“St. Nicholas is early with his gift.”
“Yes, he knows you will need it before Christmas. Here we are.”
In the meadow stands a small house built to look like the castle, with yellow walls, a red tile roof, and many tall windows.
“It is lovely, but I do not understand.”
“This is your studio, Matilda. Here you will paint animals so that all can see what fine creatures they are.”
I am speechless for a moment. “I cannot express my thanks for such a gift, St. Nicholas.”
Of course I want to begin working right away, now that I have a fine new studio in a clearing where morning light pours through the windows of the eastern wall and afternoon light through the windows of the western wall. Earl Miklos insists that I take another day or two to renew my strength, though, and he is right, I do need a rest.
It has taken courage to work in the dirty streets of Cairo in the glaring sun. Flies swarmed over the subjects until I hired a local man to beat them off so that I could get at least an occasional glimpse of the animals’ natural lines. In spite of all obstacles, the year in Cairo was very productive. I painted for dear life, not knowing when I would be able to return, and I finished four paintings, two of which have already sold. I think I will keep Woman Driving Her Sheep. I was able to capture the stunning light for that one, not only the radiance infusing the blue of the sky, but the light as it is cast on the old stucco walls. It is the uniqueness of the light that keeps drawing me back to Egypt and Africa, and I want to be able to look at it often when I am elsewhere.
It seems that I am always on my way elsewhere, which is exhilarating, and exactly what I want, but at times exhausting. I had just returned here to rest after the year of vigorous work in Egypt when Earl Miklos introduced me to the duke and duchess of Portland. They admired my paintings of the earl’s dogs, and commissioned me to paint their famous horses. They were eager to have me start, so within a short week, I was on my way to Welbeck Castle in Nottingham.
This was my first visit to England, and I found the architecture majestic, though the weather was quite cold and damp. I chose to sketch outside in the pasture so that the horses could have freedom of movement. I needed to see their muscles in motion, and observe the particular character of each animal, which would not be possible in the confines of a stable. The price of authenticity in this case was a head cold that kept me in bed for several days, but it was worth the discomfort. I did indeed capture the nature of each of the horses, St. Simon and Donovan, and spent the following winter months happily transferring my good sketches to the canvas in a snug drawing room where a fire was kept burning. I am pleased with both paintings.
Now, after a brief return to Egypt, I am commissioned to paint Earl Esterházy’s horses, a prospect I am looking forward to. To paint such a noble beast as a horse, to concentrate on the intelligent face, to spend time getting to know him uplifts my spirits. Horses make good company. I am considering the fact that it is mid-autumn, though, and I will take care to wear warm clothing while I sketch.
Last evening, Count Ferenc Blaskovits came to dinner at the earl’s palace, and we had much to discuss. He has been painting in Morocco, and his Danza des Dervisci has been very well reviewed. We talked about the quality of the African light as well as the plague of the flies. He was amused that I actually hired someone to drive them from my subjects, and we found many other common experiences to compare.
Since we last met two years ago, Count Blaskovits has become ever more committed to realism and he complimented me on my success in portraying truth in nature. He actually said “portraying absolute truth in nature,” which I had to deny, since who could do that? For nearly forty years, I have been trying with all my capacity simply to see absolute truth. To portray it would have to be a divine act, not a human one. Count Blaskovits and I share a common aesthetic, but I see that he is much more idealistic than I am, speaking and painting more expansively, more sweepingly.
Count Blaskovits has invited the earl and his entire party to his family’s Budapest home next weekend. He will escort us to the opera to see Puccini’s La Boheme. I have accepted with pleasure, but I am now faced with the task of dressing myself appropriately. The past years of sketching in pastures and city streets have hardly required me to have formal attire at hand. There is no time to have a gown made, but Princess Margit has most graciously loaned me a crimson gown of silk brocade with very simple lines, exactly to my taste, as well as satin slippers and a necklace with many strands of pearls. She is kind enough to say that the ensemble complements my dark hair and eyes, and suits me perfectly.
*****
OCTOBER 28, 1897
(THE NEXT WEEK)
Budapest, Hungary
My visit to the Hungarian Royal Opera House in Budapest on the arm of Count Ferenc Blaskovits is the stuff of fairy tales. We are conveyed down the glittering streets of the fine old city in a carriage and four. The opera house, with its marble pillars and frescoed, gilded arches, could be an art museum. Count Blaskovits does not leave my side, unless to bring me a glass of champagne, or to find one of his friends to introduce me. We enter our box, and the view could not be better. The opera is mesmerizing, but almost too much for my senses to take in all at once—orchestra, voice, choreography, sets, and costumes. When intermission arrives, I am giddy and a bit relieved, but nonetheless I am eager for the second act to begin.
Count Blaskovits does not attempt to converse during the performance, and I am grateful to be left to lose myself in so much beauty. It seems that this is something else that we have in common. As we ride home, he sits across from me, leaning forward.
“Mademoiselle Lotz, what are your thoughts about the opera?”
“Oh, so many thoughts. This is only the second opera I have attended, and The Magic Flute, which I saw in Paris, was so different from La Boheme that I cannot compare very well. I can say that I have enjoyed the evening very much. The singing was wonderful, and I would like to have a whole day to study the frescos in the entry of the opera house.”
“So you shall. I will escort you there tomorrow after lunch. Would you like that?”
“Indeed I would, but I would not like to take you away from your other guests.”
“The duke and familie will attend Masse with me, and I am happy if you join us. We will all eat together, and après le déjeuner they wish to ride. They will not miss us.” His smile is sweet, and a little shy. “Mais dis moi, what you think of the story?”
“The story of the opera? I think it is a canvas, if you will, for the composer’s music and the splendid costumes. It is a simple story. It brings to mind happy Christmas Eves I have known, and tragedies I have known. But it is too simple to make me think. Life does not happen so simply.”
“For example?”
“Rodolfo and Mimi touch hands for an instant and are suddenly in love. How can they be? They do not know each other.”
“Ah, you are not a romantic then?”
“No, I am not. I have seen too much evil and known too much sorrow to be a romantic. Rodolfo and Mimi like each other, of course—they are both young and attractive—but this is not love. And Mimi’s death is not romantic—it is tragic. Do you not think those four romantic young men could have done something months earlier to get her medicine, when they learned she had tuberculosis, instead of waiting until she is dying?”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Mademoiselle Lotz, vous êtes complètement original. You are the most interesting woman.”
When I was a young girl, I read and reread the story of Cinderella, but not for the reasons one might think. I was not particularly interested in the romance with the prince, or in the magic worked by the fairy godmother to turn mice into horses and a pumpkin into a carriage. The descriptions of Cinderella’s exquisite gowns and the splendid palace were engaging but only to a certain extent. My true fascination was with the fact that the fairy godmother and the prince recognize Cinderella for the person she has a
lways been within herself, even though no one else does. When they see her, Cinderella becomes herself in the world. This is something I have always hoped for. It seems that it is something most people want very much, even if they are unaware of it.
Count Ferenc Blaskovits has recognized me tonight, and he has discovered in me a friend.
*****
APRIL 1900
(TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER)
On the Nile River, Egypt
I am sailing down the Nile on a river barge with a comfortable cabin to sleep in and a shaded deck on its top for viewing the scenery. In the mornings and evenings, cool breezes blow off the river as we sail past lush greenery, colorful historic buildings, and distant barren mountains. Yesterday evening, crocodiles approached the boat and leapt from the water, which was interesting as long as they were far below us.
During the heat of the day, I sleep, and I am surprised that hours of daytime sleep do not disturb my ability to sleep at night. I am afraid that I am dangerously exhausted. My health has been failing and the doctor has ordered complete rest. It is much needed. Egypt is where I prefer to paint and the work I have done here has been very well received, but the climate has not been kind to me. One would think that the heat would be good for my lungs, but they have become steadily weaker. The doctor believes that this is from a combination of humidity from the Mediterranean Sea and the Saharan dust, which is carried into the city in windstorms, settling on furniture and evidently invading my lungs. I have to admit that I have been working too hard for more than two years, and this has weakened my constitution. It seems that the more I work, the more I want to work, so I drive myself without diversion, and too often without rest.
It was a saving grace when my friend Ferenc Blaskovits came to Cairo to paint last year. We saw each other often, visiting one another’s studios to see the latest work, walking and talking in the cool of the evening. In some ways, to be with Ferenc is like painting—the more I see him, the more I want to see him.
Sitting on the observation deck now, I sketch the palm trees along the bank. From time to time, I make a study of a camel or go so far as to paint a landscape, but not with the earnestness and effort I would ordinarily give. If I am to recover sufficiently to work again, I must follow the doctor’s prescription and do very little until I have healed.
*****
SEPTEMBER 1900
(FIVE MONTHS LATER)
The Imperial Palace, Vienna, Austria
My hope to begin working again soon has been fulfilled to an overwhelming degree. I am greatly honored to be painting several portraits for His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty Franz Joseph, Emperor of Austria, King of Hungary.
I could not sleep last night, knowing that I was to be presented to him today. Earl Miklos Esterházy has accompanied me, since it was he who first showed his majesty my paintings and secured the commission. We have driven here in the earl’s carriage and stayed last night at his Vienna house. If he were my own father, he could not be kinder to me and I am very grateful. At the moment, I am also very fearful.
Our carriage stops before the imperial palace with its white stone glistening in the morning sun. A fine bronze statue of horse and rider presides over the courtyard. We are escorted down one very long corridor and then another, and at last seated in a waiting room decorated in greens and gold. As we wait, a terrible thought occurs to me.
“I have not practiced what I will say! How do I address the emperor?”
“You will speak French, I think, will you not? The emperor does not speak English.”
“Yes, French. My German is only that of a child.”
“In this case you will address him as Votre Majesté Impériale.”
“Votre Majesté Impériale. Votre Majesté Impériale. Votre Majesté Impériale.”
Earl Esterházy laughs heartily as I practice. “The emperor is very gracious, Matilda. You do not need to be afraid.”
I am not convinced. “Do I curtsey? A full court curtsey?”
“If you wish, but he understands that you are American. Besides, he will be as charmed as I am with Mademoiselle Matilda Lotz.”
A servant opens the door and speaks in Hungarian, presumably announcing the emperor. Through the door steps a man who looks more like a grandfather than an emperor—quite elderly though with an erect posture, great huge white moustaches, and quick eyes that seem to be smiling. He is dressed in military uniform with a row of medals pinned across his breast.
Earl Esterházy, who is the emperor’s second in command, makes a low bow, so I execute a full court curtsey to the best of my ability.
“Salutations, Mlle. Lotz. Vous allez peindre mes chevaux, non?” the Emperor greets me, asking whether I will be painting his horses.
“Oui, Votre Majesté Impériale, avec plaisir,” I answer, confirming that I will be happy to do so.
“Bon.”
The emperor tells me that I will be escorted when I am ready, and that I should ask his servants for whatever I need. The stables? I want to paint the horses where they can move and reveal their natures, but my limited French will not be able to convey this well in so formal a situation. Happily, my patron and friend the earl has seen my dismay and guessed the reason. He knows well that whenever possible I paint animals in the open, and he knows why. He speaks at length with the emperor in Hungarian.
His imperial majesty turns to me, and to my great surprise, he smiles broadly. Now he truly resembles a kindly grandfather. “Peinture où vous choisissez, mademoiselle. J’avance de très beaux portraits,” telling me that I may paint wherever I choose, and that he anticipates some very fine portraits.
I return his smile sincerely, and curtsey again.
The three horses are the most magnificent I have seen. They are all Arabian, with the finest skeletal structure and eyes full of intelligence. Of the two stallions, one is jet black with a fiery nature, rearing and prancing the entire time I sketched him, and the other is a shade of brown that is very red in tone and has a calmer temperament. The mare is white with a flowing mane, and almost ethereal. Horses such as she no doubt inspired the tales of unicorns.
During the first week that I am sketching the horses, my friend Ferenc Blaskovits arrives at the earl’s home to tell me that he has come to Vienna with the express purpose of escorting me to the opera at the Wiener Staatsoper, the Vienna State Opera, which is said to be the finest in the world. He has secured season tickets to Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen, The Ring of the Nibelung—actually a series of four operas. I am delighted, but not entirely surprised. This time I have come prepared with evening attire.
“I think you will find that this story is not simple, Matilda,” he tells me with a smile that brings interesting creases to the tanned skin at the corners of his eyes.
*****
DECEMBER 10, 1900
(THREE MONTHS LATER)
Vienna, Austria
“Brunhilde is the hero, of course, not Siegfried,” Ferenc says, as we take our seats in the restaurant after the performance of the fourth and final opera in the series.
“It is interesting that you call her a hero,” I say. “Most people would use the word ‘heroine’ because she is a woman, but her heroism is of a different sort than that of most women. She is a warrior, and she dies for her cause. But Siegfried is a hero, too. The victory belongs to both of them together.”
“They have a great love. The tragedy is not that they die, but that the poison makes them to forget their love. Do you understand?”
“I do. Your English is getting better than my French, to my disgrace. Hagen give them the cursed potion because of the lust for power and wealth that begins the whole problem of the ring in the first place. Everyone suffers from it, especially the two who are trying to overcome it.”
“Love ends the curse. Brunhilde remembers that she loves Siegfried.”
“I am not sure that is the point. When she rides into the flames of his funeral pyre, the world is saved from the evil of th
e ring. Brunhilde begins as a warrior goddess who does not need a man, and she ends the same way, regardless of her love for Siegfried.”
Ferenc sighs and the waiter approaches our table.
*****
APRIL 1905
(FOUR AND A HALF YEARS LATER)
Paris, France
Ferenc has come to Paris to paint this spring. We share a love for this majestic city, where artists from all over the world congregate, and for the quaint villages and picturesque countryside surrounding it. Often we ride out into the country to sketch, he the landscape and I whatever animals the day presents me—cows and sheep mainly, but also the occasional fox or horses. When we return, tired and hungry, we eat at a café and walk for hours along the Seine or up and down the hilly streets of Montmartre, talking of our work and our families.
It is a great pleasure to share my work in this way again. I had not thought it would be possible to have such a friend, not since Rosa died. Besides, Rosa’s and mine was a different type of friendship—that of a mature woman and a young and inexperienced one, of a great painter and an aspiring student. No matter how much I learned and grew, Rosa was always far above me. Ferenc and I stand eye to eye as painters, sharing the adventure of our creative lives as my brother Paul and I have done for so long, but Paul is a continent away and Ferenc, I am glad to say, is here.
*****
NOVEMBER 11, 1905
(SIX MONTHS LATER)
9 Rue Campagne Premier
My dear papa is gone. I have expected the news for a long while, so the quality of my grief is not a sharp pain, but a deep aching, an absence.
Papa’s strength and vigor have been fading gradually since long before Mama became ill, and especially in the seven years since her death. This is not surprising, since they were as truly one as any couple I have known. In fact, I had expected him to die much sooner after she did. He has had a long life—eighty-five years—and a wonderfully creative one, not only in the beauty of his woodcraft, but in the fineness and integrity of his relationships with everyone, especially his children. My main regret, as with Mama’s passing, is that it has been so many years since we have seen each other. For so long now we have lived in different realms, on different continents, and rather than continuing to know each other, we have become idealized images for each other—I do not think it possible to be otherwise during so long a separation. I do not say that this is bad or good, but it is not relationship really, though I know our love for each other has never diminished. Now we are separated by a greater distance in realms yet more distinct, but every time I pick up a pencil to sketch or a brush to paint, Papa will be with me.
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