Claude & Camille

by Stephanie Cowell

  He knocked over the easel, and the gray paint on his canvas smudged in the snow. With a shout he kicked the easel away so that it landed at the water’s edge and lay there. That afternoon, he locked himself in his studio and painted his self-portrait, but he did not finish it because he disliked it so much. Where had the daring, brash young man gone? Who was this exhausted fellow?

  He jumped up and hurried to their room, where she lay across their bed, still fully clothed, her hat and its pins on the dresser. “Why do you say those things?” Claude cried. “I love you, I love you.”

  “I’m so sorry. I love you too. I don’t know what’s the matter with me! Of course you must paint. It’s all I ever wanted for you.” She wept in gasps, and he held her to stop the grief.

  Winter passed and cold spring came, and with it her moods brightened. She went to a dressmaker with her sister and ordered three more dresses, and he did not tell her he had no idea how he would pay for them, that though he sold paintings it was not enough. He watched her running around the garden with Jean, so girlish and lovely. The dark periods of the winter were entirely gone, though they had left him with a sense of unease that he would confide to no one. Why has this happened now, he asked himself, when some success has truly come? Perhaps it is not enough. She needs another child; I will give her one.

  He wanted to surround them with beauty: he bought everything he liked and his friends’ paintings and good wine and fine food. He felt strong; he felt he could create everything with his imagination. If he could capture wind and waves and a frozen river, he could make her happy. He wanted in the end to deserve her, to show her parents in Lyon that he had kept his promise to them.

  1876

  Don’t proceed according to rules and principles, but paint what you observe and feel…. Paint generously and unhesitatingly, for it is best not to lose the first impression.

  —CAMILLE PISSARRO

  THE POSTMAN BROUGHT SEVERAL LETTERS THAT WARM summer morning, walking through the gardens to deliver them. Auguste had written from Paris asking about having a second independent exhibition, and Léon had written with some warmth about a possible visit. There was a letter from Jean’s teacher and one from an actress friend of Camille’s.

  Standing in the garden, Claude turned the envelopes over until he noticed one from Durand-Ruel. Perhaps it was the list of paintings sold and those still in the shop that was sent every half year. He tore open the envelope to find a brief letter on the gallery stationery. Monet, it said, are you at leisure to meet me in Paris tomorrow at one at the Café Anglais? I want to discuss a possible commission with you.

  Jean was with his tutor and Camille was practicing scales on the piano when he left for the Argenteuil train station the next morning. “Good-bye, monsieur,” the new maid said, curtsying to him as she took his coffee cup away.

  An hour later Claude strode into the Café Anglais on the boulevard des Italiens. He had taken Camille here a year ago. Surely the high prices meant something of moment was at stake.

  “And madame, how is she?” asked Durand-Ruel, rising slightly from the table. “And your boy?”

  “Well, very well. And your sons and daughter?”

  They drank excellent wines and ate a soufflé with creamed chicken, lobster in glazed medallions, and then ducklings stuffed with liver. Claude let all the complexities of his life fade away under the delight of the meal. By his third glass of wine, he only wanted to remain here indefinitely with waiters gliding over the carpet and the soft tapping of silverware on fine china.

  He reluctantly brought his mind back to work. “So what have we now in our business? How do we proceed, eh?” he asked with the good humor his full stomach had given him.

  Durand-Ruel lifted a small bit of cheese on his fork. His blue eyes were warm. “As you might have astutely gathered, Monet, the news is good and profitable; I could not afford to bring you here with bad. One of my collectors stopped by yesterday and bought two of your landscapes. He also has a private commission to discuss with you.”

  “Who is he? How much money does have?”

  “His name is Ernest Hoschedé and he has a family business in textiles and a great deal of money. He owns an enviable apartment on the rue de Lisbonne, plus an old country estate from his wife; she herself comes from a wealthy family. They have four enchanting girls and a lad. He’s asked you to go to the Paris apartment tomorrow morning to discuss the particulars of the commission.”

  GREAT DRAPES COVERED the windows in the apartment on the rue de Lisbonne and art hung everywhere on the walls. Claude noted the silver and bronze statuettes and the enormous Chinese vases. The ceiling was painted with flowers in the decorative style of the last century.

  Through the portiere curtains over the door, he heard young girls laughing and someone at a piano lesson. After a few moments, the door opened and two girls around the age of twelve peeped mischievously at him, curtsying. With urgency they whispered to each other, “The artist’s come! Does Papa know?”

  He smiled as they fled. “The artist,” as if a species of being! Claude moved his shoe on the carpet, feeling the depth of it. He felt his old wistful disdain for people who had been born with a great deal of money.

  The farthest door was pushed open and a heavyset man in a fine wool suit strode toward him. “Ah, Monet!” he said, firmly shaking Claude’s hand. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  Claude inclined his head slightly. “Monsieur Hoschedé.”

  “Will you …?”

  They sat down together in comfortable chairs and a maid in black brought a tray of coffee.

  Hoschedé leaned back, hands clasped together, eyes narrow. “I’d like to engage your services to paint a set of panels for the walls of the gazebo at my wife’s château, paintings of the estate. We will of course be delighted to be your hosts for however many months it will take you to complete the work.”

  The fee was named as an offhand thing, not to be discussed, and Claude allowed no expression of relief to come into his face, though he knew it would support his own household for a year or more if they were prudent. Hoschedé’s conclusion broke into his thoughts. “I’m leaving for the country later today; my wife and children go first on our private train. Come with me and take a look!”

  THE CARRIAGE LEFT Paris and drove to Montgeron on the River Yerres. Claude looked from the window as they moved down the tree-lined road until the Château de Rottembourg rose above them, pale blush stone with many windows and a park before and behind, running down to the river. “Look around!” Hoschedé said as they descended. “It’s a pretty estate. You’ll dine with us, of course? And after I’ll show you where we’d like the panels to go.”

  For an hour Claude wandered among the orchards and vineyards, the flower gardens and fountains, and the stone benches under venerable trees. He walked down to the river and gazed at its flow; he thought, Perhaps I will have some fortune after all! Who could be anything but peaceful and content in such a place, attended by so many gardeners and servants? Monsieur raises a finger and his valet comes.

  His pocket watch indicated it was the dinner hour. He turned from the river and was nearing the house when he noticed a woman in a plain blue dress walking from the kitchen garden with a basket of fennel over her arm. Likely the housekeeper or a governess. “Bonsoir, madame!” he said, now at her side. “I’m Claude Monet, the artist, come to paint here.”

  The woman gave him her hand. “So you’re Monet!” she exclaimed curiously. “I saw your exhibition two years ago. I’m Alice, Madame Hoschedé. I’m just going back to see if my girls are dressed for dinner.”

  He replied hastily, “I beg your pardon, madame! I didn’t know you. I thought you were perhaps … You must pardon me.”

  She smiled. “Yes, people mistake me for the housekeeper. I don’t mind. I put on an old dress at once when I come here and am so happy. But we must hurry, for the dinner bell will ring and I need to change; Ernest likes to dress for dinner.”

  Takin
g the basket, he fell in beside her as she walked on rapidly. They slipped in the back door and she said, “Wait in the library if you like, monsieur! I hear you’ll stay with us. We’re happy to have you, and my children are excited. I hope you won’t mind if they watch you work a little.”

  “Madame, the pleasure is mine,” he said.

  The dinner was served at a long table set with delicate china and crystal wineglasses. Four girls and a boy chattered away, but grew shyer when he looked at them and bent their heads over their plates. After the meal, they all walked out to the gazebo, where the maid would bring brandy and coffee.

  Now he saw where his panels would be set, and he placed his hand on the wall. At once he wanted everyone to go away so he could think about them. The feudal aspect of the situation struck him. So were Renaissance painters housed and fed by the great Florentine families while they decorated the rooms and painted the family portraits. He smiled; I have come from the son of a provincial shopkeeper to the life of Raphael. He could not wait to tell Camille.

  HE RAN FROM the Argenteuil train station down the path past the stone wall. She was embroidering under an arbor. He bent to kiss her mouth and told her of the commission and she put down her needle. “I knew something magnificent would happen for your beautiful work!” she exclaimed.

  “Listen, though, ma chère!” he said. “It means I’ll be away several days a week, but I’ll be home every weekend as fast as the train can carry me, longing for you. It is a great opportunity, but perhaps I should tell them I can’t accept it.”

  She bit her lip and turned away to look at the flower beds. He traced his hand gently down her cheek. He added, “If you don’t want me to, I’ll tell them no. Something else will come up. The American sales will start again.”

  Her long, lovely Grecian face was serious when she turned to him. “Do you want to do it?”

  “I do, but I hate being away from you.”

  “Oh, I’ll miss you terribly!” she exclaimed, kissing him. “But you’ll be painting! We’ll write every day. Really, Claude! I’m so content here. The part of me who was so dark and strange this past winter seems like another woman. Lise is coming to stay for a few days, did I tell you? The theater world is just exhausting her, poor thing! And Auguste has no patience for her, she says.”

  CLAUDE’S ROOM AT the Château de Rottembourg overlooked the lawns and the gazebo, where he would paint. He hung up his clothes in the capacious wardrobe and noted the carved and painted French headboard: this was an old family, having little in common with him and his hardscrabble life. No one would disturb the solitude of this room. He had only to eat fine meals and paint.

  Even so, he missed Camille and wrote her nightly, the houseman taking his letters to the small post office every morning and bringing back the ones she sent to him.

  Sometimes the Hoschedé daughters stood in the doorway watching him paint. Other times the whole family returned to Paris and left him with the servants and he dined at the long table alone. He went through the rooms then, touching the edges of another life. Once he looked through the open door to the master suite. The walls were papered with a yellow print. He had a great desire to go in and lie upon the large, high, curtained bed. What lives were these, so rich and full, lacking for nothing?

  Sometimes he did not see them at all, for on weekends he went home, and that was often when the family came; sometimes he passed them in the train station as their private car arrived. Other times he heard the voices of the children from their schoolroom, and when the door was opened he noticed the map and the globe.

  His first three weekends home in Argenteuil were joyful, but on the fourth when he let himself into the parlor, he saw that everything was in disarray and that dishes and pots were piled in the kitchen. He ran up the stairs and opened the bedroom door.

  Camille was lying in bed reading. He watched her turning the pages, other books at her side, trying to disguise the sinking feeling in his heart, and bent down to kiss her. “What’s the book?” he asked casually.

  “Our friend Zola sent us his latest novel about a poor laundress. The cook left four days ago. I didn’t want to tell you. We owed her …”

  “I told her I’d manage it this week!” he said rigidly. “But where’s Jean?”

  “Oh, he’s always at the neighbors’ these days after school; their son is his closest friend. He has his meals there; sometimes he doesn’t come home until bedtime. Really, he’s quite happy!”

  Claude bit his lip. His son should be here, but at least the boy had found a refuge until his mother should return to herself again. Were her dark moods returning, during which she despaired about things in the past, things she felt she should be, her worn but steadfast sense of unworthiness? How long would they remain?

  He said, “I’ve missed you both so much! Haven’t you been to Paris? No? Is your sister so preoccupied making hats for the wealthy? You didn’t go to see Lise in that new comedy? Don’t tell Auguste if you go; it makes him too sad. He told me they won’t last together. You’re too much alone here. Come with me to the château next week.”

  She shook her head. “It would be strange to be in someone else’s house with you working all the time! Only perhaps you can paint more quickly and come home to me. Claude, my time came again. I’m still not with child.” She put down her book and held out her arms, and as he came into them he felt how she trembled.

  All weekend he watched her face and her moods. Sometimes she was radiantly happy, other times withdrawing. He recalled her birthday, when he had felt so oddly that something would not let him in. He was glad when the hour came for his return to Montgeron. In his heart he had already left for there and walked from the train station, hand in his pocket, bag over his shoulder, watching the sun setting behind the château and all the small windows and the water in the fountain and the yellow jonquils ablaze with the light.

  AT TIMES THE four Hoschedé girls and their brother tiptoed in to watch him create his panel of turkeys. Occasionally Madame Hoschedé came with them, bringing her sewing. Autumn arrived with its cooler air, and sometimes before he slept at night, he took his pipe and went out to the gardens.

  One evening as he smoked there, lulled by the rustle of the trees, he heard the door open and saw Madame Hoschedé coming across the terrace.

  “What, are you here?” she exclaimed with a smile. “The night’s so lovely, I had to come out as well. Are you walking to the river?”

  “Yes, I generally walk that way to listen to it in the dark.”

  “I used to come outside with my sisters at night and exchange secrets. We also hid about the house; it was our special place, full of hidden rooms and stairs. My girls think they know them all, but I discovered them first.” She laughed and he looked down at her. She was a little dowdy and plump, her brown hair in a loosely gathered lump at her neck and her walk a bit clumsy.

  As they came closer to the river they heard the flowing water. “I feel this place isn’t ours, really,” she added. “We’re keeping it for the children and their children. Many generations will play here. I’ll be old and watch them.”

  When they walked back, he felt the darkness about them and the huge bulk of the château with its many secrets, all preserved somehow in hidden drawers, chests, and corners where children ran and hid and were happy.

  AT FIRST HE said to himself, I am not drawn to her. He had to say it, as he had noticed her coming into his thoughts frequently. Sometimes he wondered, What can she think of me? He no longer felt young; he was thirty-six years old, and his age was beginning to show. Auguste said his face had increased in interest. He seldom thought about it, but he did now. How was he seen? Now when she was not there he was sorry. Sometimes he turned around to see if Alice Hoschedé had come in, but it was only his wish. He listened for her voice.

  She was so steady. She seemed happy with her husband; she seemed contented. They laughed a little at the table and had their private references. Sometimes she blushed. He felt then bitter
ly that he had wrong thoughts about someone who was happy, that he stood at the gate looking in, never knowing what he would find in his own home, admiring the security of hers. He knew she was deeply religious, and was rather appalled to realize there was a chapel in the house and that a priest came to say Mass there when the family was at home. He smelled the incense. He remained defensively atheistic. He suspected his mother’s faith had kept her unhappily with his father. He was polite enough to say nothing and yet he wondered if some of Alice Hoschedé’s stability came from the deep order of things her religion gave. There was an answer to everything and some celibate priest to explain it. He doubted it and yet envied its comfort.

  “You seem so happy,” he said to her one day as she sat with her sewing in the gazebo as he painted.

  She carefully took another stitch with the blue silk thread on the pattern that would decorate the sleeve edge of a child’s dress. “I am! I don’t know if there is such a thing as perfect happiness, though; not on this earth. We have to keep it within ourselves, a little steady flame. Perhaps your painting does that for you.”

  “I am merely a craftsman,” he said gruffly.

  “A little more than that. You show me the beauty of this place. I hope one day you’ll paint my children. Do you paint people?”

  “Yes, I have painted my wife a great deal.”

  “What is she like, your wife?”

  He hesitated, the white paint on his brush not yet descending to the turkey feathers. “She’s lovely and radiant and at times incredibly courageous.”

  “I see you bring letters down each morning as I send mine to Paris. I saw the portrait of her in the green dress years ago when it was first exhibited. Monsieur Durand-Ruel has said she acts and sings; he saw her in Paris a few weeks ago and she told him she was planning to go on the stage.”

  “Ah, did she.?”

  Alice Hoschedé leaned forward, blinking a little shyly. “My only gift is for sewing, which I can’t claim to do very well. Claude … I may call you Claude? I am fortunate to have been born to such a good family because really, I have no gifts. If I were a man, I think I would like to do what you do, to paint such wonderful things.”