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

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  “I am overwhelmed by your kindness. Please do not ask me to judge you, Your Majesty.” I smile at her and cock my head a little to one side as though to avert my eyes. I am playing, too!

  “Would you like a lesson in how to walk like a queen?”

  “I think that I must walk like an artist, but one who is most happy, most honored to be in the presence of her queen.”

  “But come and walk around the apartment with me. Let me put my hand in your arm.”

  “Your Majesty is quite well, I hope.”

  Here she blushes a bit, drops her chin a little, and looks up at me from her lovely blue eyes. Why, what could cause a queen to blush? My lips part with a tiny pop, for I think I know.

  There is a particular reason why the skin of the queen has a heavenly glow. I believe the queen is pregnant! I am flooded with joy at the thought of it. All France will dance with delight. Seven years of marriage have passed with no heir, and the populace has begun to grumble with impatience. I am most sure that there was no lack of willingness on her part to consummate the marriage.

  “May I merely say, my dearest new friend, that I have never been more well or more happy in all my life.”

  There! She has told me without telling me. I see in her a person of both truthfulness and discretion.

  “This little apartment is quickly seen,” she said. “Let us stroll in the great rooms and get more acquainted with each other. I shall play the role of your guide, just as Louis XV—Papa-Roi, I called him—escorted me when I first came here from Austria—became my guide to the wonders, paintings, murals, and statuary of the château. But here we’ll pause before the glass and make comparison. What do you see? Can you look at us, side by side, and let words serve as though they were your paintbrush, rendering the two of us?”

  “Because color is the most vibrant part of painting for me—”

  “Yes, I have heard you described as a colorist.”

  “I note that we are created from different palettes, for you are blond, and I am brunette.”

  “That is safely enough said!” she candidly replies, but with that mixture of teasing and fun that I’m sure will be characteristic of much of our conversation. But it will not be all of it. I shall see to that. For she is pliant and genuine enough to want to reveal something of her depths to one who honors and truly loves her.

  “And you are taller,” I add.

  “And you are more slender,” she says. “In our colors and stature, we are opposites.”

  “If I might speak freely, I would describe us as complements.”

  “Both of us move in the circles of the greatest refinement and privilege that France has to offer.” Now she is speaking more thoughtfully. She is capable of focused introspection. “It is right, natural, and fitting that we should both be present at the court of Louis XVI. But there is a difference. I am here by the right of birth, as the daughter of the empress of Austria. And you are here because of your talent and your own efforts to employ that talent. You make your way by the gift of God, and it was also God’s gift that I was born to a life at court. I think us equally fortunate.”

  I answer her with true and honest humility. “Your Majesty makes too much of me.”

  With this sentence she squeezes my arm, almost pinches me. “Your sentence echoes one I myself once uttered.”

  While I do not dare to question her, I pray that she will continue in her confidences with me.

  “When I journeyed from Austria to France, to be wed to my most dear husband, the caravan stopped on an island in the middle of the Rhine River. It was a location thought neutral, politically, neither Austrian nor French, and it was there, through a special ritual, that I was to abandon my Austrian identity and assume a French one. I was still only fourteen years old.

  “My Austrian ladies relieved me of my Austrian clothing so that I was for a moment as naked as any baby who comes newborn into the world, a simple human. All my Austrian jewelry was removed and even my little dog was taken away, for he was deemed to be a sort of Austrian citizen. Then I was tenderly dressed again with French robes. It was a moment of transition, not without pain for all the joy and honor I felt as the bride chosen for the future king of France.”

  Here she pauses, and I know that I am trusted indeed. Has she ever mentioned to a single French soul that she had felt pain in giving up her allegiance to all things Austrian? I hope not. Though I would never betray her nor betray her confidences in the slightest manner (I will tell my husband that I had been made to understand that I must never describe or repeat any scene or conversation to which I was privy at the court of Versailles), in this moment I wonder if it is wise on her part to be so frank with me. I am quite sure (and I hope) that usually she is more discreet. But I think she wants me to know her story so that I may have a better chance of painting the soul that lives within her body.

  “Even my name, of course, was changed, for at home—”

  Yes, she even uses the word home to apply to Austria! I fear for her: too quickly she lets herself be natural and trusting, without subterfuge.

  “At home, I was Maria Antonia, and it was by that name that my ladies called me as they undressed me on the little island in the Rhine. They were like bright butterflies in their beautiful Austrian dresses, and it seemed that their wings beat around me and fanned my cheeks with whispered love and gracious compliments. ‘You make too much of me,’ I said to them, for I did feel humble at my selection and at my opportunity to contribute to the peace of Europe. ‘You make too much of me.’

  “And those are your very words, my dear Madame Vigée-Le Brun, to me, just now. It is the proof of what my heart already told me, the moment we looked into one another’s eyes, that there would be a special understanding and compatibility between us.”

  “Oh, Majesty,” I say quietly but with all the ardor of my artistic nature, “you do me such honor that I fear I will faint with happiness.”

  With that utterance, she quickly kisses me on the cheek, but she begins speaking again immediately as if this gesture that seems the seal of favor bestowed upon me is not even a moment to be remembered by her.

  But no doubt I do her injustice with this thought, for she is sublimely sensitive to the feelings of others.

  “Look up,” the queen instructs me, for she wants me to see the painting on the ceiling of Mars, the god of war. “I was shocked that his chariot is drawn by wolves, the first time, the first day, I walked beneath this scene. May the dogs of war never draw this Roman god across the skies of France. My marriage was meant to ensure the peace between Austria and France, ancient enemies.”

  “Among my plans for paintings,” I confide, “is an allegorical one that will depict Peace bringing back Abundance. Two figures of women, one blond and one brunette.”

  “Then think of me,” she says, “when you represent Peace, for my person and my presence here serve that cause.”

  But I already know the blond figure will represent Abundance in my allegory, and the simple brunette would stand for Peace.

  As we pass through the stately public rooms, I see other rich paintings from the time of Louis XIV that Louis XV explained to my noble queen when she was but the dauphine, newly arrived at Versailles, among them Victory Supported by Hercules Followed by Plenty and Felicity, which extends the same sentiment of my painting Peace Bringing Back Abundance.

  The only awful mural among those on the ceiling is that of Terror, Fury, and Horror Seizing the Earthly Powers. At those images my queen trembles, and I experience her tremor through our linked arms. I remember my father’s speaking of how the world we knew was soon to be turned upside down.

  My own favorite of these mythological scenes is Venus Subjugating the Gods and Powers. Her chariot is drawn by doves and rests upon a cloud. She is half unclothed with bare breasts. Of course Venus is the goddess of the beautiful, superior to all other gods, and she is my icon. Naturally, the chariot of Beauty is drawn by those emissaries of peace, the doves.

 
“When I first stood under this painting,” the queen reminisces, “on our way to Mass in the chapel, but newly married, you can imagine my feelings of inadequacy as we regarded the lovely breasts of Venus. Though I was fourteen, when some women have already acquired their womanly shape, my chest was as flat as a shield. Papa-Roi sensed my discomfort, for he said to me as we looked up, ‘I cannot imagine anyone more like yourself in loveliness than Venus, the queen of Love and Beauty.’”

  “Beauty is indeed a great power in this world,” I say.

  “I would rather embody Peace than Beauty,” she replies seriously, “but they are connected. A queen has more power for peace, if she is admired and loved for her beauty.”

  “But did not the beauty of Helen spark the Trojan wars?” a male voice asks behind us.

  Instantly I deduce it must be the king, and I bow as low as possible and do not dare to look at him. By his footsteps I know that he is passing by us, and he is accompanied by several other pairs of stockinged and well-shod male feet. “Enjoy your time among us, Madame Le Brun,” he murmurs as he passes. Now is not the time for presentation, but I allow myself to glance at the retreating figures of the king and his retinue. One turns—it is the Comte de Vaudreuil, whose portrait I have painted—and winks at me.

  I am horrified and aghast, but I hear a slight chuckle from the queen, for she is the intimate friend of the Comte de Vaudreuil and the Comtesse de Polignac (they who recommended me to her), and people say they are all quite merry together. Another minister also turns to glance back at us, and I think he may be the Vicomte de Calonne, said to be astute in matters of finance.

  I wait for the queen to speak to me. I feel almost turned to stone, immobilized by the powers around me. In all of Europe there is no palace more grand or more important than the Château de Versailles, and I who command only a few rooms in a mansion on Rue de Cléry am now defined by these walls.

  “Another day,” the queen breaks my silence, “we will walk together to the chapel, perhaps while the organ is being played, and you will enjoy those sacred Christian paintings, which these Greek pagans only prefigure.

  “Your own paintings are always secular portraits,” she adds. “I think you do not paint sacred images of the Virgin or of Christ our Lord, or of the Creator? Or even the saints?”

  “That is true,” I say, though I remember when my brush transformed John the Baptist into one of my father’s friends. “My brush would falter before such subjects. I must look with a literal eye upon my subjects. My inner vision is not strong enough.”

  I am amazed to hear myself saying these things to the queen of France, for I have never thought them before, not even to myself. For a moment I think this must be a great failing on my part and that God is surely displeased with me. “For my own edification,” I reply almost in my own defense, “I paint the landscape in watercolors. It is my relaxation and my refreshment to do so. An act of reverence. If I cannot paint our Holy Father or his Son, at least I can paint his creation. I am ever full of wonder at natural beauty.”

  “We each have our talents and our inclinations,” she said. Her voice modulates from a somewhat pontifical key to a soft confidentiality. “No one is expected to excel in every way, but to be ourselves fully. My hope is that by the end of my life, I will fully know myself and live honestly and bravely with that knowledge, unswayed by others.”

  I am struck silent by the sincerity of her wish. It amazes me that one so young and lovely would be speaking of the end of her life. I hope with all my heart that she bears future life within her now, and that for years to come she and the king will be surrounded by the many children of France.

  “Dear Mme Vigée-Le Brun. I wish for you long life and health and happiness.”

  I feel as embraced through her simple, soft, and warm words as I would if she had thrown both arms around me. I am stunned, however, into formality. “I cannot find the words to thank Your Majesty enough,” I say.

  “When I paint Your Majesty,” I say, though the phrase first forms in my mind otherwise—when I paint you, I would have said—“I will strive to capture something of your naturalness.”

  At this she laughs, a trilling bell-like cascade of happiness.

  “Then I must tell you, beforehand, what fixes my gaze when I am in the chapel. Can you guess what aspect of deity, when I first enter the chapel on almost any occasion, my eyes seek out? And not only seek out but return to again and again while the organ is heaving its mighty notes and piping its delicate flutes, and the incense is doing its aromatic work, and the voices of the choristers chant and intone their Latin, and I sit, stand, and kneel in all my polished finery?

  “On the grand chapel ceiling is a painting of God the Father, Creator of Heaven and Earth, most majestic, with a white beard and in his celestial robes. He hovers over us as we look up.

  “The artist has painted God barefooted, and what I most love to see is the bare bottom of God’s foot, the very sole of his foot. It is shaped exactly like a person’s bare sole, with little lines, like wrinkles, something one rarely looks at on the feet of others. In the chapel, we are far below God, but because of his high position and ours beneath, with clouds not much in the way, we are able to see the bottom of his foot, so like our own, and to love him and worship him.”

  AS WE PROMENADE back through the stately rooms toward the queen’s apartment, though we chat as we walk, I look at everything with the intention of stocking my memory with these privileged objects of Versailles: wall coverings, carpets, chairs, desks, mirrors, tables, vases, clocks, even tassels and sweeps of fringe; the parterres and fountains outside, the pleasant, sunny vistas tantalizingly glimpsed through the windows, especially the great fountain of Latona with her children Apollo and Diana. However, it is the work of painters hanging on the inner walls of the Château de Versailles that shouts for my attention.

  I study especially the various portraits hanging in their magnificent frames of the royalty of France, for it is in portraiture that my own task and my opportunity lie. My spirit whooshes up like a fountain with the knowledge that my work is almost surely destined to hang on these very walls—I know it, for these works do not surpass mine—and that what I paint will in my own lifetime gain a measure of immortality here. It is an intoxicating idea.

  Ever sensitive to the enthusiasms of her guests, the queen causes us to stop before the full-length oil portrait of Louis XIV, in which he has thrown his royal robes to one side in order to display his shapely leg, made a focal point not only by its central position but also by the brilliant white color of the stocking he wears. Strikingly erect, this king of France wears no crown but presents a commanding, arresting, and haughty pose. The attention drawn to his magnificent leg is only somewhat balanced by his face and its frame of a curly dark wig.

  “I paused here with Papa-Roi,” the queen muses, “when I was fourteen, to admire his grandfather, Louis XIV. It seems very long ago, yet it is but ten years. And my Papa-Roi is gone now, and we are here instead.”

  I wonder if she notes the cruelty in the painted face of the aging Sun King. Certainly, I do. But it was during his reign that the greatness of France rose over Europe and gave us our preeminence. I notice the way the foot of Louis XIV is turned, and how well the red color of his high-heeled shoes has retained its brilliance.

  “Do you sculpt as well as paint, Madame Le Brun?”

  “As a child. Sometimes using the mud of the garden at the convent where I was educated. I would gather up the clay soil to mold a duck or rabbit for the pleasure of my friends. But human faces were ever my obsession, and I drew them everywhere. On the ground with a stick and in the margins of my copybooks, for which I was punished by the nuns.”

  “All the same, let me point out to you this marble bust of the Sun King by Bernini, when the king was young.”

  As soon as she has led me to this work, I exclaim my admiration. She has chosen well in making sure I experience this miracle in marble, and my heart warms toward her as a percept
ive and caring person. I marvel at how at ease she has made me feel.

  “He lives,” I say. “Though his flesh is but cold marble and of an unnatural hue, the sculpture compels him into life.” I am thrilled to think that Bernini’s own hand held the tools that chiseled, carved, and smoothed this very bust from a block of marble. I wish my mother were with me to see it.

  “Sometimes I think sculpture has quite the advantage over the flat canvas,” she says.

  “We live in a round world,” I agree. I do not say my thought: I am so used to looking at paintings, which have their own verisimilitude through the art of perspective, that it seems unnecessary to me to have literally the third dimension.

  “This visit we have become acquainted,” the queen says. “Next time you will set up your easel, and we will begin. But I have heard that you sing well, so now let us enjoy a duet together. Something of Grétry’s?”

  AS I AM ABOUT TO ENTER the carriage that will convey me away from the Château de Versailles, my progress is arrested by a gentle touch at my elbow. It is a girl, thin, a bit dirty and rather ragged, but with a face of unusual delicacy and sensitivity, partly because of her thinness. Through her transparent skin I can see the blue vein that curves close to the jawbone. She asks to speak to me for a moment, and I readily nod my permission as I ask her name.

  “Jeanne Marie,” she answers. “I am a seamstress.”

  “Is there some way I may be of use to you?” I ask. The footman in his immaculate wig and splendid livery is gripping together the three thin legs of my easel and placing it in the carriage, along with my stretched canvas, loosely but carefully wrapped in tissue.

  “I think you must be a friend of the queen,” she says.

  “As is each of her loyal subjects,” I readily reply, “but perhaps not in the intimate sense that you imply.”

  “Is it you who are painting Her Majesty, and do you paint mesdames, as Mme Adélaïde Labille-Guiard does?”

  “I am just beginning a portrait of Her Majesty,” I reply, but I feel uneasy. Who is this personage who knows the names of artists and those they paint? Might she be some sort of spy sent here by a member of the court who wishes to know too much about the queen’s choices and plans? Despite my feeling of slight alarm, the girlish unguarded part of me proudly and confidingly adds to the information I have already given. “This is the first time I have been invited to come here.”