‘I must go,’ I say abruptly, but before I can leave, he grasps my wrist.
‘Not so soon, ma petite. You haven’t told me what you think of my painting.’
I can smell the wine he’s been drinking and a whiff of cigar smoke. My heart thumps uncomfortably and I long for the fresh air in the garden, just a few steps away.
‘C’est très beau,’ I tell him truthfully. I hesitate, and then add boldly: ‘But you haven’t used the light like the others do.’
Perroy stiffens, and to my relief, lets me go. I back away a step or two.
‘You are an artist yourself?’ He chuckles softly to himself at the thought.
‘Not yet,’ I tell him, stung by his tone. I can’t believe I said that. I haven’t even told Hannah or Mikkel how much I long to paint.
‘And what sort of pictures would a maid paint, I wonder?’ he asks, mocking me.
He blows out the candle, leaving us in darkness. I turn and run out of the studio, taking deep breaths of the summer air as I cross the garden. I’m annoyed; with myself as much as with him. Anna Ancher didn’t laugh at the idea of me painting.
‘Marianne, where have you been?’ Hannah calls as soon as I reappear in the kitchen. I stand blinking in the light for a moment while my eyes adjust.
‘Madame wants you,’ Hannah tells me urgently. ‘She’s waiting in her room. She’s torn her dress and wants you to mend it. She flew into a terrible rage when we couldn’t find you.’ Hannah’s voice sounds slightly awed. Madame’s temper is obviously no longer a secret.
I turn and hurry up the stairs immediately. She’d better not throw anything at me, I think resentfully.
TWENTY-TWO
June 1886
Hannah’s favourite task of the day is ringing the big dinner bell that hangs in the courtyard. But taking drinks to the studio is mine. Balancing the tray of drinks carefully, I step out into the garden. The sunshine is strong, and the weather warm. The chill is gone from the wind and there’s a scent of things growing in the soil and of flowers mingling with the ever-present smell of fish.
The door of the studio is open today. Ancher, Krøyer, and Perroy are in their painting smocks, brush in hand. The studio is hot and smells strongly of linseed oil and white spirit. I breathe the scent deeply. I find it exciting.
‘Ah, refreshments!’ calls Hr Krøyer gladly. ‘This is thirsty work.’
I carry the tray to each of the three men in turn, offering them a tall glass of cold beer and a tiny glass of snaps.
‘Skål!’ cries Monsieur Perroy, lifting his small glass. Cheers. It’s the only word of Danish that he’s learned so far to my knowledge.
The town is full of artists now. There are so many that the hotel cannot house them all. They are staying in lodgings and rented houses. And what they all have in common, Swedish, Danish, and Norwegian alike, is that they’ve studied painting in Paris, and speak at least some French.
They look each other in the eyes as they raise their glasses. It’s an unvarying ritual around drinking. Monsieur Perroy also looks at me over his glass, his brown eyes holding mine for a few seconds before I turn away to clear the coffee cups they brought out from lunch with them.
I hear him say skål again softly. I know that was meant for me, but I pretend not to notice. As I stack the coffee cups and saucers onto the tray, I sneak a few surreptitious glances at the paintings. Ancher is working on a new painting now, a smaller one, a study of two fishermen, their faces lined and ravaged by exposure to the wind and sun.
I can’t see Krøyer’s painting from here. I can see Perroy’s though, and it seems to me he has made little progress with it. He spends far longer deep in conversation with his model than in actually painting her, and still longer eating and drinking with his fellow artists.
I always make clearing the cups away take as long as possible, so that I can absorb as much as I can of the way they work. The mixing of the colours on the palette, the touch of the brush on the canvas.
I don’t have a chance to see much today. The men remove their smocks and rub the oil and pigments off their hands with rags dipped in spirit. Perroy manages to walk past me twice, brushing against me as he does so. I shudder slightly. Finally, they wash their hands in the bowl of the washstand, take their drinks, and go out to join the ladies in the garden.
Never mind. It gives me the chance to look quickly at Krøyer’s painting. It’s a strange picture he’s working on. Simply a table in the garden, with a white tablecloth. But I like the way the sunlight seems to gleam on the cloth. I examine it closely, trying to see how he’s achieved this. The cloth looks white, but when I look closely I can see he’s used many different colours side by side to paint it. I feel a thrill of excitement, and long to try myself. I pick up a brush, to feel what it’s like to hold it.
I hear someone returning. Replacing the brush quickly, I pick up the heavy tray instead. I carry it carefully back to the kitchen. They use expensive china here and I would hate to smash any of it.
‘So, how are the paintings coming along, Marianne?’ asks the kitchen maid as I enter. ‘Marianne thinks they’ll not paint at all unless she goes to check at least once a day,’ she says to the kitchen at large. There’s some good-humoured laughter around me, and I realize my wish to learn to paint is not quite as secret as I’d supposed. It’s hard to keep much to yourself in this place.
‘Hr Ancher’s and Hr Krøyer’s pictures are progressing well,’ I tell them, unsure if they want to know, or whether it was merely an opportunity for some gentle teasing. ‘But Monsieur Perroy’s scarcely changes.’
‘You’d best make haste and send up your bill then, Fru Brøndum, ma’am,’ says the maid to the proprietress, who’s rolling out dough, her hands covered in flour. ‘Or all you’ll be getting in payment will be a half-finished painting!’
She roars with laughter at her own joke, and Fru Brøndum shakes her head reprovingly. I don’t join in the general laughter; it touches me a little on the raw. The hotel has paid me their part of my wages, but the Perroys haven’t paid me an øre yet.
Hannah is at the door beckoning me: ‘Marianne? It’s time to get ready. Hurry!’
She’s been in a state of restless excitement all day long, fidgeting and unable to concentrate on her work. We’ve both been invited to a wedding. Peter’s eldest sister, Ellen, is getting married and we have been allowed a few hours off work to go. It’s going to be a big celebration with lots of guests. I’m nervous as well as excited. I don’t know what to expect. I do know that I’m longing to see Peter again, hoping against hope to spend some time with him. Since I’ve been working at the hotel, we’ve barely had a chance to exchange a word.
I was surprised to be invited, as I hardly know Peter’s sister. But Annette said I was a friend of the family now, and couldn’t possibly be left out. I was especially touched by her thoughtfulness in inviting Hannah as well, so that I wouldn’t feel lost in such a large gathering.
Neither Hannah nor I can afford new clothes, but I’ve been busy altering our best dresses and making them a little finer with scraps of lace and ribbons that Annette gave me from her workbox. I’ve also embroidered flowers onto the bodice of each dress. We’re both looking forward to wearing them.
It was Hannah who had the idea of dressing our hair as I’ve learned to do for Madame. I’m not convinced it’s such a good idea, but she won’t take no for an answer. However, once we’ve washed and dressed and Hannah has fumbled for what feels like hours with my hair, I’m surprised at the difference it makes.
She has plaited small strands of my hair, and then tied it loosely, high on my head. It brings out the fairness of my hair better than my usual tight bun. I feel older and smarter now, almost ready to face a party.
Hannah’s hair is a thick glossy brown, with shades of red in it. I brush it until it glows, and then braid it into a single long plait, which I wind around a piece of lace into a bun low on her neck.
‘There. Now you look as pretty as one o
f the paintings,’ I tell Hannah, holding up our small mirror so she can see herself. She turns and hugs me, and then we run down the stairs together.
I’m excited too now as we wade through the soft sand of the main street to go to the church. The building is full to overflowing. Many of the guests are known to me. It’s a gathering of local townspeople rather than the artist community I’ve become used to seeing in recent weeks.
‘I’ve never been to a wedding before,’ I tell Hannah as we squeeze into a pew near the back of the church. She looks at me in astonishment.
‘Never?’
I shake my head.
‘No, I’ve only seen pictures. But Annette let me see the wedding dress she was making for Ellen,’ I tell her proudly.
‘Is it pretty?’ asks Hannah, her eyes shining.
‘Wait and see,’ I tease her. Ellen is already up at the altar, but we can’t see what she’s wearing as she’s covered by a large wrap. All the women are craning their necks for a first glimpse of the dress. When she removes the wrap, Hannah sighs in delight. The dress is creamy white, falling to the ground in snowy folds. The bodice is tight, showing Ellen’s slender figure, and the skirt is full. She has white roses in her hair.
‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to wear a dress like that?’ Hannah whispers.
I imagine myself dressed in white, waiting for Peter at the altar.
‘Your face has gone red,’ whispers Hannah, nudging me with her elbow. ‘Are you thinking of Peter?’
‘Shh!’ I tell her. ‘The service is starting.’
The ceremony is very long, but the minister preaches a joyful sermon. The couple exchange vows and rings. I hold my breath as the bridegroom kisses Ellen. I can see Annette dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief at the front of the church. Then there is rousing music as the couple walk down between the rows of guests. They look radiantly happy.
We pour out of the church, a large crowd walking back up through the town to the house where Peter and his parents live. The mood is festive and merry already. Hannah quizzes me as we walk: ‘So were you thinking of Peter? Is that why you blushed?’ I shake my head at her.
‘People will hear you,’ I whisper, hot with embarrassment.
‘There’s no one listening. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little more open, you know,’ Hannah chides me quietly. ‘You’re so secretive all the time. Don’t you trust me?’
‘Of course I do.’ I look down at the sand. She’s right, I know she is. I feel a little ashamed. ‘I can’t change myself.’
‘Yes you can!’ says Hannah, surprised. ‘People change all the time.’ She slips her hand in mine. ‘Here we are. Oh! How pretty they’ve made it!’
There are long trestle tables and benches laid out in the garden. The tables are beautifully set.
‘Where do we sit, Hannah?’ I ask.
‘There are place names, look!’ Hannah tells me. ‘And the musicians are already playing the first course onto the table!’ A group of men with fiddles are standing in the corner of the garden, playing for all they’re worth. The music is lively and happy.
We find our seats side-by-side, some distance from the top table where Peter’s family is sitting. It is a good place to watch everything from, and to nod and wave to acquaintances.
Once the vicar has arrived and said a lengthy grace, we are served a clear meat soup. It is very welcome after several hours in church. The main course consists of roast chicken and roast lamb, with new potatoes, rich gravies, and a selection of vegetables. There are also rolls of white wheat bread.
‘The food is almost as fine as at the hotel,’ I exclaim, awed by the variety. I take some chicken, and some buttered potatoes with carrots.
‘Can I pass you the bread?’ asks the young man beside me politely.
I thank him shyly, and he asks my name. Hannah leans forward to greet him: ‘Hej, Niels!’ she says.
Niels asks us about the guests at the hotel. I can tell Hannah enjoys casually mentioning the names of all the artists and other well-known guests who are staying there.
The noise level increases as the snaps is passed around and successive toasts drunk to the bride and groom. Each time a toast is drunk, the entire party rises and lifts their glasses to the happy couple.
There is homemade fruit juice for the younger guests to drink, a rare treat. I choose it rather than the ale, sweetened with syrup, which Hannah seems to be enjoying. The waiter also pours us a snaps each. Hannah persuades me to try it. It is clear and has almost no scent, but when I take a tiny sip, it catches at the back of my throat and I choke and cough. The young man next to me slaps me on the back and laughs. My eyes are watering as I gasp for air. I look at Hannah accusingly, unable to speak.
‘You knew that would happen,’ I croak at last.
‘Of course,’ Hannah laughs, as I wipe more tears from my eyes. ‘But you have to try it sometime!’
‘Do you drink it?’ I ask.
‘I can if I have to,’ she tells me.
To my surprise she lifts her glass, and throws it back in one go, like the adults do. Her eyes water only a little from the strong drink.
‘Now you finish yours,’ she tells me. ‘The trick is not to taste it, just swallow.’
I try to do as she says, but I’m only partly successful. I manage to swallow some and feel it burning all the way down my throat. I feel strangely light-headed almost at once, but it soon passes.
‘I prefer the juice,’ I say.
Throughout the meal, I’m aware of Peter talking to the young woman who is sitting next to him. She’s very pretty, with long dark hair with a red rose in it. As I watch, I see Peter raise his glass to her, looking into her eyes. I look away, as a most unreasonable stab of jealousy strikes me. I wish it were me sitting next to him. But perhaps he prefers dark-haired girls. I feel cross and dissatisfied, despite the festive atmosphere.
I catch Mikkel’s eye across the garden. He’s sitting with his family near our hosts. He raises his glass to me in silent greeting. I give him a small wave in return. I’ve seen less of him since I’ve been at the hotel and he’s been fishing. I miss him. I give his father an angry stare, but he doesn’t look in my direction.
The dessert is being brought around now. There’s cake, and also fresh waffles with homemade jams to spread on them.
Once coffee has been drunk, the minister stands up again and leads a thanksgiving prayer. He then takes his leave. No sooner is he out of sight than the musicians strike up again. The tables and benches are hastily cleared to one side and the bride and groom are led forward to the middle of the lawn.
‘The bridal waltz,’ Hannah explains. ‘The newly-married couple always start the dancing.’
They look happy as they circle together in time to the music, smiling to each other. Everyone is clapping, and calling out good wishes. Then, gradually, more and more couples join the dance. The music speeds up; merry tunes that make your feet want to move. Mikkel appears beside us. He shakes us both by the hand, and sits down next to us.
‘How’s life at Brøndum’s?’ he asks me.
‘I love it,’ I tell him enthusiastically. ‘There’s plenty of work, of course, but always something happening. It’s a very friendly place.’
‘And Marianne likes to watch the work in the studio,’ Hannah teases quietly.
‘Yes, that makes sense,’ says Mikkel with a smile. ‘And how is your sketchbook coming along?’
‘It’s more than half full.’
‘I’d like to see it sometime,’ says Mikkel. ‘By the way, I’ve found some stone martens living in an abandoned house in Vesterby. Can you find some time one evening to come and sketch them for me? You can do it so much better than I can.’
‘What’s a stone marten?’
‘It’s like a pine marten, only a little smaller. They like living in the roofs of houses. They’re beautiful, but very shy.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I promise.
‘And so, who’s going to dance with me first?’
he asks. ‘Marianne?’
He gets up and bows formally to me, laughter in his eyes. I would like to join in the joke, and sweep him a curtsey in return, but instead I become interested in a stain on the tablecloth. I remember Hannah’s words. He’s my friend and Hannah too, so I can tell them: ‘I’ve never danced. I don’t know how.’
There’s a look of astonishment on both their faces for a moment, but they don’t laugh at me, as I feared they might.
‘It’s not hard,’ Mikkel reassures me. ‘Few people here learn the correct steps. You just make it up as you go along. Come on, I’ll show you.’
I get up slowly, my heart beating fast. As Mikkel takes my hand, I whisper, ‘I can’t, not in front of all these people.’ I can’t bear to think that Peter might see me making a fool of myself.
‘They won’t be looking at you. Just relax.’
‘What about your father?’ I ask. ‘He won’t be happy if he sees you dancing with me,’ I say.
‘He’s right over there, drinking with Hansen and some other friends,’ says Mikkel. ‘He won’t notice. And I don’t care if he does.’
He puts his right arm around my waist and takes my left hand in his. I feel shy standing so close to him. I concentrate on the roughness of his hand made so much worse by the work he’s doing.
‘Relax,’ Mikkel says again.
I take a deep breath and try to.
‘Now feel the music,’ he instructs. I’m used to learning Danish from him, and rowing, surely I can learn to dance. I follow his steps nervously, treading on his feet from time to time. He’s as tall as I am, he must have grown during the winter.
I soon realize Mikkel’s right: no one’s looking at me. The music speeds up and it starts to be fun. So much so, that when the tune ends, I’m sorry to stop. But Hannah has been waiting long enough, and it’s her turn to dance.
We find her surrounded by several friends. She’s had other invitations to dance, but has been waiting for Mikkel. They all go off, and I sit down and pour myself another drink of juice. It’s a warm early summer’s evening, not yet dusk.
Between Two Seas Page 15
