Luncheon of the Boating Party (56 page)

“Oh, yes, at the École des Beaux-Arts, like everyone else. I was always the last one to leave the studio so I could pick up discarded tubes of paint in the hope to squeeze out a dab. You can tell your mother how thrifty I was.”

“She would only think you were poor.”

“A group of us left because we wanted to find a new way, and new subjects.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, but the group is splitting up. There’s a lot of turmoil about art in Paris these days. Gustave is in despair over the arguments.”

“Are you?”

“They’re hurtful.” He stared at the paint-spotted fl oor. “Sometimes I don’t know who I am as a painter. I don’t know whether I should paint what I want to or paint to make a living.”

“Can’t you do both?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

That shut her out. Another way of saying she was too simpleminded to understand.

“I’m like a cork in the river, bobbing every which way, not knowing what I’m looking for.”

She pictured what her mother would say:
I forbid you to tie yourself
to a painter without a sou to his name, a confused one at that.

“Just paint. Whatever way you want to. You make it too hard with all that thinking.”

“At what point is a painter ready to free himself from influences? I need to go away somewhere to think hard. Maybe after this big painting.”

“Papa was made that way, not content to live out his life in one spot.

And look, he abandoned us.”

“This is traveling for a purpose. I need to see the Titians in Venice, the Raphaels in Rome, and to discover the sources of Delacroix’s colors in Algeria. That’s the way it has to be.”

“So paint.” She flung out her arm. “Go to Italy. Go to Algeria.

America. Wherever. I don’t care.”

It came out harshly, and he looked stunned. Of course she did care.

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She saw that he had to paint to live. He had to paint to breathe. He was made to paint just as grapevines were made to produce wine, and if this traveling was part of being a painter, she had to let him be him. That was something her mother never learned about her father. She would rather have Auguste go away now, before anything happened. If he came back, he might be more likely to stay. She didn’t want an unhappy man pining for another place.

“If you come back, you might want to paint in Essoyes. Mother still owns the farmhouse. It would be a nice place for you to paint. You can paint whatever you want there. The quiet is so lovely. The peace. You won’t be bothered by painters’ arguments. Just paint what you see. The trees, and the rows of grapevines climbing over the hills. Streams. Waterwheels. Wild violets and lilies of the valley.”

If she could get him to come to the Aube, then she’d be there if Papa ever came home. Otherwise, Papa might never fi nd them.

“The Seine isn’t the only river,” she said. “The Aube is twice as wide and of a green so whitish and shimmery you would swear it was lit from below.”

“You knew that would intrigue me.”

He rubbed the side of his nose. “To be so isolated, one has to be strong.”

“You are strong.”

“I wouldn’t be able to do without Paris. I’d feel cut off from my friends, the cafés, the entertainments, the boulevards, the galleries. The Louvre. The pulse of city life. Our movement.”

“You won’t have the pulse of city life in some African desert.”

“But I’m coming back.”

That’s what she wanted to hear. She studied his face and couldn’t find in it any hint of deception.

“Write me a letter, and I’ll be at the station.”

What had she said? She would have to learn to read it! She watched his eyes moving slowly to every part of her face.

“Kissing you in the water was lovely,” he said.

“So was swimming.”

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“We can do that again.” His eyes and his voice were so serious.

“I’d like that.”

Even if she only had a part of him once in a while, it would be better than nothing. She had to give in order to receive. That was true, city or country.

He pulled away. “I promised your mother you would be home in an hour.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She said it was one hour too long.”

“I thought you wanted me to come here to make love to me.” The

words spilled out before she could catch them.

“I already have. With my brush.”

She looked down at her lap. “I didn’t mean that way.”

“That’s the last thing I want to do now. I just want to be close to you.”

She had been too blunt. Too countryish. When a man takes a woman into his barn, she knows what to expect. Apparently Auguste was not like that.

“This time was just for you to see the studio. Not to paint you. Not to have relations with you. The proper time will come.”

She was confused and embarrassed and a little relieved. “Then you don’t want to paint me naked.” She didn’t know whether to hope he’d say yes or no.

“Of course I do, but you have to understand. The nude is a painter’s highest aspiration, my earthly paradise in fact, but a painter doesn’t do it with just anyone or on a whim. Someday I will, when you’re ready and I’m ready. I’m not now. I’ve been seduced by color and I have to reacquaint myself with line before I paint you nude. That may take me a long time.”

That made her feel dumb again. They were from different worlds.

“That’s why I have to go to Italy. To learn to paint you as Raphael and Titian painted nudes in the Renaissance.”

“My mother said it would come to this. She said that every painter wants you to take off your clothes, and after you model bare, you painters use up a woman and then abandon her.”

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He didn’t laugh at her, but he didn’t deny it either. His hand stroked her hair and came around to her chin.

“Some things have to be resolved before love can grow roots or bear fruit. Next time, bring your mother with you.”

“You’re asking for trouble.”

“No. I’m asking for resolution.”

“And if she won’t come?”

His lips touched hers, softly at first, and he pressed her to him. She felt the top bone in his spine at the back of his neck.

“Then I guess you can’t come.” He breathed into her mouth, “Find a way.”

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So Brief a Pair

Alphonsine was eating lunch on the lower terrace with her mother when Gustave bounded down the steps from the footbridge

wearing a smile as wide as a frog’s.

“Is Auguste here?” he asked.

“I see that you’re dressed as a gentleman should,” Maman said.

“It’s about time, after two months of wearing your undershirt around here.”

“
Tch, tch.
Just as your own son does, madame.”

“Guy hasn’t shown up to pose for two days, so Auguste is painting downstream from the railroad bridge,” Alphonsine said. She was annoyed at Guy but hoped for a different solution.

“It’s good for him,” her mother said. “He’s been moody.”

“Well, then, I won’t bother him. I just wanted to tell everyone that I bought a piece of property in Petit Gennevilliers.”

“You did it!” Alphonsine smacked her hand against her cheek. “You actually did it.”

He jingled a ring of keys. “I signed the papers yesterday.”

“We’ll almost be neighbors,” Louise said. “Both Alphonses will be so happy.”

“I wanted to show it to Auguste.”

“You can show me,” Alphonsine said.

“With pleasure.”

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.

.

.

They took the train to Asnières and switched to the Montigny line, which had a stop across the river in Argenteuil. He had a look of utter contentment as they rode. She felt content too.

“I thought you’d be out practicing for the regatta, not buying

houses.”

“Whenever I sail by this house, I can’t keep my mind on sailing. You were with me when I decided.”

“I was? When?”

“We were watching the fireworks. I said the river gave me peace.”

“Ah, it does that. You can come to it with a turbulent mind and feel the peace enfold you.”

“The most exciting period of my life is coming to a close,” he said.

She was shocked. “Why do you say that?”

“The contention among the painters. I don’t have the constitution for it. This will be a retreat to simpler pleasures. Gardening. Sailing.

Designing a racing yacht.”

“Not painting?”

“When I feel like it. For me.”

They crossed the Argenteuil road bridge on foot. At this stretch of river, the Argenteuil bank had a wide, tree-lined promenade, large estates, and a few small factories. The Petit Gennevilliers bank was more rustic, with boatyards, and summerhouses nestled in orchards.

Gustave pointed to a short, narrow dock. “That’s mine. I’ll have a larger one built, and I’ll keep the slips in the Argenteuil marina until I can get a large boat garage built.”

Set back from the bank, the house had a steeply pitched roof of red tiles, two gables with windows and wooden balconies. A wide chimney ran the length with four chimney pots.

“I’ll plant a garden down to the river with trellises and a rose arbor.”

“With what kinds of flowers?” She thought she might prepare a

basket of seed packets and bulbs as a gift.

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“I want dahlias, lilacs, irises, lilies. I’ll build a greenhouse with a hot-air stove so I can propagate orchids. Claude and I have some ideas about how to do that. There’s a gardener’s cottage and a wood behind.”

At the front door he sorted through the keys. “This is the fi rst time I’ve been in it since I signed the documents.”

“I’m honored,” she said with a little curtsy.

“It hasn’t been kept up, and the rooms are all empty, but try to imagine what it will be like repainted and with furniture and paintings.”

The central parlor was large and airy and looked out on the river.

“The bigger paintings will hang here, but . . .” He led her into another reception room. “Here’s where I’ll hang Auguste’s
Bords de la Seine à
Champrosay.
And here will be Claude’s
Régates à Argenteuil.
And here Sisley’s
La Seine à Suresnes.
”

“You’ll feel just like you’re out on the water.”

He nodded with quick bobs of his head. “Exactly.”

“How many paintings do you have?”

“About fifty by others. Plus almost everything I’ve ever painted.”

“I can’t wait to see them.”

“Mine too?”

“Yours especially.”

“They’re odd. So people say.”

“They won’t be to me. They’re a part of you.”

He stopped his circuit of the room and turned to her. His cheeks lifted, and creases fanned out from the corners of his eyes, as though she’d said something unexpected, welcome, and important. Maybe

there was possibility here, right under her nose, and she’d been facing the wrong direction.

They walked through room after room on each of two fl oors above the ground fl oor.

“The best view is from the upstairs studio, but you’ll have to climb a ladder.”

“I don’t mind.”

The studio was a separate structure built in the shape of a hexagon.

Two wide bay windows let in light from two directions into a large

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open area. He positioned a ladder up to the loft. “Be careful. I’m right behind you.”

It was hard to climb the ladder without stepping on her skirt. She had to lift it and hold on to the ladder at the same time. When he opened the shutters, the river stretched like a glittering blue ribbon in both directions.

The promenade at Argenteuil, the Argenteuil road bridge, the marina, and the Château Michelet with its pointed towers all within one view.

“It looks like a painting, right from here. Tell me you’ll paint it.”

He took a few minutes and gazed out the window. “Maybe someday.

The château is owned by the president of the Cercle de la Voile à Paris.”

“Then it’s only fitting that you live across the river from him.”

“You’ve heard your father speak of Chevreux and Luce, the boat

builders?”

“Of course. They’re famous around here.”

“They’re building a new boatworks, the biggest on the river, right in Petit Gennevilliers. I think eventually I’ll give them some business.”

She whirled around and found him grinning. “A new boat?”

“A seagoing racing yacht so I can enter the big coastal regattas too.”

He let out a breath that seemed long-held. “I’m going to like it here.”

“You’re going to
love
it.”

A fresh, new hope rose. She might be invited here from time to time.

“I’m so happy.”
For you,
he could take it to mean, or for herself. He went to the ladder and descended partway.

“Be careful. I’ll be just a few steps below you. Face the ladder.”

Her skirt prevented her from seeing where to put her feet. She hesitated at each step until she felt his hand on her ankle guiding her to each rung, a caring intimacy.

“I’m down,” he said. “You have four more steps.”

Her heel caught her skirt hem and she shook her leg to free it and lost her footing and fell. He caught her, and held her for just an instant, until she righted herself and her feet were on the ground. He almost pushed her away as though she were hot to the touch.

“Are you all right?” He backed away with an odd expression on

his face.

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“Yes.”

“Don’t tell Auguste. He’ll think I was irresponsible to take you up there.”

“Of course I’ll tell him. How else could I describe the view?”