I make my way through the crowd milling on the lawn and up the steps to the entrance, sure that I must be the last exhibitor to arrive. The lobby is dark and sober but a ray of sunlight rushes in after me. I feel a lump form at the back of my throat as I walk through the majestic Salon exhibition that has been hung for two weeks and is now quiet and sombre; through brown and beige marble rooms with highly polished, pink granite columns inset with gold leaf, and a glass roof through which the light falls benignly onto the grateful canvases that cover the walls. Paintings of shipwrecks in thunderstruck seas; swirling grey skies that meet frothing white waves. Paintings of fables in forests, where cherubs fly and nymphs lie naked under the spell of the devil’s agent, half man and half goat. A shaft of light is God’s kiss upon the scene. Paintings like parables crafted to precision and framed to the fussy prescription of The Académie des Beaux-Arts, works by Ingres, Corot and Rousseau all hang here. And, finally I see it, the doorway and the turnstile that allows patrons to enter ‘The Emperor’s Salon.’
It is much darker in here, and immediately on entering my sight is obscured but I can see we are many, making history, at the first ever Salon des Refusés on varnishing day. I estimate there are over two hundred of us perpetuating an air of expectancy in these grand palatial halls. The catalogue has listed 781 exhibits but already I can see that there are many more. Shoes clack on flagstones. Voices reverberate from the stone walls. Lamplights and chandeliers in every hall throw a measure of imperfect light around. Each painting has entered into a lottery of where they would be hung. An artist has to be lucky that his work is at a good height for the onlooker and that the lighting around his picture does not cast it in shadow, or the canvas deflect a beam.
The section where Camille exhibits half a dozen paintings is immersed in the warmth of sunny-yellow and apple-green farmlands where workers toil in simple clothing. In contrast to the rooms I have just walked through, these paintings are softer, less exacting and full of love.
Père Tanguy is talking to Paul Durand-Ruel. They make an unlikely pair, Pére in his navy blue worker’s uniform and Paul formally attired in a black frock coat, but they are drawn together by their communal appreciation of art and their equally strong passion for pipe tobacco.
‘Ah, Doctor Gachet,’ says Durand-Ruel. ‘I have standing next to me the real star of the show.’
A frame can determine how a painting falls upon the retina and many in this room are Pères handiwork. Endless criticism from his wife, no doubt, over the months of sleepless nights, shaping wood with a scalpel, his paintbrush stained in gilt. He draws proudly on his clay pipe.
‘And which ones will you take in to sell?’ he asks Durand-Ruel, as if his reward is simply knowing this piece of insider information.
The conversation makes my alter ego, Paul van Ryssel, feel more like a commodity than one of the cogs that make a magical event like this one come to be. I move on to find my painting above that of an artist I have never heard of before. Durand-Ruel walks up behind me. ‘You’ve been “skyed”,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I reply. The light falls on my work plainly and if you look up, you can only see the texture of the canvas and black outlines – a style that until recently I thought quite odd and have now embraced. In the brochure it says ‘Le Haute-Seine’, by Paul van Ryssel, but at this angle it is ‘Le Haute-Rien.’
There are at least a dozen Paul Cézannes crowding out my work. His exhibits are vivid countryside landscapes. His reds are compelling. His yellows and greens are cooling flames. I remind myself that this is just a hobby for me. It is not my main profession. But it could have been, should have been. Forget it, it is not. I’m uprooted, all over the place, without the safety of home. I need to get some air.
‘Painting and homeopathy mixed with your passion is a blessing. You have more than most. The combination will reward you with great joy,’ Clemens once said. I can’t even complain. It is not as if he never mentioned frustration and disappointment, he did, constantly. ‘Everything costs in this life. The only thing you have to decide is whether you are willing to pay the price.’
My footsteps echo in my ears. Once outside, I pull my cap from my head, push it into my jacket pocket, run down the stone steps and start to walk briskly. The road is full of carriages. Coachmen are arguing as they try to manoeuvre their vehicles to and from a space where their passengers can alight. Reined-in horses attempt to trot in distress amidst the chaos. They remind me of Bella the day she was arrested. There is a long queue, ten deep, snaking its way from as far as the Champs Elysees. There must be thousands of patrons waiting for the exhibition to open.
‘I’m expecting a chamber of horrors,’ one man says loudly, above chatter that sends a loud clamour up to the sky. At the back of the building I am thankfully alone. I place my back and one foot against the wall. My father was right to insist that I took on another career besides painting. I am not as insightful or as colourful as Camille and Edouard and even they find it hard to make a living. But I can’t help wondering if I devoted all my time to artistry whether it could have ever be something more than just a balm for my wounded soul.
The clip-clop of horses and indistinct voices waft over to me, and with them a feeling of hopelessness like a premonition that I know only too well. Tears stab. I squat and allow myself to cry. Looking up at the clouds that mock and jeer, and swallows in perfect ‘V’ trailing across the sky. ‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I let loose the curse-word to blow on a wind that slaps me around the ears.
Shunted through the crowd, I show my exhibitor’s pass to the attendant. The Salon is opening to the public now. A huge throng force their way forward to either side of me. In high, contemptuous spirit and a jaunty walk, they enter. In crinoline, frilled parasols, top hats, tailcoats, crystal tipped canes, they enter, the lay critics, the sharks. I am a fish pulled along by a wave through the foyer and the antechambers of the Salon with its forsaken art, through the turnstile to our exhibition. Past Degas, Renoirs, Pissaros and Monets. Past Cézannes, Fantin-Latours and one small, skyed, van Ryssel, through a gothic archway, to a room where an enormous painting occupies the length and breadth of the wall in front of me. Frosted windows in the panelled walls above encourage the light to hold it perfectly. It is a masterpiece. Foliage in velvetine dark greens, porcelain skin for a naked Victorine. She sits challenging me, the observer, with her expression. Chin cupped in hand, her brown eyes say, ‘So, Doctor Gachet, Paul, what do you really think?’
Gustave and Eugène Manet are clothed to either side of her, one in a brown serge jacket and the other in an ebony coat. The perspectives are not quite accurate but its message is plain truth with a clarity that is powerful and completely modern. In the foreground a basket has tumbled over and with it go its contents, a baguette and fruit. A young woman in the background wades in a pool. She wears petticoats and her hair is unruly. I get close to the painting thinking it is Bella. Only when I am upon it can I see that it is not.
I sense someone watching me. Prising my eyes away, I look behind to see Edouard standing in the corner by the door like a guard. He leans on his walking stick and appears to be oblivious to the scene. Elbows dig into him as people propel themselves forwards. Then I notice one of Victorine’s paintings: a dark portrait of a very young girl, defiant as a street urchin, in traditional style except for the subject matter. It has a very good, eye-level place on the wall, in this, the largest of the halls.
I catch a glimpse of Victorine talking to Emile Zola. She has her hand on his forearm and he laughs at what she has just said. Taking his arm they both turn towards me, not looking at me, but past me to the Masterpiece. Then I notice that everyone is focused on Dejeuner sur l’Herbe.
‘Outrageous,’ someone screams.
Cackles of laughter peel all around
‘What a disgrace,’ the man immediately in front of me calls out. The person next to him says, ‘I can’t believe Napoleon has allowed such pornography to be let loose in here.’
/> ‘And I’ve come here with my wife,’ another yells back.
A pregnant woman faints. Surely from the hot and stuffy overcrowded room? Three men ceremoniously carry her out. Several ladies dab their yes with handkerchiefs and sob theatrically. There are others, of the gentler sex, led to the exits by their escorts.
‘Excuse me, this is no place for my daughter,’ a man addresses me. The crowd, like the red sea, parts. The man and his daughter walk through. I can stand it no longer and follow in his tracks.
A whole gang of artists is already outside. Camille is there, so is Edouard, Paul, Victorine, Claude and Henri.
‘Edouard, they scorn you but they’re not artists, what do they know?’ Camille says.
Edouard stands in front of everyone with aqueous eyes. He leans on his cane with both hands. ‘I’m not like the rest of you,’ he says. ‘Painting has nothing to do with politics, and everything to do with being an artist accepted by the establishment. Today is a very big blow,’ he says, walking off, the tails of his caramel frock coat flapping. The rest of us are silent. The bells of Notre Dame chime midday. Victorine chases after Edouard, the clack-clack of her heels moving into the distance.
‘Friends are important. He makes it more difficult for himself, running away like that,’ Camille says, to no one in particular. ‘Ah, well … .’
We disband.
On my way down the steps Paul slaps my back
‘It’s only the first day. Perhaps it will go better tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘There is always hope.’
Bird with a Broken Wing
May 18th
‘Don’t be afraid in nature; one must be bold, at the risk of having been deceived and making mistakes.’
Camille Pissarro
I sit with hope in my consulting room chair, listening to my own quiet breath making the morning’s din seem all the more disturbing. It’s ironic. Even if I were a professional painter I would still be getting critically stoned for my beliefs. Maybe I am just an inherent revolutionary. What a crazy revelation to have about oneself.
There’s a knock at the door. I move towards the sound and lift the latch. The chain jams the door.
‘Yes?’ I ask.
‘It’s me, Nurse Morrisot.’
‘Please come in.’
I release the chain and Nurse Morrisot’s face shatters any hope. ‘Doctor Gachet, Bella Laffaire is a lot worse. For the last few hours she’s been demonic. She’s pulled ancient texts down from the library shelves and stamped them to dust. She’s thrown books at lamps, smashing glass shades, and started fights with other patients. The nurses cannot contain her. Her bite is rabid. Please, you have to come.’
I put on my coat and follow her to a waiting hansom. During the journey rain splatters against the windows. We remain silent, only the leather squeaks beneath us. I wonder what this little episode means for the future of homeopathy and I worry that I have let down this noble system of medicine with my mistake. When we arrive, I delve into my pocket for money to pay the driver.
‘The hospital has given me sous,’ Nurse Morrisot says.
I walk off swiftly through the rain. A matron and her gaggle of nurses meet me at the door. Doctor Ipsen comes hurriedly towards us. His face is a screwed up rag.
‘Good evening,’ I say.
He looks straight through me and as he leaves he slams the street door. The sound echoes whilst I follow my entourage down a marble staircase to the basement where the smell of boiled cabbage gives way to excrement. I resist the desire to cover my nose. Bella lies on a straw bed in her cell. She has been bound and gagged. As soon as I walk in, her eyes plead with mine. Nurse Morrisot has caught up with us and stands next to me. She lowers and shakes her head. But to untie Bella now would only reignite the bedlam that occurred before I arrived. For the life of me I do not know what to do for her homeopathically.
‘Higher dose of laudanum?’ Marguerite Bottard asks.
I hesitate, then decide. ‘No, she is safe for tonight. I will be back again first thing tomorrow morning.’
Lost
May 18th, evening
‘It would be very unjust to object to a busy physician, because he, as a recuperation from his toilsome day's work, in the evening may drink a glass of wine in company with his friends.’
Clemens von Boenninghausen, Lesser Writings
I go to the Bade and sit at the bar. As usual, it is heated and crowded. Blanche drinks at a table in the corner with two of Charles’s cronies. I don’t catch her looking towards me but no doubt she has seen me poking my nose into my glass. After my second vin rouge, I decide that she is obviously ignoring me. With alcohol warming my gut I stroll along the busy, balmy boulevard to the Guerbois.
Everyone who has ever attended sessions at Père Suisse is there, or so it seems. Another smoky, hot atmosphere, but at least in this place tonight, I have friends. Camille waves me over. He is with Julie, and their closest friends Piette and Adèle de Montfoucault. I wave at the quartet, mouth ‘later’, and walk on. I’m looking for Georges. Partisans circulate. Waitresses tiptoe with trays in the air. There is a man with an accordion making his way from table to table. Edouard, accompanied by his mother and two brothers, occupy a table in the corner. He is hunched over eating a bowl of soup. Eugenie Manet sits proudly upright as her two other sons look from one to the other.
I crane my head. Victorine is over on the other side of the room, sitting with a group of people I’ve never seen before. I see Georges beside a table positioned next to a wall. He is with Ernest Hoschedés. The two men look like penguins. They have their chairs turned outwards towards the room. They drink coffee and smoke cigars. I push and shove towards them, excusing myself along the way.
‘Georges, I’m so pleased I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you all day.’
He crosses his legs and inspects his cigar.
‘Look, I’m really sorry about last week. I wish I could offer you a good excuse. I know it’s unforgivable and I feel terrible but the truth is that I forgot,’ I say bending down and whispering in his ear so he can hear me.
‘I’m upset with you Paul. We were conducting a proving, a scientific experiment of your own making. The remedy evoked symptoms that were uncomfortable. I didn’t want to participate but you cajoled me into it and for what? The greater good of mankind? For nothing, because you didn’t turn up.’
‘It’s not like me. It must be a proving symptom of Phosphorus.’
‘Look at you, your shirttails are sticking out and you have madness in your eyes,’ he says, waving me away with a flick of his hand. I stand up straight and am pushed back by the mâitre d’.
‘Excuse me Monsieur,’ he says, bringing a group of new people through to be seated. Georges turns his chair around to face his table. He motions Ernest Hoschedés to do the same. A waitress walks in front of me with her tray held high, ‘Excuse me Monsieur, are you waiting for a table?’
‘No. No thank you,’ I reply, backing away.
In an alcove, there is a strange party going on. A dozen people sit in a line across four tables with their backs to the wall, men and women dressed in expensive clothes that would once have been considered the height of fashion. Their outfits are worn out and faded now, ghostly reminders of a time when their lives were richer, with responsibilities and relationships. Now, they are sorrowful and unseeing. They live only in some dreamlike internal world. I shudder. I’ve seen it at the hospital, the accidents, the loss of reason, and a future that is doomed by the wormwood in the glass in front of them. The craving for absinthe becomes everything. It is also Edouard’s tipple. He calls it his muse.
‘Monsieur, perhaps you would like to sit at the bar?’ the same waitress asks as she moves back through to the kitchen. ‘I think it is your friend, yes, who is waving at you?’
I look in the direction she is pointing. Armand Guillamin sits alone on a stool by the counter. I have met him many times before at Père Suisse. Like me, he has a day job.
He works on the railway, I think. It would be good to talk to him. I make my way over to the bar.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asks, draining his glass.
‘Not for me, I’ve got problems at work. I have to keep a clear head.’
‘No my man, you’ve got that wrong, you have to be inspired. We’ll have two more absinthes,’ he says to the barman.
I look at the green slime in the glass for quite a while. Armand is already intoxicated. You can see it by the vacancy in his eyes. He’s talking but I don’t hear him, I’m thinking of Blanche and wondering what the hell is going on. I have fallen for her but our relationship is so strange. I think of Bella and my stomach tugs downwards. I will have to be very present first thing tomorrow. I need to find her a better remedy. I twirl the glass in front of me. The alcohol has legs and slips down the glass like a woman getting into bed.
‘I never worry about problems on the railway,’ Armand tells me. ‘Painting is everything; the railway is just a job.’
I look up at him and try to smile.
‘Come on my man, I’ve bought you a drink, let’s drink,’ Armande raises his.
In the glass is a river to drown in, some fairytale land. What is it that Edouard once said? ‘It opens the mind. Some of my best visions come from absinthe.’
Was he talking about ‘Dejeuner’? Because if he was talking about Dejeuner, it isn’t just a vision, it is the work of a genius. I’m going to need to find my genius in the hospital tomorrow morning. Like all men who feel doomed I grab at straws.
‘A santé,’ I say, lifting mine.
Blanche’s loving eyes, hardened. Ipsen’s supercilious snarl. Bella’s warrior expression as she attacks me. Victorine’s amusement. Edouard’s nearly tears. My face in the glass behind the bottles. Thin lips downturned in misery. Elbows on the counter. Head cupped in hands. Blue eyes never bluer. One more Absinthe.
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