are you?” he asked. “I’d like to see the paintings of you.”

  Gabrielle turned and gazed up at him. In the half-light, her skin was pale, her bottom lip a deep, dark red.

  “In the next room,” she said, her large eyes blinking with concern. “But please? Don’t—”

  “Don’
t?”

  She didn’t reply. Instead she glanced away toward a door that opened onto the balcony above the main foyer. And then with a handful of skirt in her hand, she turned and sailed toward it. Don’t. The word echoed in his head. Don’t make a scene? Don’t fall in love with her? He wasn’t sure he could even if he wanted to.

  That evening, Gabrielle wore an off-the-shoulder dress. Her hair was pulled into a swirl on the top of her head. Her shoulders were narrow, her waist even more so. Earlier, he had wanted to reach out and place both hands on those slender hips, their line drawn by thin bones of steel inside her corset, and pull her to him. As if she could feel his eyes on her, Gabrielle had turned. But instead of catching his eye, she had looked beyond. He glanced around. An elderly well-dressed gentleman with a monocle was staring in her direction. Gabrielle’s mouth was slightly open and a tiny smile had formed on her lips.

  “Monsieur Nouguier,” called a voice. “Thank you for coming. My wife assured me you would.”

  A man was limping toward him with his hand outstretched. Émile felt a wash of guilt; so this was Gabrielle’s husband.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Émile replied.

  “Come,” the painter said, “come and see my new work. It is the best, I think, the best I have ever done.”

  Gabrielle’s husband was nothing like he had imagined. Although his accent was middle-class, the painter looked unkempt, poor, ill. He smelled of raw garlic and pigskin leather, of stale wine and smoke. As Émile fol­lowed him through the crowd, he noticed that one of his legs was wasted. His collar was frayed and the heels of his boots worn down. What misfortunes had befallen the artist aside from polio? And how could he bear to share his beautiful wife with anyone?

  “The light is better in this room,” the painter said. “It faces north.”