The Fountain of St. James Court; Or, Portrait of the Artist as an Old Woman

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  I answered, “To both. We restrain the expression of our impulses in public, but inwardly we leap for joy, just as these buttresses leap from earth to support the structure.” He told me I spoke truly, for myself, but he was one who preferred to spring forward joyfully, in public or closeted.

  My mind jumps forward to New Year’s and how he loved to kiss the ladies, but with that thought comes a revelation I would not have had as an innocent child. I think that probably my papa was not faithful to my mother. Not that she ever complained or criticized—not by the slightest glance.

  Unrestrained by the fact that we are seated in church, I reach across and hug Maman’s shoulders against my own body. My tears well up. I think it unfair that my beloved mother should not have been treated with utter loyalty, and my own appreciation of her swells. I think of the devotional light in M. Le Brun’s eyes, and their soft fondness for me.

  At that moment, the organist announces that he will perform the J. S. Bach Toccata and Fugue. From the instant of commencing, the opening figures pierce me with their power and urgency. I almost want to cry out! And then they are repeated in a lower, more earthy register, and then still lower, as the chord begins to build itself into a tower of sound, more magnificent than any I have ever heard. Then all this power dissolves into airy puffs of short phrases.

  Like filigree, the toccata makes my skin feel titillated, as though touched by the lightness of a wispy web. If I feel teased by the toccata, then I am fulfilled by the ramifications of the fugue. Never have I experienced more glory: more complexity, more subtlety, more relentless grandeur. Not in music nor in the visual arts.

  As the music engulfs and tumbles us, one by one members of the audience began to rise in reverence, and as they stand their eyes fill with tears. My mother and I turn to each other, seeing one another through glazed eyes and sharing our souls. Almost by their own volition, our bodies rise, and we join the others to stand and lift our faces. It is as though we are stretching upward like plants, and when we cannot grow taller, our gaze continues upward into the vaulted ceiling of Saint Eustache. Our gratitude makes it difficult to breathe, for we know the extremity of our privilege in hearing this music.

  When it is over, we sink back into our chairs, exhausted. I slide to my knees and pray, giving thanks to God for his gifts.

  EVEN THE NEXT DAY, I feel made of different stuff. I am almost too exhausted and too exhilarated even to paint. My hand trembles when I pick up the brush, for I feel unworthy. The music of Corelli once entered my spirit in a way that made me spin; his variations on a theme titled “La Folia” has this wild and insistent power, but the Bach seems to contain the breath of God, not some human frenzy. I think of the word ecstasy, and I think I must have experienced a moment akin to that of Saint Teresa of Avila.

  Because I am restless and frayed, I ask my mother to walk with me in the gardens of the Palais-Royal. I think the large, generous trees will refresh me. She sees my state, and despite the unusualness of walking so soon after lunch, she violates my stepfather’s expected routine to walk with me. In private, we talk of the music; we try to find a language adequate to its genius.

  She understands, for something of the rapture continues in her as well. To fail to find adequate language frustrates me. I think of the word ravishing, but I keep it to myself, as a secret. While I am not bold enough to utter it, I believe it is the most accurate term for that music. Obliquely, my mother mentions the Bernini sculpture of Saint Teresa, in Rome. My eyes shift from the grand trunks and their shaggy canopies to the smaller trees of the garden, pruned and stately in the manner of Le Nôtre. Geometric. In them, nature has submitted to order. I wonder if the huge old trees are Gothic, and these carefully controlled ones classical. I begin to feel more steady, and more like myself. Maman advises me to take a small nap when we return to our apartment, and I am glad to accept her advice.

  AFTER I HAVE NAPPED for nearly three hours, I sit up and rub my eyes as though I have awakened to a new world. I look about me at my mother’s room, at her dressing gown on the bed, and feel the proximity of my stepfather and how we are confined always by his sensibility. But I feel better. The nap has refreshed and quieted me.

  It is time for a light supper, and we have eels, which I especially enjoy. My stepfather is quieter, and he even makes an effort to be friendly. My mother seems happy, too, and is attentive to me in ways that only she knows, with special warm glances. We are enjoying a crème brûlée when my stepfather clears his throat and says, “What is your disposition, daughter Élisabeth, toward the art dealer, M. Le Brun?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  My mother replies, “Late this afternoon, while you were resting, he has asked permission to marry you.”

  “I’ve scarcely thought of it.” I am amazed, and I see the calm happiness begin to drain from their faces.

  “But you and I have spoken of the possibility,” my mother says, very gently.

  “He seems well off,” my stepfather interjects. “According to your mother, he has a worthy stock of fine paintings.”

  “It seems to me,” I venture, “that they do not sell very rapidly.”

  “Perhaps if he had a wife, heh, who herself is an artist, he would be connected to the arty part of society, heh?” my stepfather asks, rather gruffly. “Have you had other offers?”

  “I am so involved with painting,” I answer truthfully, “I have had no time to think of marriage.”

  “There’s no need to decide at table,” my mother says. “I mentioned to him that no answer would come till morning. But I would agree he seems well off, with his fine rugs and furniture.”

  When my stepfather says, “I leave it to you two, entirely,” I am surprised and pleased. “It will be a loss to the family for you to marry. Remember that. But I don’t stand in your way, since your mother seems to wish it.”

  “Really,” she extends her hand to me, “I wish only for your happiness. I have never seen any ill temper in the man. He is convivial, like—like your brother.”

  “I am glad to have some time,” I answer.

  AFTER SUPPER, I ANNOUNCE that I will sit up and read by the fire. Rather tactfully, my mother retires to our bedroom and my stepfather goes to his, to leave me alone with my thoughts. “Wood is nearly as dear as silver,” he says. “Please be sparing, heh-heh?” I settle myself by the fire as though to read Racine’s Andromaque. My mother brings me a woolen wrap from the bedroom so that I might not grow cold as the fire burns down.

  As I look at the orange-red embers, they seem almost like fruit to me. I wish to bite them, though reality is a sure restraint on that impulse. But I see in their glow a metaphor for my heart, for my inward life. I am very happy.

  I feel that I could fan that ember within myself forever. That it would never cease to glow as long as I live, if I can paint. If I can hear music, either heavy with meaning or frothily delightful, like court music. If I have my mother and brother to love me, and interesting acquaintances who encourage and support me. Who appreciate my talent.

  And does not M. Le Brun appreciate my talent? Does he not value it and me, in several ways? I could have a studio for my work, adjacent to my own bedroom. I almost smell the turpentine. I envision a stack of linen canvases, on stretchers, blank, and waiting to be sized. I could have a bedroom with its own grate.

  And what of marriage? I stir in my chair, for I can feel that my body stirs toward that idea. It is natural. I feel no shame. Since the Garden of Eden, desire has been part of the human lot. And childbirth. I do not fear childbirth. It too is the lot of womankind. My mother is happy in her motherhood, and I feel I would be as well. It would take its place beside my work.

  And M. Le Brun, in particular? Perhaps if I had paid more attention to those young aristocrats who tried to divert my eye, I would have found someone more enticing. I like their gracefulness. But I am a commoner. My mother has never encouraged an ambition to marry out of my class. My talent alone admits me to their chambers. And wo
uld continue to do so, I believe, if I married M. Le Brun. Or at least to admit the notables to my own salon.

  He wishes to marry me. He has chosen me. He is a charming man, vivacious, and in possession of a certain family pride, through Charles Le Brun. And I do not enjoy living under my stepfather’s roof.

  The small log breaks apart. Fire drops like liquid into the ashes. Despite the frugality of my stepfather, I rise and add another piece of wood. I think of the valuable carved and gilded wooden frames that enhance the paintings. I particularly like the Spanish dentate molding. Again, it makes me want to bite, and I smile at this strange response, associated, I suppose, with appetite. I know that I do have an appetite for love.

  It is that exuberant, leaping part of me. But would not marriage provide its own restraints and limitations? I cannot doubt that. But I know that I flare within. I flare for my work, and nothing can prevent that. M. Le Brun has no wish—I am sure of it—to divert me from painting.

  Yet I am uncertain.

  WHEN MORNING COMES, I see that I have fallen asleep in the chair, as though I could make the night of my indecision last forever, and my mother is gently shaking my shoulder. She whispers my name and asks me if I have decided.

  I come to my senses slowly. My eye falls on the ashes in the grate, a lovely silvery gray, before my thinking comes into focus. She is speaking to me.

  “My daughter, few people are ever entirely certain about marriage. It is natural to hesitate. But beauty does not last forever. You tax your beauty like no young woman I have known. Not even servants work so hard as you. Hour after hour, you toil without relaxation—”

  “Art is not work, Maman,” I interrupt. “Not in that sense. Not to me. It is my privilege. It is the natural desire of the talent with which I was born. Since I was a little girl, at the Convent . . .” Suddenly I see the sad but encouraging eyes of Jeanette, my friend, age twelve to my six, age seventeen to my eleven. I think that she would not have chosen the celibate life, had she a choice. She would not have chosen the restraint of being a nun. Did she not make of me something of her own child?

  “To marry is itself just as natural as talent,” my mother is saying. “I would not see you deprive yourself of the womanness that has given me great joy.”

  “And sorrow, too?” I hold her gaze.

  She looks away from me. I know she will find a way to tell the truth.

  She says, “In my children, I have found nothing but joy.”

  “And you think it best, and it would give you peace, should I accept the offer of M. Le Brun?”

  “I think his devotion, his worship at the altar of art, and his genuine admiration for you, both your talent and your person, your spirit, bode well. I think that should you ask time for more consideration it would quell some of his ardor.”

  “And what of ardor, Maman?”

  “I think we, male and female, find our own ardor. I cannot answer for you. I would advise any bride to go to her bed with happy anticipation.”

  “But ardor? The word has a Latin root. It means to burn.” I stop speaking to feel what is within myself. Desire flames through me. I cannot deny it. “I burn,” I confide.

  “Then we will give M. Le Brun good news?”

  I try to say yes, but my tongue is reluctant. I nod my head in acquiescence.

  AFTER WE COMPLETE OUR PETIT DÉJEUNER, after we have spoken enthusiastically about my future, about how close I will yet be to my family, after we have speculated about the creation of my salon, after we have summoned M. Le Brun and my stepfather has given our answer, with a certain air of style and pride, to my suitor, I smile at M. Le Brun, and a wave of happiness illumes my face. I feel quite warm.

  The man falls to his knees and a thousand thanks tumble from his lips. Though it is morning, he enthusiastically calls for wine, and we all have a small glass and toast the event to come. He sits with us and eats fruit tarts with great relish, even a bit messily, and he leaps up to embrace my parents several times.

  I am most pleased when he launches into a description of how the three rooms of his atelier can be rearranged into two, and I shall have the room with the north-facing window for my studio. I clap my hands with glee. He goes on to describe the little chamber adjoining, how it can be my boudoir, while he will retain the large bedroom, and he asks if that will be a pleasant place, and I ask if it has a little fireplace, and he confesses it does not, but he has an ornate brazier that can be brought in and set on tiles, and I promise I will certainly not sulk over such an arrangement, and such rapid arrangements make us all quite convivial.

  “Will you give her a little painting for her boudoir as an engagement gift?” my stepfather suddenly asks, which seems rather too pointed a question to me. M. Le Brun’s eyes shift to my mother’s face. Quickly she asks me, “And which would you choose, Élisabeth, if the choice were yours?” and I answer immediately, “Oh, the small Raphael!” and M. Le Brun rolls his eyes in comic fashion and says, “Would that I could, but it is already promised to the Duc de Vaudreuil.” And so between us my mother and I have saved him the embarrassment of having to promise me what would surely be an extravagantly expensive gift. M. Le Brun jumps to his feet and kisses first my mother and then me on the cheek and asks my stepfather, “Have you ever seen two such charming and gracious women?”

  Then our conversation turns toward the date of the wedding, and I mention rather soberly that I should like to finish several portraits beforehand. My mother looks worried and my stepfather absolutely grimaces, but M. Le Brun says, “Neither at this time nor at any time in the future will my own urgent desires come between you and your work. I know that you are who you are because of your brush, and I applaud and admire you for your industry.”

  I see and hear that he is utterly sincere.

  My mother exclaims, “Oh, you are a very good man, so unselfish!” but I note a new shadow of anxiety on her brow, for I have studied and painted her many times, and I am quite sensitive to the nuances of her expressions. Perhaps she thinks I may be urged to work too hard, but I believe M. Le Brun knows it is my nature to work.

  We continue our celebration, and then I turn happily to my painting, before the afternoon is gone. I think of my friend Mlle Boquet and how her marriage displaced art, and I am sad for her. Her error, perhaps, lay in her choice of spouse.

  WHILE I DRESS FOR MY WEDDING, I have great trouble arranging my hair in a way that pleases me. I have always dressed my own hair, not only to save money but also because as an artist, no one can twist, pin, fluff, or in any way arrange it so well as I can. I have finished the promised portraits, and the New Year has arrived, yet I can scarcely believe the date of my wedding is here. It seems too soon, this year of 1776. I have not thought properly about the step I am about to take because I have been absorbed and committed as never before to the last portraits I shall paint as a virgin.

  My hair is rebellious. I have watched my mother put up her own hair, and so learned all the tricks of combs or fixatives (I have always detested the idea of powder in human hair when it can have its own glorious luster). As I grew older, Maman sometimes listened to my suggestions or allowed me to fix her hair for her in ways that flattered the shape of her face or brought out her eyes or lips and surprised her. “I didn’t know I looked like that!” she would sometimes exclaim before the glass after I had finished my arrangement of her coiffure.

  Nonetheless, for all my practiced skill, on the day of my wedding, I try first this style and then that and cannot satisfy myself, and even begin to fear that my husband will look at me and think, Oh, she is not as pretty after all as I have always imagined her to be. My fingers actually begin to tremble, and I become much fatigued and thoroughly frustrated with myself in my indecisiveness.

  My mother flutters about telling me again and again that one attempt after another is in fact perfect and should be let alone, until finally, giving up hope that I should ever please myself in the matter, I ask her if she would be so kind as to perform the task.
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  She murmurs, “Nothing could be such an honor as to dress your hair, my precious daughter, on your wedding day.” I close my eyes, so that I will not be tempted to criticize or direct the operation.

  When, with her permission—she is just atomizing a cloud of scent around my head—I open my lids, my eyes first meet hers and see the tender triumph and pride in her countenance, both maternal and artistic. Even before I inspect my image in the mirror, I spontaneously exclaim, “How beautiful!” and then I hear myself offering more words to my mother as my eyes look into my own reflected eyes. “You are truly an artist yourself,” I say appreciatively.

  The style is an excellent one, perhaps a little more severe than I would have made it, for I like a certain calculated disorder of tendrils and curls. I let myself become soft as a kitten; nothing in my expression suggests the focused, almost hawklike eyes of an artist at work, those eyes which I have witnessed in myself accidentally, recently, over the shoulder of a sitter in some extraneous mirror.

  We put on our warm wraps, for it is January. As we walk toward the carriage waiting to transport us through the Paris streets to Saint Eustache, I ask myself, shall I get into the carriage? Shall I mount the step? Shall I really allow the carriage door to be closed so firmly, with that resounding whack, behind me? I shiver, and my mother places an arm around me as though she would warm me and quell my qualms.