Blanche couldn’t stop thinking about it. She imagined the instant of shocked silence as the shining figures appeared. ‘God is on our side,’ she told her stepfather. ‘Isn’t that a sure sign we shall win this war?’
Monet sighed. ‘The British have always had a predisposition to believe in ghosts and spirits. There were heavenly sightings at Culloden and two, I believe, on a battlefield called Souter Fell. It seems to me that this Angel of Mons business is just the most recent manifestation of a long legacy of apparitions on the battlefields of British armies.’
‘It has raised morale so much. Surely anything that brings hope and courage…’
‘I am with you there. They need all the help they can obtain, poor devils, with this bloodbath going on.’
He continued to follow the battles on his map. In the village, a house that had once belonged to an American painter was requisitioned and turned into a hospital. An endless cortege of stretchers passed by Le Pressoir, bringing the wounded back from the front line.
At the height of the war, work was begun on the third and largest of the studios. Many of Giverny’s men had been conscripted; it was a hard task to recruit enough to create the lofty building with its huge north-south skylight. Somehow, Blanche assembled a crew of labourers who were either physically or mentally unfit to go into battle. As the construction took shape, she felt heartened by the returning enthusiasm of her stepfather. One morning, he urged her from her breakfast to come and see his latest scheme.
‘But Papa…’
‘You can have your coffee later. You must see this.’
She eyed the system of awnings while he demonstrated how they could be drawn either partially or wholly across the skylight.
‘You see? They allow me to filter and control the flow of light so as to create the natural luminosity of the pond.’
She smiled, happy to hear the strength returned to his voice. ‘Ah, Papa, this must be the first time in your life you have actually been able to control light, before it has always controlled you.’
Not long before the studio’s inauguration, Georges was again invited to lunch. He looked tired, his shoulders bent as if from the weight of responsibility. He spoke of the armies’ exhaustion, the accumulative effect of snatching sleep between trench duties. ‘There comes a time when nothing, not food or cleanliness, is as important as closing your eyes. You know you shouldn’t. You know, if you are on duty, it will result in court marshal but it is irresistible.’
He brightened at the pop of champagne corks and held up his glass to the construction. ‘Magnificent! A splendid achievement.’
Blanche glanced at her stepfather. He was frowning.
‘You think so?’ he demanded. ‘It is far too big, I would say. Frankly, Georges, I am ashamed at having allowed that ignoble thing to be put up.’
‘Oh come now, Papa, after all this work!’
‘I who have always been the first to oppose construction projects likely to disfigure the site.’
Blanche caught Georges’ eye and raised her eyebrows.
‘What is done is done, my friend,’ the politician said. ‘You cannot undo it so you might just as well get on with your work.’
At luncheon, Monet had recovered enough to talk about how he would approach the subject. ‘I don’t intend to work on it piecemeal. I’m ready to try to represent the pond as a whole,’ he said over the roast fowl and a salad, laced with so much peppercorn it brought tears to Blanche’s eyes. ‘Imagine a circular room, covered with paintings of water, dotted with water lilies, to the very horizon, walls of a transparency, alternately green and mauve, the calm and silence of the still waters reflecting the open blossoms. The tones are vague, deliciously nuanced with a dreamlike delicacy.’
‘Impressive,’ said Georges, pushing some lettuce to the side of his plate. ‘What a saga! You created the lily pond so that you could paint it and now you want to have a unique space created to show the paintings.’
‘I have to finish them first,’ Monet remarked, dryly. ‘I often wonder whether I have enough time left.’
Blanche and Georges exchanged a glance. Was he descending into one of his dark moods?
‘Don’t talk nonsense, my friend, You’re a little child in comparison with the likes of Frans Hals.’
‘That’s a foolish comparison, I have nothing like his talent.’
Oh dear, Blanche thought, it sounds as if I am in for a few days of cheering him up.
Nevertheless, the work progressed and Blanche was drawn into this dreamy world of tranquil beauty. The green and mauve that Monet had envisioned were present, but woven into a complex range of yellows, pinks, whites, deep blues, and ochre. She prepared his canvasses, which were mounted on dollies. At his instruction, it was she, the physical presence Georges had predicted, who wheeled them about the studio, arranging and rearranging the sequence of the paintings.
She was aware he was calling upon all his experience and a lifetime of observation to tackle something so immense. The gigantic size of the canvasses demanded a different approach. Working with a large brush, he would introduce the dominant colour of the motif while drawing in the principal form of the composition.
‘These underlying rhythms are important,’ he told her. ‘They animate and unify the different canvasses within a sequence.’
As she had expected, there were days when he despaired and these usually coincided with weariness.
‘I’m too old,’ he moaned. ‘Today I worked until I could no longer hold the brush and what have I achieved? They can say what they like, I am not a great artist.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Papa, it will be a tour de force.’
‘They are so large, too large for me to cope with. I cannot reach to the lower areas near the floor.’ He patted his stomach. ‘This will not allow.’
‘Well, you must admit you have always enjoyed your food.’
‘I know, and this is the result. It was all very well when I roamed the fields and painted in the open air. Now a walk to the water garden is about all I can manage.’
They were sitting on the balcony in one of their moments of détente when there was nothing but friendship between them. Blanche had carried out some freshly made mille-feuille to eat with their tea.
‘You can’t abandon it, Papa. Can you imagine Georges’ reaction? We are all setting such store by it.’
He shrugged. ‘What can I say? The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.’
She gazed at the hand he had laid on the table, dry, horny skin, it represented a lifetime working with paint, long hours outside in the sun and the wind. He was moving towards eighty, of course he was finding this a strain, not only that, this war was weighing on him. And they had said it would be over by Christmas!
‘Then I will help you, in any way I can. At very least, I can do the backgrounds. I can still get down on my hands and knees, thank God. Just show me what you want me to do.’
He met her eyes, his own bloodshot and weary. ‘Oh Blanchefleur, would you? I’ve taught you well enough, haven’t I? I’m sure we can do it together.’
It was as if the intervening years had disappeared; they were back together, working side by side. She crouched near the floor, painting in the backgrounds. It was hard work but she was enjoying it. The light was gentle, filtered through the awning; time seemed suspended as they painted hour after hour, while beyond on the battlefields of France men died.
‘Remember what you said to me once, Papa? That we shouldn’t work together as I would become too influenced by you? Well now, it’s paid off. I challenge anyone to tell the difference.’
‘Vilaine! If you think you’re so good why don’t you paint the whole thing? Then I can take a little rest.’
‘There is only one Claude Monet, Papa.’
They joked and bickered while they painted but there was an intensity about their work together, engaged in this massive project, a feverish desire to recreate an expanse of
water without boundaries, realm of the water lilies’ floating world. As Georges had said, it was a riposte to the savagery beyond Giverny, the wasteland of the battlefields, and the slaughter of youth.
Blanche was also delighted by the deepening of friendship between the two men. About once a fortnight, Georges would travel to the house, to discuss progress with the panels, view the work, then stay for as long as he could. It was a great joy to her to organise these rendezvous and listen to their long, friendly discussions. However hard Georges was working, he always found the energy to urge her stepfather on.
‘You know sometimes I think all this is beyond me,’ she heard him confide. ‘It’s an impossible task.’
Georges clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Courage, my old friend, paint the impossible.’
The following morning before he left, he came to find her sitting on the grass, under the paulownia tree. She was reading to little Michel but broke off when she saw him.
‘Don’t let me disturb you.’
‘Not at all. Michel, say hello to Mr Clemenceau. He is a very important gentleman.’
Shyly, the little boy held out his hand, which Georges took, looking questioningly at Blanche.
‘He is Lilli’s child,’ she explained. ‘Lilli was once my laundry maid in the house and their father is one of our gardeners. Michel here is my godchild. Yes, you may go and play,’ she continued. ‘But remember, Maman will be here in a little while.’
They watched the child, engrossed in bumping the little wooden train over the grass.
‘She must have been a very special laundry maid,’ he remarked, ‘for you to take so much interest in the child.’
‘She was – is – pretty, intelligent and sweet natured, she deserves the happiness she’s found.’
‘And you, dear friend? Have you found happiness? There was a young man once, I remember, before you married Jean.’
‘John Leslie, yes, I loved him very much. We might have been married if…’
‘If Claude had not prevented it, there was a great fuss at the time, I recall.’
Blanche smiled. ‘It was a long while ago.’
‘If you had married him, do you think you would have had children?’
She considered this. ‘I’ve often wondered but I really don’t know. We were both painters, you see. There was always this conflict between life and art. You might say we were even rivals. Children could have got in the way.’
Georges nodded. ‘From what I’ve seen, it’s not easy to be an artist and lead a life that’s not affected by it. I think of poor Van Gogh, Verlaine, Rimbaud.’
‘It’s difficult to find a balance. I can remember being absolutely unable to concentrate on painting for thinking of him. It was one of the things that angered Papa about John Leslie. He couldn’t support another man having that kind of influence over me.’
‘But you’re painting now,’ Georges commented.
She darted him a suspicious look. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re helping Claude with his panels, aren’t you?’
Blanche turned her face away to watch the child. ‘No I’m not. I wouldn’t dream of making a brush stroke, it would be a sacrilege.’
There was a pause then Georges said, ‘I am glad I don’t paint but I, too, would like to create something. Yes, I have the children but I want something more. When we have smashed Germany, I shall retire to somewhere wild and deserted and make a garden.’
Blanche and Monet were in the studio from dawn until dusk and the panels grew in number. Their effect was remarkable: the cropping of the lily pads and flowers at every edge, made this aquatic world appear to extend beyond the frame and even beyond the scope of the viewer’s sight. Where the water lilies were most thickly painted, they appeared to float on the reflections and on the open spaces, their swirled lines created by a loaded brush.
With the second battle of the Marne, the war had reached a turning point and Georges was in an optimistic mood, crowing that the Allies were trouncing Germany.
‘And then, if I have anything to do with it, we’ll make the Bosch repay all they have destroyed.’
Monet told him he wanted to make a gift of the series to France, it was the only way he could think of to contribute to the victory.
‘I’ve come to a decision. I certainly don’t want the paintings in the Jeu de Paume but I agree to their being installed in the Orangerie. I like the idea, especially as I used to stroll through the Tuileries Garden when I was a young man. And it’s near my beloved Seine.’
He unfolded a sheet of paper to demonstrate his detailed plan. ‘Not one circular room any more, I have changed my mind about that. I shall require two oval spaces with an entirely glazed roof, which means the whole thing must be designed by an architect and rebuilt.’
Georges examined the plan in silence. ‘I see what you mean, you are painting the pictures from a particular point of view, which can only have their final impact if they are displayed, as you suggest, and point up the effects of light and depth.’
‘Exactly. I am inviting the viewer to take a tour of my water garden, thus it is important to consider the height from which the eye will fall on the water lilies.’
‘You are going to a great deal of trouble,’ Blanche told Georges as they strolled in the garden.
‘And so are you, dear friend. It cannot be easy to live with his moods.’
‘It is his failing sight that upsets him so much.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed, particularly lately, it is affecting his work to a much greater degree.’
‘And he will keep on retouching. I tell him to stop but he is obsessive about it. He won’t realise he is in danger of spoiling them all.’
‘I continue to think he should have those cataracts operated on, you know.’
Blanche sighed. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever persuade him to undergo that. He’s so terrified something will go wrong.’
Autumn was approaching once more; the nasturtiums had practically taken over the central path. In spite of Breuil’s and Michel’s efforts, the reduction in gardeners made it hard to keep on top of the work. In the distance, they could see Michel struggling to control a rambling rose. They walked on until they came to the patch of lawn and sat down.
‘Apropos the cataracts, there’s something I’ve often wanted to ask you. A few years ago, I came for luncheon, one day. We talked of Claude’s eyesight and he spoke of an American girl. The two of you seemed to be at loggerheads over her.’
‘Judith,’ said Blanche. It felt odd to say her name, though she still thought of her, sometimes. ‘Judith Goldstein, yes.’
‘She seemed to have quite an influence on him.’
‘Yes, she did, for a while.’
‘And you didn’t approve.’
‘Oh well, one over reacts sometimes.’
‘Knowing you as I do, it didn’t seem like over reacting. What was the problem?’
Blanche found it difficult to conjure up the powerful emotions she had felt, the anger the young woman had provoked in her. It all seemed so long ago and, with the current state of the world, rather pointless.
‘She was so different,’ she said. ‘She came from another culture where women are much freer. She enchanted Papa, that is certain. I think she enchanted most of the people she encountered while she was here.’
‘Except for you.’
‘For a while, I was fascinated by her way of seeing the world. She aroused questions, made me reflect on my life and how I had lived it. She gave me doubts at a time when I was feeling so unsure of myself.’ Now that she had begun, Blanche recalled her resentment of Judith, of her seeming ability to choose her destiny without consideration of others’ feelings nor with any sense of responsibility.
‘And now?’ Georges prompted.
Now? What did she feel? Contentment, conviction of where her true path lay. Judith had been partly responsible for that. She had revealed to Blanche the stre
ngth of the tie to her stepfather when it had risked being usurped. She wondered what had happened to the young woman on her return to America. There had been no word from her in all this time.
‘Now, I wish her well. She was very young and the young can be reckless. I hope that, in some way, her life has worked out for her.’ She realised she meant what she said.
– FORTY-NINE –
BLANCHE
O
ctober and November brought rain, strong winds, and even sleet and snow. In spite of these setbacks, the Allied advance was sufficient to ensure the signing of the armistice in that railway carriage in the chilly, drizzly Compiègne Forest, to come into effect at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of November 1918. And as high pressure settled over the continent, in the following days the sun came out. At Le Pressoir, Blanche was alarmed when Monet had a fainting fit brought on by the cold. By his birthday, however, he had recovered well enough to celebrate the glorious victory with Georges who had abandoned his desk to come to see him.
Eight months later, on Bastille Day, they abandoned the studio and travelled to Paris to attend the Victory Parade. With hindsight, Blanche almost wished she had not gone but Papa had been so eager. She had anticipated the pageantry and music, the hordes of infantrymen, and glittering breastplates of the cavalry. She marvelled at the foreign legionnaires in their white kepis, turbaned Moroccans, the immense Senegalese and Algerian and Indo-China riflemen. She tapped her foot to the battle hymns as the Allies filed past and Over There was succeeded by Tipperary. Then the hero of Verdun appeared, the pale, austere figure of Marshal Pétain on his white horse, majestic in dress uniform. Behind him, marched men from all of France’s 21 army corps, their bands playing Sambre-et Meuse and La Marche Lorraine. But while the crowd broke into a frenzy of joy and thanks, of cheering and flag waving, spontaneous dancing and singing, her mind returned again and again to those men who had led the parade, they had been almost unable to do so. The worst wounded, lacking eyes and limbs, shuffled along with canes or in wheelchairs. Many of them were covered in bandages from ghastly head wounds, or were still green from gas. At their sight there were gasps and tears. It started as a victory celebration but, for Blanche, the sight of those wretched men turned the whole thing into the gloom of mourning. While these living soldiers filed through the Arc de Triomphe, one could tell that in many people’s minds, the army of the dead marched above them. How many people in that crowd had lost a loved one, she wondered, and how many still retained the hope of his survival? When you considered so many had no known grave, wasn’t there the possibility that some might be still alive?
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