Painted with Love: Romance Eludes Time and Death

by Karen Diana Montee

  The moon was nearly full and disappeared for only short periods behind sparse clouds. “The moon’s bright enough. Please Jean-Paul, guide the way.”

  We walked to the edge of the terrace. “Be mindful of these stairs, allow me to assist you.” When my hand found his, tingling waves pulsed through my body. He held my hand gently and properly, without a full embrace, although it felt as if he held my whole body at once. A soft shudder gently shook my body. I hoped that he hadn’t detected it.

  After the last step, he let go of my hand and gently took ahold of my left elbow. “It’s this way, mademoiselle.” He spoke softly as he directed me across the grass to a set of steps leading up to the house. The soft moonlight cast deep shadows of dark, bottomless holes. His hand slid down my arm and found my fingers once again. He led me up the stairs and through a tall wooden door. We walked down a large unlit hallway. The mystery and excitement of tiptoeing through the darkness together was fun, like two lovers stealing time to be alone. We turned down a maze of corridors. I knew I would never find my way out without his assistance. When we arrived at a tall, carved panel door near the end of the hall, he graciously held the door open and allowed me to enter first. He lit several candles in the room. The room grew brighter while the surroundings emerged like children coming out of hiding.

  I looked. I studied. His work amazed me. Before me I witnessed magnificent art. His style was realistic with a strong talent for showing emotion. “Jean-Paul, your paintings are powerful and cause many emotions to stir.” I stood transfixed on one painting in particular. Softly I spoke, “This woman is full of sorrow. Her pain wrenches my heart enough to make me cry. It feels as if…I am looking at myself, although I can’t imagine why.” My breathing stopped as a cold chill froze me in place. The heart of this woman was breaking, without love to comfort her. Her suffering overcame me, as if her agony could steal my life. I tried to shake the feeling of dread that the painting stirred. I didn’t want to own this woman’s plight, although perhaps I already did.

  Fortunately, Jean-Paul’s other paintings didn’t pierce my heart as deeply as the first, even though they were inspiring expressions. I caught my breath and shook my head quickly. “Your work is impressive. Your passion is obvious, as well as your skill. Paris is where you belong, among the best artists in the world.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s not meant to be. I must serve my family.”

  “Forgive me for being direct Jean-Paul. Your uncle would seem to be doing well financially without your assistance. One can merely look around to see this. Why not live your dreams and make your life your own?”

  “Do not let your eyes deceive you. Jacques inherited this estate and it was in some disarray. He’s a generous man who helps his family in need. His wealth is certainly more than average, but not more, perhaps, than your own family, except for this grand estate given him by his deceased parents. He has done everything for me, provided me a family when I had none. How ungrateful I would be to let him down?”

  Jean-Paul paused in deep reflection. Then he spoke in a serious tone. “It’s because of Jacques that I paint. When I was a boy living with Jacques and Martine, I desperately missed my mother. I missed her tucking me in to bed at night. I longed for the look she gave me when I said something she didn’t quite understand; her inquisitive expression, with a slight tilt of her head and a bend in her brow. I pined for my mother’s warm touch and approval, especially went she cupped her hand over the back of my head to pet my hair. I craved her gentleness with me, her voice and her flowing hair.

  “I also missed walking to the market with Papa to get tobacco and wood. I missed watching him work in his shop creating enchanting things from wood with his tools. I wanted to be like my papa and craft toys magically.

  “My presence in her home reminded Aunt Martine of her deceased younger sister. She would tell me, ‘You’re a big boy. You must be strong and brave. You’re lucky to live through this plague. God saved you for a reason.’

  “I didn’t want to be big and I was certain that I wasn’t lucky. Aunt Martine would tell me, ‘Mummy and Papa are in Heaven with God. God needed them to go home and he needs you to be here with us. God asked me to take good care of you. I will do my very best.’ I began to resent God for having my parents when I did not.

  “Over time I forgot how my mother’s cooking smelled and the expressions she wore. I forgot what my father’s tools looked like and the wonderful things he crafted. I could not remember his shop.

  “One day I attempted to draw the pain that was taxing my heart. It felt good to release my ache. The next day I asked Jacques for paint. He traveled to Paris and bought me eight colors and several canvases. ‘Paint to your heart’s content my boy,’ he said with love. The best way to release the deep pain in my soul was to stroke the canvas with reds, grays, black, yellows and blues. I grew up mixing colors in an effort to capture my mother’s face, that I might see her again. Although I suffered sadness, I owe everything I have left to Jacques and Martine.”

  “Forgive me for meddling. Certainly I know nothing of what I speak. Yet I do know that your abilities with a brush are far beyond what an average artist can do. It would be a shame to not have Paris and all the world know of your skill.” I may have been selfish in my statements, as I was beginning to feel that Jean-Paul should stay in Paris for my own reasons

  “If it be God’s will my work shall grace the walls of museums.”

  “Well, then I pray that God loves your art. But if God doesn’t help you, then I will. I need just such a cause to help me forget my own…” I paused, wondering how that slipped out.

  “Yes. You were saying? Forget your own what?”

  I wasn’t sure if it was safe to share my passion with this man. But what did I have to lose? If sharing my dreams separated me from Jean-Paul, then it was meant to be. He smiled a soft grin at me as if we were sharing a secret just between us that could be communicated with our eyes and quiet lips. I decided to tell him what I’d shared with no one, except my mother. “My passion is dance Jean-Paul. I love ballet and have dreamed of performing.”

  “Really, ballet, what do you love about it?”

  His question was curious to me, but I felt that he was reading my excitement and wanted to hear more. “When I was a small girl my mother allowed me to take ballet classes. She thought it to be an excellent way to develop grace.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was five. Ballerinas were the most beautiful women that I’d ever seen. I wanted to be like them. I loved going to class. Dancing made me feel beautiful. When I moved my body in slow, graceful motions, I experienced a control that I didn’t have when I was with my mother. I entered my own world where I was my own master. Every twist of my hand or tilt of my head was calculated and controlled by my will. It empowered me.”

  “I see, and your family doesn’t support your dreams?”

  “Of course not. When I told my mother that I wanted to be on stage, she made me quit as soon as I said it. I was eleven. A lady of my upbringing would never dance, she told me. We are spectators, as my parents said. It’s beneath us to parade on stage to be seen in such a way and also be judged by our peers. My only choice was to fantasize.” Jean-Paul and I were quiet for a moment, staring off in the soft light of the candles. I finally broke the pensive silence. “I love art, freedom, and creativity. If we cannot express who we are, then we are inauthentic, and life is full of heartache.”

  “You make such an impression on me mademoiselle. Your devotion for art is inspiring. If there is a way in which you may assist me, then I shall certainly be happy to receive it.” We both smiled. Uncertain of how I could spread the knowledge of Jean-Paul’s considerable talent, I felt happy to be connected to him through my offer. “We should return to the terrace, so that our absence is not noticed,” Jean-Paul said.

  We made our way back through the maze of corridors and into the dark garden. Once again Jean-Paul politely assisted me up the steps. At the top step to the
terrace I thought there was one more and I raised my leg up to reach the non-existing step. We both laughed when my foot came down upon the flat surface next to my other foot. Our laughter was interrupted. “Cherie!” My mother’s voice cut the crisp air like a sharp knife. I swallowed hard, nearly choking on my laughter.

  “Hello Mother. Happy New Year,” I added with cheer.

  “Where did you go off to?”

  Jean-Paul and I were both silent for a long second. Then we both spoke at the same moment. I raised my voice above his, speaking clearly with confidence. “Mother, you know Monsieur Soule, nephew of Jacques and Martine. He’s familiar with astrology and we stepped off the terrace to see if we could find the constellation Aquarius. I apologize for our absence Mother. It was at my insistence, you can be certain.”

  “I have no doubt Cherie, regarding your insistence. Do you realize the inappropriateness of your absence? Andre’s grandparents have been asking to see you. I took them around the party and to the terrace in search of you. It is unseemly that you are alone in the darkness with a man. You embarrass me.”

  “You embarrass me at this moment Mother. Nothing untoward has taken place. Please tell Andre’s grandparents that I was in the washroom. There’s no need for alarm.”

  “You may tell them yourself Cherie. They are sitting on the other end of the terrace.” My mother walked across the terrace to a couple I’d not noticed. They were bundled together on a stone bench which had a soft cushion cover added for the evening’s events. “Monsieur and Madam Monet, please meet my daughter, Cherish Bourguignon.” I froze as the couple walked towards me, sober and quite formally. The older man bowed his head and said, “Mademoiselle.” I extended my right hand, palm down which he took in his hand and brought to his right cheek, not kissing my hand, but in a gesture of how a stranger greets a child or very young girl.

  “Monsieur,” I replied.

  I turned to look at the woman. She didn’t turn her face directly at me. Her chin was down. She glared at me with a frown through the top of her eyes. It seemed as though she could look right through me. Perhaps she could see my interest in Jean-Paul. Maybe she could see that I was a rebellious girl, unwilling to have the world constrain me through society’s conventions. If I couldn’t be free, then I may as well be dead. This woman seemed as if she knew all of that with her disapproving stare. “Madame,” I said as politely as possible. She nodded her head and softened her expression.

  I could not know what they had heard of our conversation, but had to assume they heard all of it. I tried not to care what they thought. It was not as though my small misbehavior was going to change anything. The fact was that my parents were determined to have me marry Andre.

  They shared this fateful plan with me when I was eleven years old. At that time, Andre was thirteen. He was changing into a young man. It seemed plausible that he could be my husband. If not Andre, my childhood playmate, then who would I marry, I wondered? The question of who I would marry seemed far more important, at that tender age, than if I would want to marry Andre one day. I’d not thought of what it would be like to kiss Andre, or sit at dinner with him night after night. For my young self it seemed like a simple answer to the perplexing question of my future. It was perfect that our parents were best friends and enjoyed dinners together. Our fathers both taught at the University. But as I approached adulthood, the idea had less and less appeal.

  Yes, Andre was my friend. But spending time with him didn’t feel exciting. Kissing him had no appeal to me. Each summer when he returned from the University, he had tried to meet his lips with mine. I would always turn my head and tell him that I wasn’t ready. The truth, however, was that I didn’t feel attracted to him. Then this last fall as he departed for another year at Aix-Marseille III, he insisted on a goodbye kiss. I didn’t see a way out of it and I was curious. I allowed Andre to draw me in and smother me with his mouth. I attempted my best effort at returned affection, my first ever. The feeling was best described like kissing my cousin, more inappropriate than exciting or lovely. Since that encounter, I dreaded the day that I would be wed to Andre. What seemed like a simple answer at age eleven, felt like being sent to prison at age eighteen.

  I told my mother that kissing Andre was like kissing a stone. She insisted that love was something that you decided to do and it grew overtime as two people took care of one another. That seemed boring to me. I wanted excitement, passion, desire. I could feel that there was more to love than finances and associations. My body told me that I wanted a man’s touch. I craved to close my eyes and allow a man’s lips to know every area of my body. I wanted to be vulnerable emotionally and naked before a man who desired me above all others, and not because his parents told him to do so.

  I needed to convince my mother to allow me to make my own choice for a husband. If I could not live my own life then life would be hell. My mother was stubborn and followed tradition. I was stubborn too, but we were opposites and we both knew it.

  Jean-Paul introduced himself to Andre’s grandparents and the tension in the air thickened. I wanted to run to away. My mother suggested that we all go inside, out of the chill. I requested that I remain outside, but she insisted with her lips firm against one another and her eyes as wide as an owl.

  A plan formed in my head. If I sat pouting in the corner for a while she may tire of watching me and leave me be for a spell. I excused myself to sit by the fire to warm up. She allowed me to sit alone, but she watched that Jean-Paul did not follow me. When she wasn’t looking, my eyes met Jean-Paul’s. I offered a soft smile and slight nod. The opportunity to speak again did not present itself until right before the fireworks. The house was a bustle of commotion as people gathered their fine coats to cover their exquisite apparel and skin against the cold and watch a tradition of Jacques’s and Martine’s. They always brought in the New Year with a blast of rockets and Roman candles. Jean-Paul walked up to me and said, “You have an adorable pout.”

  I looked back at him in shock, and then chuckled. He smiled that secret to me again, a grin that only I could see.

  “Jean-Paul, Jacques is waiting for your help with the fireworks. Hurry,” Martine said.

  The crowd was enthralled with the pyrotechnics. At midnight people shouted, kissed and clapped in appreciation. I thought the moment was spectacular. The only thing missing was Jean-Paul beside me.

  Jacques and Martine had a tradition of inviting guests to stay for the night and enjoy the sunrise rather than take the long ride back to Paris in the cold, dark night. My parents had prepared to stay the night and suddenly that seemed like a wonderful idea. I enjoyed the thought of seeing Jean-Paul the next day.

  As the guests made their way into the house to receive their assigned rooms or say their goodbyes, Jean-Paul walked towards me on the terrace. “Is your family staying until morning mademoiselle?”

  “We are.”

  “Very well, I bid you a good night’s rest.” He took my hand in his and gently held it under his lips. As he lowered our hands he softly folded mine around a note of paper and let go. Then he turned away. I realized the nature of the note was just between us. I was careful not to expose it to anyone. I went straight away to the washroom and held the note under the candlelight. It simply said, “If you would enjoy watching the sunrise from a particularly beautiful place in the gardens, then join me at 7:00 AM at the back entrance and I shall take you there. Sincerely, Jean-Paul.”

  I held the paper to my heart and smiled, not understanding the full meaning of my emotions. I hid the paper in my coat pocket for safe keeping to read again later. That night I struggled to fall asleep as I reviewed the night’s events in my mind. Finally I slept a dreamless night, smiling in anticipation of what tomorrow would bring.

  ***

  Chapter Three: A Sky Surprise

  Outside of Paris, New Year ’s Day 1899

  In the morning I awakened refreshed, but nervous. Upon lighting the bed lamp, the small clock on the wall announced it was six a
.m. There was plenty of time to freshen up and dress while I came up with a good story to tell mother. She would believe me if I told her that I had a headache and I needed some time alone to feel better. She would tell me to consume less wine and would leave me alone while she visited with the guests. I smiled, realizing I had a flawless plan.

  Mother visited with Martine in the kitchen. When I told mother and Martine that I was not feeling well and needed to be alone, Martine immediately wanted to nurse my aching head with teas and tinctures. “Quiet is what I need the most,” I reassured her. They both were convinced and they went on visiting.

  At seven o’clock I stepped out the back entrance of the chateau. Jean-Paul was already waiting. “Bonjour Mademoiselle, I pray you slept well.”

  “Apparently I did. I do not remember a thing.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Jean-Paul said sounding eager. My whole body tingled. I nearly held my breath. “Follow me.” Jean-Paul held a lantern in his right hand at chest level. With his left hand he took my fingers, as if we were dancing, and guided me through the grass. As we walked, the sky began to reveal the horizon with a faint blue-glowing outline. After we walked a few minutes, Jean-Paul stopped and gently took my arm. “There’s a log here,” he said guiding my arm and shining the lantern at the tree trunk. I examined the log with my hand for a safe place to sit and noticed it was smoothed on top by someone’s handy work. I wondered if Jean-Paul had crafted the bench.

  Jean-Paul sat next to me. Looking straight ahead, he spoke quietly. “The only person I have ever brought here to watch the sunrise is Jacques.” He paused but I didn’t say anything. “Thank you for coming this morning.”

  “Thank you for the invitation.”

  We sat quietly for a moment. Then Jean-Paul asked, “What do you plan to do about Andre?”