Mesmerised (19 page)

August
29
th
, late afternoon

Blanche and I are on the Island of La Grande Jatte. But for us, the place is abandoned. We sit on damp grass, our backs supported against tree trunks, looking up at the sky over the water.

‘I can’t see anything,’ she says.

I check my watch again.

‘You will.
Only a few minutes now according to Le Moniteur.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe a word they print in that paper.’

‘I believe this.’

‘Why do you believe this and nothing else?’

‘Well, why would they lie about this?’

‘I don’t know
, why would they lie about anything?’

‘Because it suits them for the public to believe lies about some things.’

‘And not others.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you really think Napoleon is behind it all?’

‘Well, of course he is, he’s running the country, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, my God! Look, Paul, look, I can see it!’

As the water stops lapping the bank near us, and the birds sit in the boughs as motionless as Degas’ statues, there’s an eerie quiet and a darkening without clouds. The sun’s reflection on the lake has gone o
ut and it isn’t slipping under the horizon. It is halved. The moon, like an ancient Roman coin, has rudely placed itself over the face of that wildly burning star. Quashed, its rays squeeze out sideways. I stand. Turn around. The light is not exactly like dusk or dawn but something else, and the atmosphere ominous but peaceful, as I have never known it before. Blanche and I, are also silenced by this phenomenon. We are taller within its aura. Time is of no consequence until the spell is broken by the sound of flapping wings as a dozen birds ascend and then settle into an arrow in the sky. Ordinary light has returned but I am still moments away from myself, a mere shadow, blending into my surroundings, newly disturbed.

Blanche says, ‘Paul, tell me
, what you are celebrating?’

‘Celebrating? Oh yes, Blanche,’ I say, arriving back in my own body, like a traveller coming home. ‘We’re celebrating Bella, my patient at the hospital. She’s getting better. The remedy is working.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

‘This case is going to pave the way forward in medicine.
Imagine, sufferers of mania, melancholia and hysteria, all being treated with homeopathy and recovering in hospitals all over the world.’ I’m a figure pacing through light under trees freshly green. ‘Going back to their real lives instead of sinking deeper into their madness. Becoming citizens of the world instead of locked up like prisoners in cells with rodents for company and their joints disintegrating from the damp and their rotting straw beds.’

There is a strange shape on the grass by the water. I move towards the bank, shield m
y eyes with my hand and look up then come back to finish what I was saying.

‘
Ipsen, the Faculty man who is watching my every move, can’t stand to see it. It is like a competition for him, my medicine against his. He is tied to the past and the old way of doing things, but the case has been meticulously recorded and there are witnesses, Blanche: Catherine Morisot, and even that old flagship of Salpiêtrière, Marguerite Bottard.’

‘How does it work, then, your homeopathy?’

‘Have you ever wondered what propels the earth to spin on its axis? What turns the tide? What makes the moon cover the sun? Or spermatozoa collide with ovum? What makes you and I alive and different from a dead person? Hahnemann termed this force, this energy, this something-other living inside us, as the
dynamis
. It is to the dynamis that homeopaths direct their remedies. They are messages, which if correct, instruct the body to heal itself. How about that for an answer?’ I say, warrior-chested.

Blanche cocks her head

I take a few more paces. ‘What?’ I say, offering out my hands to pull her up.

‘How will we celebrate?’ she asks, a little huskily.

I lead her towards the clearing.

‘How about
the sighting of a solar eclipse?’

September
1
st

It felt like a holiday. I took Blanche to visit Camille and Julie in La Varenne. We stayed for the weekend. On Sunday, whilst Blanche and Julie tended to Lucien and prepared a meal inside, Camille and I sat in the garden drinking
vin blanc
and smoking cigars.

‘It’s about time you showed them how that medicine of yours works. If it wasn’t for you
, my brother Alfred wouldn’t be alive today.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said
, raising my glass.

‘I’ll drink to that too,’ Camille said
. ‘A santé’

Our glasses clashed and wine spilled over the sides.

‘Come let me pour you some more,’ I said, tipping more alcohol into his glass. ‘Never before has “a santé” been a more appropriate toast.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Camille said.

‘I’ll drink to that too.’

We went on and on like that the whole afternoon
, becoming quite drunk and immune to the scenery: nature’s palette of yellows, reds and greens – poppies, daffodils and grasses. What will soon become a mass of skeletal trees, a climbing frame for squirrels and a bald elevation for old bird nests is now in full bloom – breathtaking, all of it, especially when drunk, even on a stern day with a hidden sky.

And that is why I am nursing a sore head as I sit with Catherine on a bench in the grounds of the hospital. If the weather is fine, we meet there once a week at lunchtime for a picnic to discuss homeopathy,
in which she seems to have developed a particular interest since reading the
Organon
.

She has finished eating and bends down towards the grass.

‘A simple daisy,’ she says, pulling the plant up from the root and twirling it between finger and thumb. ‘
Bellis perennis
, a homeopathic remedy.’

‘Well, not quite,’ I say, and she looks at me quizzically. ‘It only becomes homeopathic because of the way it is
prescribed, otherwise it’s just a daisy.’

‘And when it’s
potentised?’

‘Then it’s just a substance that’s been
potentised, until it’s given to the patient according to the law of similars.
Bellis perennis
is a remedy for bruising and injury to the soft tissues. I think the common daisy has a soul too. Think of where it grows, so vulnerable to getting trampled underfoot.’

‘I like the idea that a flower has a soul.’

‘Now let me tell you something else. The law of similars can be applied to anything, not just remedies that we potentise. For example, if you burn your finger you will find a better balm in soaking it in hot water than cold. Cold will give instant relief but will hurt more when you take your finger out and it will not stop the skin from blistering whereas hot water will.

‘
Some time ago, I watched Bella bite a nurse’s hand in the library – a particular nurse who I will not name, although you will probably know who I mean when I say that she always treated patients roughly. I’ve been observing her ever since and I can tell you, she’s a little bit more wary and restrained these days. Like cures like, wherever you find it in life, that is homeopathy.’

‘What happened to you when you took
Cannabis? I’ve got an aunt who has a urinary problem. I matched the symptoms by looking in the book you gave me and it’s significantly helped but now I want to understand more about this remedy.’

I look at my watch.

‘That’s a long one. Ask me another time.’

We usually end our conversation with a brief discussion of Bella. Time is running short but Catherine’s observations are important to me and I don’t I want today to be any different.

‘The case of Bella Laffaire – how do you think it’s going?’ I ask.

‘
Three months and she’s almost off the laudanum. Her speech seems to be less and less deluded. I think it’s going well, don’t you?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Am I sure of what?’

‘You don’t think this very bad man is just another of her delusions?’

‘No,’ she says, shaking her head and twisting a serviette around her middle finger.

‘What is it Catherine?’

‘He comes every week. He spends half an hour with Bella and he always has an appointment with Doctors Ipsen and Charcot.’

‘You never mentioned this before.’

‘I’m always asked to escort him to her and wait outside. At first I thought he was a member of the Faculty. Then Doctor Charcot said that he was Bella’s brother.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Evil. Controlling.’

‘Right
.’

I do not knock or announce myself. I do not take into account what he might be doing, who he is with, or if he has an appointment to demonstrate his genius. I do not care. I walk straight into the study of Doctor Jean-Martin Charcot.

‘How dare you
, Gachet,’ he says, rising from behind his desk.

‘The man that comes every week to see Bella
Laffaire. Who is he and why does he come here?’ I demand.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you? I really thought that when Bella told me of a man who comes to see her, it must be another of her manic delusions but no, I’ve since found out that he really exists.’

‘Gachet,’ a
red-faced Charcot screams, ‘At least shut the door.’

I
accede to his request.

‘If you m
ust know, he is Bella’s brother, a gentleman and a very astute businessman. He has agreed to look after and care for Bella when we proclaim her well. You are going to cure her Gachet, isn’t that the idea?’ Charcot says, trying to be calm and sitting down behind his desk.

‘He’s not her brother. He’s a man who earns money from her by immoral means.’

‘That’s a very serious claim. Do you have any proof?’

‘It’s obvious; I can’t believe you don’t see it
.’ I bang my fist upon his desk.

‘A doctor of your standing surely knows the difference between hypothesis and fact. Now I’d like you to get out,’ he says.

I sit in a café on the left bank and order Beaujolais. Outside, it is raining. The sky is a mass of lead cloud. On the opposi
te wall hangs what I think is a Degas, in a very dim light. I get up to inspect the ballerina sketch on a lime green background. There is no signature but the attention to detail of the dancer’s calves is unmistakable. The plain, thin wooden frame is coming apart in one corner. Not one of Père Tanguy’s. I miss it; I haven’t painted for months.

‘I will put the wine on yo
ur table, Monsieur?’ The waiter asks, a full carafe and a glass on his tray.

‘Yes please,’ I say, turning around.

‘And Monsieur, that lady at the entrance, she requested me to ask if she can join you at your table.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, looking up.

‘Doctor Gachet,’ Suzanne says, her coat and hat like a suit of armour as she sits broad between the arms of the narrow chair that’s instantly wet from her clothes. ‘I saw you through the window and realised I have some important things to tell you. It’s not just because I wanted to get out of the rain.’

‘I’ll get another glass,’ I say motioning
to the waiter

‘No, please,’ she says, waving both her hands. ‘Leon told me that you’ve dropped by a few times when I’ve been out and well, I just wanted to say that I’m
back to my old self again.’

‘And no cough?’

‘No, no cough for quite a few months.’

‘The magic of homeopathy.’

‘I don’t want to mislead you. I’m not sure that homeopathy had anything to do with it but I am better, so thank you, and at the last visit your words were very comforting.’

I manage a quarter-
smile.

‘Anyway, more importantly, Edouard often asks why you haven’t gone along to his studio to collect your fee. I do tell him that I haven’t seen you for quite a while.’

I hit my forehead with the base of my palm.

‘I keep forgetting. Please tell him thank you and I will try and get there
soon.’

Master of the Art

September 15th

‘There is only one true thing: instantly paint what you see.’

Edouard Manet

The bell to the little shop tinkles.
Père Tanguy and I both look up from the mixing bowls where he has been making some pastel paints for me. He’s asked me to come back in a few days but I’m so fascinated by the process, I have stayed to watch him blending a pigment with clay and Arabic gum. He moulds it into sticks and leaves it to dry. The interesting part for me is the deftness of his hands and the way he instinctively knows how much pigment to add to the clay, and how wet the clay must be, which seems to somehow vary with each colour and shade. I ask him, ‘But how do you know?’

‘I just know,’ he replies, shrugging his shoulders and carrying on oblivious to
Edouard who saunters forward, leaning on his stick a little more heavily than I’ve ever seen him do before. Tanguy is also oblivious to the crowd of around twenty people who now stand outside his shop – adults making a frame around their eyes as they peer through the window and children with their noses and tongues pressed to the glass. Their bodies must be making a shadow across his sightline but the lack of illumination doesn’t seem to bother him.

‘Hello, hello,’
Pére says, flattening out four sides of a stick of midnight blue with the pad of his thumb.

‘I’m sorry about the entourage,’
Edouard replies, though judging by the amusement on his face he’s not sorry at all.

Since the Salon des
Rèfuses, caricatures of Edouard and his work have appeared in the papers on an almost daily basis. Now, I’m told, he hardly has time to lunch at Tortini or to turn up later at his precious de Bade because of the society lunch parties and soirées that he is constantly invited to. I also hear he is in negotiations with Paul Durand-Ruel, who will sell, and apparently pay for, some of his paintings in advance. No other modern artist can claim such notoriety, such fame.

‘Ah, Paul, I’m so pleased I’ve seen you here. Perhaps you will walk back with me to my studio when I’m done? I’d like to pay you. This man is a genius,’ he says, turning to
Tanguy who nods absently as he gets on with his work. Edouard carries on speaking regardless. ‘He has cured two members of my family. Two. With people dying from coughs all over the city, it’s a bloody miracle, that’s what it is. Hey Tanguy, don’t you agree?’ he asks, inspecting the artwork all around the walls.

‘I agree. I agree.’
Tanguy answers, still engrossed in his task.

‘I didn’t know
. Gustav Courbet comes here too. We should all feel a little humbled to be in the holy man’s company on this wall. And Monet, Monet, Monet. What’s your name? They ask. I tell them, Edouard Manet. Is that the same as Claude Monet? No!’ He swivels around from his inspection of the wall and nearly falls. I reach out to steady his arm.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘And so,
Doctor Gachet, how does it go?’

He doesn’t wait for
an answer.

‘I’ve come for emerald green, blood red, light, light pink, whitest white, earth brown and a pot of
Cézanne’s black, all in oil.’

Someone bangs a
fist upon the door. In seconds there is the drum roll of a multitude knocking. Père Tanguy drops his stick. It disintegrates into a messy mound.

‘My word,’
Edouard says, ‘Is that all for me? And you haven’t even locked the door. What restraint shown by the great Parisian public. Or do you think they are all too stupid to notice the entrance is not barred to them? They could all be with us having a party whilst Paul and I purchase paint.’

Edouard
turns towards his audience and with one finger underneath the brim of his hat, pushes it away from his forehead so they can see his face. Seconds later, he turns his attention back to us.

‘I can come back for my pastels tomorrow,’ I say, feeling a little hemmed in by the crowd and thinking I can leave through the back door.

‘What are you? A man or a wimp?’ Edouard asks. ‘Take your paints and go if you must.’

‘They are not ready yet,’ I say.

‘Have you been drinking?’ Tanguy asks Edouard.

‘Yes. So?’

‘It numbs the senses and that mob is making a terrible noise,’ Tanguy says, and in his haste drops a block of resin, which bombs onto the table.

‘Don’t worry my
friend, through your colours the world is recreated. Take your time,’ I say.

Edouard
cocks his half-turned head and examines me keenly.

‘Very good, Paul
. Eloquent. I wish I’d thought of that.’

‘You’re lucky. Y
ou don’t have to. Your art says it all,’ I reply.

He displays his palm for me high up in the air. I grab it and feel like a musketeer.

We walk
through the throng. I’m behind Edouard, watching as grubby hands reach out to touch him. Within moments the heavens roar and the rains cascade. The rabble disperses in a myriad of directions. Both Edouard and I pull our coats over our heads. Edouard holds his walking stick high up off the ground, which causes him to falter. I reach out to steady him.

‘You can never get a bloody hansom when you need one,’ he shouts.

I see one on the corner and run to hail it down. Once settled inside, Edouard speaks:

‘I can almost taste the colours in my pocket. Sometimes I crave their smell. It’s all part of the experience
, like a sensual dream. I spent the whole morning setting the scene for my next painting – inspired by the greatest of Muses – Victorine. She should be there waiting for me when we get to the studio. I hope she managed to persuade her African friend to come along.’

‘I haven’t seen her for a while.’

‘She gets away with it. I don’t know how she gets away with it. She can get away with anything, that girl. Not to capture her I-don’t-know-what on canvas would be criminal, don’t you think?’

Edouard
looks out of the window at the rain then all at once his attention is drawn to the interior of the carriage. He stares straight ahead. ‘It will be my Olympia,’ he says and a flame from his fire leaps up inside my throat.

I am transfixed. Edouard has Victorine naked on a bed, propped on bone-white pillows and lying on a deeply cushioned bedspread. She wears only a leather thong in a bow around her throat. Her left wrist suggestively covers her vagina and holds her right thigh. Every time Edouard looks up from the canvas they lock eyes. She’s a swirl of pink and creamy skin that enfolds a perfect female form.

‘
Victorine, my lovely naked champion, we conceive together like making a baby. You inspire me, you … .’ He waves his paintbrush in the air and spots of emerald-green land on the wooden floor like an indoor pyrotechnic. Beside the bed an African woman stands holding a bouquet of flowers. She wears a maid’s uniform of bold fleshy pink.

‘Vivien, Vivien, please, look at
Victorine!’ Edouard shouts, as a black cat leaps up and walks across the foot of the bed.

‘That’s brilliant
,’ Edouard exclaims. ‘It has to go in. At Tanguy’s I was thinking, why do I need a pot of Cézanne’s black? Paul, are you all right sitting on that broken chair?’ He affords me a slight glance.

‘When a man is in the right place at the right time then everything goes right for him. I am in the right place now, my darling
Victorine.’

I look around at the enormous high ceiling as if the whole of an upper floor has been cut away. This space was probably once used by a blacksmith or was a stable for horses or both. Even now there is the odd stray strand of hay upon the floor.

Edouard’s art is stacked against one wall, including
Dejeuner sur l’Herbe
facing outwards, still unsold. On the other side of the room is a painting of Suzanne sitting on a sofa in their living room with the boy Leon standing behind her. Suzanne is portrayed with the face of a young girl whilst Leon, standing behind her, is seen as a young man. I look away from this picture to what Edouard is painting now, an unashamed courtesan, a common fantasy for the average bourgeois male.

At Père Suisse the talk is all about Edouard. It is a very small class: just Camille, Armand, Henri and myself. We have a female model, one dressed rather primly, sitting upright in a chair. We all sketch her, concentrate on her body, gauging the strength and shape of muscles beneath clothes.

‘Did you say as you came in that you bumped into
Edouard?’ asks Camille.

‘At
Père Tanguy’s this morning before I came here.’

‘You were there all morning?’

‘No, no I went along to Edouard’s studio to watch him paint for a while.’

‘And did you get paid?’ Camille says, grinning widely. ‘Let me guess
: by cheque, signed Madame Manet.’ I do not say anything, although he is totally correct.

‘We don’t see him. He no longer sits with us at the
Guerbois,’ says Armand.

‘Things have taken off for him,’ says Henri.

‘He’s painting Victorine nude again, I hear, and this time the scene is set in a bordello. Yet when I talk to him he is absolutely certain that he is not one of our gang. He really believes he does not need us and that the establishment will enfold him in their tender arms, not just for his character, but for his work as well,’ says Camille.

‘I can’t see this happening when the Salon constantly
refuses him. He is not Courbet,’ says Armand.

I s
wallow hard and say nothing. My sketch is sagging. Henri’s seems to be vital even with such a dull poser. Camille’s is elusive amidst an aura of clouds. For me, everything is too solid, too weighed down: the body, a bland vehicle; the chair, just an object that allows the model to sit down. Everything lacks sensuality. And I’m acutely aware that Victorine is not here with the gift of femininity that she brings to the room.