“How do you rate him as an artist?” Hadley asked.
“You know what they say of him? He is the great eye. He may not think as much as some artists, but he sees, perhaps more than any man living.”
And then it was time to see the master himself.
Marie noticed his clothes first. Though it was quite a warm day, Monet was wearing a three-piece suit, the long jacket fastened by a single button over the chest, the other buttons left open, so that the jacket fell comfortably loose. He sported a folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket. But she knew enough to see at once that the coat was made of the finest cloth and had been made by a first-rate tailor.
His hair was cut short, and brushed forward. He had a full, rich beard. His face was large-featured and strong, the eyes luminous, but powerful. Had she met him in the garden of the family house at Fontainebleau, she might have taken him for the owner of an industrial enterprise, or possibly a general.
His wife, a stately, matronly woman, seemed to be of a similar type.
He welcomed them to his domain, addressing himself especially to Aunt Éloïse.
“I was so delighted, madame, to receive the letter of Durand-Ruel, which gave me and my wife the opportunity to welcome you to our house after all these years.”
He suggested that they might like to visit the garden first, and speak in the studio afterward. And putting on a large, broad-rimmed straw hat, he led them outside.
The main building was a long, low farmhouse with green shutters, set close to the lane, its walls pleasantly covered with flowering plants and creepers. On the garden side of the house, in the center, stood a pair of yew trees, between which a broad path led down through the garden.
But there all resemblance with any garden Marie had seen before came to an end.
The garden was not a wilderness. Far from it. For a start, everything was divided into carefully planted flower beds, though they were placed so close together that one could hardly walk between them. There were fruit trees and climbing roses. But having placed them, Monet left the plants to develop a life of their own. The result was a richness and profusion that was astonishing.
“I plant for color,” he explained. “I have daffodils and tulips, hollyhocks and daisies, and poppies. Sunflowers. All kinds of annuals. In late summer the nasturtiums appear and cover the path. And then friends bring me all kinds of things, rare plants from all over the world, and I find a place for them all.”
This rich riot of color filled over two acres.
“I should have brought my mother,” Marie exclaimed.
“Bring her another time,” he said kindly.
If she ever took him up on the offer, Marie thought, she’d better find some quite amazing and exotic plant to bring.
They wandered about very contentedly, chatting about the garden.
“I paint plants,” he remarked genially to Marc and Hadley. “I sell the paintings, and with the money I buy more plants. It’s a harmless kind of lunacy, I suppose.” He turned to Aunt Éloïse. “Would you like to see my pond?”
“By all means.”
For this it was necessary to leave the garden by a small gate at the bottom that gave onto a little local railway line.
“There’s no station here,” he explained, “but once in a while a train comes by, so we take care as we cross the tracks.” And he gave Aunt Éloïse his arm.
Once across the tracks they entered another enclosure, entirely different from the first.
“We rented the house for years before I was able to buy it,” Monet explained. “Then, five or six years ago, I was able to buy this plot across the tracks, where there was a small stream, and this enabled me to create a pond. And here,” he said proudly, “is the result.”
If the main garden was a paradise of plants, this new domain was like a dream.
Willows and delicate bushes fringed the pond. Water lilies floated upon its surface. And at a certain narrow point, a local craftsman had constructed a curved, wooden Japanese bridge over the water. Up by the house, one looked at flowers. Here one looked at lilies floating in a watery world, and at the reflection of branches, leaves, flowers and the sky and clouds above, in the soft, liquid mirror of the pond. They walked onto the bridge and gazed down, in silence.
“We started the pond in ’93,” Monet said. “But one has to wait for things to grow. Nature teaches us patience. I didn’t start to paint a thing down here until ’97.”
“I think it could become an obsession,” said Marc.
“I have always painted light striking objects—a building, a field, a haystack. This is different. The color is different. And you are right. Water draws one in. It’s very primitive. Mysterious. I think I shall be painting these lilies for the rest of my life.”
They walked slowly back. As they came to the railway line, Monet again offered Aunt Éloïse his arm. And following suit, Hadley offered his arm to Marie, who took it. And as she did so, never having touched him before, she felt something suddenly run through her so that she involuntarily trembled.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m just afraid of trains. I used to have dreams of getting stuck on a train track when I was a little girl.” What was this nonsense she was talking? Did she sound like an idiot?
He took her arm firmly.
“It was grizzly bears for me.” He grinned. “No trains coming. Tell me if you see a bear.”
Safely across the tracks, he let go of her arm, and she gave a little gasp.
“You’re that relieved?” he said in a friendly voice. “We’d better keep you off the tracks.”
As they made their way back through the garden, she felt the sun beating upon her head.
Monet’s house had two studios. The first had formerly been a small barn, and he showed them some work there, including one of the Japanese bridges he was working on. The second studio was larger. In here, he turned to Marc and remarked: “You were saying that the pond could become an obsession. I will confess that recently I have been haunted by a dream for a huge project. It would be a huge room, circular, with enormous panels of lilies, floating in the water, and a hint of cloud perhaps. One would be completely surrounded by this great essay in blue light. I say blue, but of course I mean a thousand colors, mixing and reacting like the plants in the garden. For when colors interact, they create new colors, that one has never seen, or known that one has seen with the eye before.”
“Such an obsession would be a life’s work, monsieur,” said Marc appreciatively.
Monet nodded. Then he glanced at Marie. By chance, she was standing beside Hadley at that moment. His eyes took them both in.
“So, this handsome American gentleman is your fiancé?” he asked.
“My …?” She was completely taken off guard. She had not been prepared. She felt the deep blush coming into her face and it was no good, there was nothing she could do to stop it. “No, monsieur,” she stuttered.
“Ah,” said Monet.
“I’ve no such luck, monsieur,” said Hadley cheerfully, and glanced at Marie in a friendly way. But she could not look at him.
Then Aunt Éloïse said something to Monet, and he answered her, and the conversation moved on, and nobody seemed to notice her anymore, for which she was grateful.
A few minutes later, it was time to leave. As they were moving toward the doorway, Hadley turned to Marie and remarked quietly, “I hope Monet didn’t embarrass you by thinking we were engaged.”
“No,” she said. “It was nothing.” And she wanted so much to say something else. Something to make him think of her. “I’m sure you’ve got prettier ladies to consider,” perhaps. Something. Anything. But she could not.
As they waited on the platform for the train at Vernon, Marc and Hadley were deep in conversation, while Aunt Éloïse and Marie quietly chatted.
“I think that was a very successful visit,” said Aunt Éloïse.
“Yes. Monsieur Monet was really glad to see you. And I
think he was glad to show off his garden.”
“It’s a marvel,” said Aunt Éloïse. “A marvel.”
When the train came they all got in. Soon they were clattering back toward Paris.
“Well,” said Marc, “Hadley and I have come to a decision.”
“And what is that?” asked his aunt.
“I’d thought of spending time down in Fontainebleau during the summer, but”—he gave his aunt a look—“that may not be possible just at the moment. So Hadley and I are going to take lodgings up at Giverny for the summer. We shall paint up there.” He smiled. “We’ll see you all at summer’s end.”
“Oh,” said Marie.
There was an ancient peace at Fontainebleau. The Royal Château and its quiet park were older by far than Versailles. The place had first been used by King Philip Augustus, back in the twelfth century. But the main inspiration for the present palace came from the French Renaissance, in the time of François I and Leonardo da Vinci. And though Napoléon had used it as his personal Versailles, old Fontainebleau, with its shaded alleys, and huge forest nearby, retained a settled, quiet air that the stark magnificence of Louis XIV’s huge palace entirely lacked.
As for the town, it was quiet, and conservative, and full of cousins.
It was a pity, Marie thought wryly, that none of her cousins was the right age. Then she could just have married one of them and everyone would have been happy.
“At least when you marry a cousin,” one of them had truly remarked, “you know what you’re getting.”
So she walked the puppy, and visited her cousins, and took riding lessons because she might as well improve her skills. “In case another aristocrat comes along,” she told her mother with a smile.
But she did not find much peace.
Where was he? At Giverny. What was he doing? Painting out of doors, sketching, eating and drinking with the other artists there.
Was he still speaking French? Or was he relapsing into English with the American colony in the village? Was he with a woman? Had he met a charming American girl, an artist perhaps, from a good family like his own? Would Marc write and mention casually that his friend was engaged?
She imagined him, in this situation and that. Her imaginings did not fade away. They grew stronger, worse, as the days went past.
And she had no one to share her troubles with. She could not tell her parents. She loved her cousins, but none of them was a confidant. She was a little afraid even to tell her aunt Éloïse. And the one person she might have confided in, Marc, was Hadley’s friend, so that was impossible. As the days of July went by, apart from her physical and social activities, she read, or pretended to read, and took up desultory needlework, and tried many times, with indifferent success, to sketch the puppy playing in the garden.
Her brother Gérard came down with his family twice to stay the weekend. Her father had left the business largely in his care for the summer, and he would come down and sit with his father on the big veranda, and give him reports that were generally satisfactory. Once Gérard had taken her aside.
He knew she didn’t like him. But he was trying to be nice. She understood this. He was doing his best. But his best wasn’t very good.
“I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with de Cygne,” he remarked.
“They never really started,” she said.
“I know. All the same, that would have been something …”
“He might have turned out to be a bad character.”
He shrugged.
“We’re going to look out for someone. We have more friends than you think. God knows, you’re pretty, and you’re going to have an excellent dowry. Really excellent. It’s amazing that you’re not married already, but you’re an excellent catch.”
“That’s a comfort.”
“But you’ve got to look out for a husband, Marie. Do you know what I mean? It’s not about waiting for a knight in shining armor. It’s about seeing what’s out there, and making some choices. One’s just got to be practical.”
“And that’s it?”
“It is.” He smiled encouragingly. “That’s the wonderful thing. It’s all quite simple. Well, it is if you’ve got money.”
“Is that what your wife did?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’re both happy?”
“Yes. We’re very happy.” He gave her a look that was surprisingly full of affection. “Totally happy.”
And she realized that he was.
“Thank you,” she said.
She was relieved when her father invited Fox down for a weekend. At least he didn’t talk to her about marriage. As always, he was easy company. And he liked the family house.
The Blanchard house at Fontainebleau was typical of its kind. In structure, it was a smaller and provincial version of an aristocratic mansion. One entered from the quiet street through a pair of high iron gates into a cobbled courtyard with a pavilion wing on each side and the main house in the center. The main entrance was up a broad flight of steps, the house being raised over extensive cellars. Above this was a floor of bedrooms, with attics above that. The salon, on the left of the front door, was large and extended all the way through, giving onto a broad veranda which ran the length of the central house and overlooked the gardens.
Seen from the garden, when the family gathered on the veranda, it looked exactly like a picture by Manet.
If the big salon, with its classical, First Empire furniture, had a Roman simplicity and repose, the garden had a character of which both Marie’s parents were proud.
“Why,” Fox exclaimed when he saw it, “you have an English garden.”
It was very long and divided into two parts. Close to the house, it was laid out with gravel paths, a small ornamental pond and fountain, flower beds of lavender, roses and other plantings, and a lawn. After fifty yards, a high, neatly clipped hedge formed a screen, with a wicket gate in the middle, through which one passed into an orchard. At the far end of the orchard, behind other screens, was a garden shed and compost heaps.
“My wife is in charge of the plants, and I am in charge of the lawn and the orchard,” Jules explained. “Do you approve?”
“I certainly do,” said Fox. “I could almost be in England.”
“Almost?” Jules nodded. “My lawn isn’t quite right. It’s mown, but I have had difficulty in obtaining a roller. An English lawn would be rolled. How long does it take then, to get a truly English lawn?”
Fox looked at the two Blanchards, then at Marie, and gave a broad smile.
“Centuries,” he said.
They took him around the old château and walked in the forest and had a delightful weekend. And perhaps because he was not a threat to her emotional life, and because he was so clearly a nice man, Marie felt more contented during his stay than she had for some time, and was sorry to see him depart.
Later in July, Aunt Éloïse came down for a few days. She enjoyed that. While she was there, a letter came from Marc. He and Hadley were getting along famously. They were both very productive, he reported. And the company was excellent.
What did he mean by that? Who was Hadley seeing? She could only wonder.
“Do you think we should pay them a visit?” she asked Aunt Éloïse.
“It means going to Paris first and then up to Normandy.”
“That’s not so far.”
“I’ll think about it. Perhaps I can arrange for you to see Marc without going to Normandy,” she said. But this was not quite what Marie wanted to hear.
In the month of August, all the inhabitants of Paris who were able to do so deserted the city. Jules announced that he would spend the entire month at Fontainebleau.
It was a week into August when he informed them that Fox was coming by.
“He wanted to stop on his way down to Burgundy. Naturally I said he’s welcome.”
They were all glad to see him, but the manner of his arrival took them by surprise. For instead of a cab from the st
ation, it was a cart that trundled through the iron gates into the courtyard. While the driver and his assistant went to the back of the cart, Fox got down looking pleased with himself.
“Are your bags so heavy?” Jules inquired.
“Not exactly. I have something for you.”
And then, down a ramp from the back of the cart, manhandled with some difficulty by the driver and his mate, there came a garden roller.
“Mon Dieu!” cried Jules. “I can’t believe it. Look at this,” he cried to Marie and her mother. “Mon cher ami, where the devil did you get it?”
“From England of course. I had it shipped.”
Marie laughed out loud. One had to love him.
And he insisted on giving them a demonstration of how to use it.
“If you do it right,” he explained, “it’s wonderful for strengthening all your muscles and stretching the back.”
It was half an hour later, entering the empty salon while Fox and her father were on the veranda, that Marie heard a few words of conversation that she did not understand.
“Everything is fine. Our young friend will soon be installed in London. As for the banker and his wife, they are delighted. Their daughter is a lucky girl.”
“Should I meet them? I feel I should like to.”
“I strongly advise against it.”
“You’re right. I am very grateful to you.”
“Our firm is there to provide service to all our clients. But I think the business has gone well.” He paused. “I must catch a train shortly. May I have the pleasure of calling in on you on my return? I shall want to inspect the lawn.”
“We look forward to it.”
After he had gone, Marie asked her father if Fox had also come to transact business.
“Yes. A piece of English business I had, as it happens. He’s a good man.” He didn’t elaborate further, and she didn’t ask.
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