Charlotte in London

by Joan MacPhail Knight

  We saw geese and herons—no swans, though. With so many boats here for the races they had to move them to a safe place until the regatta is over. All the wild swans on the Thames belong to the Queen. She has a man called a “Swan Marker” who wears a scarlet uniform. He keeps track of how many cygnets, baby swans, are born each year so that the Queen knows exactly how many swans she has.

  While we ate, Papa and Mr. Foster talked about the light and the river. And about an American painter named Mr. Frank Millet, who lives up in the Cotswolds, in the village of Broadway. “Lots of artists are there,” said Papa. “They say it’s England’s Giverny.”

  Just then Toby saw a little dog in a boat and ran barking along the riverbank. Lizzy and I ran after him. We saw a man with an easel and tiptoed around behind him to see what he was painting. He wasn’t wearing white flannels, but the painting was so beautiful, I asked him if he was Mr. Sargent. He smiled and put down his palette and brush. “What a compliment!” he said. “No, I’m not Mr. Sargent. My name is Lavery, John Lavery. Mr. Sargent was just here, though. He made a painting right over there—left about an hour ago.” We won’t tell Mama. She would be much too disappointed.

  July 2, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  When we opened the curtains this morning, the sun was shining. The Fosters are spending the day at the river Thames but Papa says he has made enough river paintings. So he rented a carriage for the day—emerald green with gold trim and four black horses to pull it. “Hyde Park!” he called out to the driver and off we went.

  On the way we passed one of the biggest buildings I’ve ever seen. The driver slowed the horses to a walk and pointed to it with his whip. “That’s Buckingham Palace,” he said, “home to Queen Victoria and her nine children. But don’t go looking for them. The Queen decided she likes the country better, so it’s at Windsor Castle that you’ll find her. Or at Balmoral, up in Scotland, now that summer’s here.” Then he cracked his whip and took us to Hyde Park.

  Papa said that when Henry VIII was king, he made Hyde Park his hunting ground. It was filled with deer, birds and wild boar. Now Hyde Park is filled with ladies on bicycles. “Wearing the latest fashion, I see,” said Mama. “Divided skirts, made especially for cycling.”

  Papa had the carriage stop at Speaker’s Corner, where men on stepladders were shouting. “Anyone can stand up and say anything he likes here,” said Papa. “Except about the Queen, of course—this is, after all, a royal park.”

  Suddenly the sky turned dark and it started to pour. “Marylebone Road!” cried Papa. “No one should leave London without visiting Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “Leave London?” I asked. Papa explained that he had lots of London canvases and was ready to move on—to the village of Broadway he keeps hearing about. The Fosters will join us there later.

  Madame Tussaud was a French lady who made figures of famous people out of candle wax and used human hair on their heads. I thought the figures were real when we first walked into the room, and I kept waiting for them to breathe or speak. It’s very dark in there because sunlight would melt them. I saw a figure wearing a crimson gown and thought it might be Queen Anne Boleyn—when I counted her fingers, I knew it was!

  We leave for Broadway the day after tomorrow. Papa says it will take us sixteen hours to get there and that we’ll make the trip in two days. I hope I’ll like it there. I’ll miss Lizzy and the Savoy Hotel and Monsieur Escoffier’s cooking.

  July 5, 1895

  The Sow and Acorn

  Somewhere in the Cotswolds

  We’re on our way to Broadway by coach. One of the other passengers is an American painter. His name is Mr. Edwin Abbey and he’s going as far as Fairford. That’s where we’ll change horses and spend the night.

  Right now we’re waiting for our lunch at a pub called “The Sow and Acorn.” Papa and Mr. Abbey are having steak and ale pie, Mama isn’t hungry and I’m having my favorite, fish and chips!

  Later the same day

  The Bull Hotel

  Fairford

  Gloucestershire

  After lunch a man and a little girl got into the coach. Every time she saw a herd of sheep, the girl shouted, “Sheeps! Sheeps!”—all the way to Fairford. Mr. Abbey says that sheep pens are called “cots” here and rolling hills are “wolds.” Now I know why this part of England is called “the Cotswolds.”

  Mr. Abbey met us at the hotel for dinner. He told us about the time he and his friend Mr. Sargent were on a boat on the Thames and Mr. Sargent dove into the water and hit his head on something. After Mr. Sargent’s head was bandaged, Mr. Abbey took him up to Broadway to recover, and Mr. Sargent has been painting in the Cotswolds ever since.

  Then he handed Papa a small package wrapped in brown paper to take to Mr. Millet.

  July 7, 1895

  The Lygon Arms

  Broadway

  It’s very cozy in our room. Before we went to bed, Papa lit a fire. Then I heard an owl hoot and the next thing I knew there was a knock on the door and breakfast was here.

  After breakfast, Papa said he was going to Russell House to see Mr. Millet, and did I want to come? When we got there, we saw a boy with a fat woolly ram on a rope. Toby barked and the ram lowered his horns and pawed the ground with his hoof. I held on to Toby as tightly as I could. The boy said his name was Laurence Millet and that the ram was called Homer. “My father’s in his studio,” he said. “I’ll take you there.” He led us through a garden filled with pink roses, scarlet poppies and hollyhocks the colors of sunset.

  I saw a tower covered with ivy, a lily pond and a court for lawn tennis.

  When we came to a big barn, we found Mr. Millet cleaning his brushes. Papa handed him the package from Mr. Abbey. He opened it to find several tubes of paint.

  “Cadmium yellow! I’m always running out of this,” he said. “At certain times of day the entire village looks as if it’s been dipped in golden honey—including the sheep.”

  While they talked, I looked around the biggest studio I had ever seen. I saw racks of beautiful costumes, wigs, musical instruments—even pianos and harpsichords. And everywhere easels with paintings on them, some finished, some not. I stopped at one of them—a large canvas of a boy in a sailor suit. The boy looked familiar. Could it be? I wondered.

  “Is that Hippolyte?” I asked. “Why, yes,” said Mr. Millet, “do you know him? He came with his uncle, Monsieur Durand-Ruel, an art dealer, who was here to look at paintings for his London gallery. They’ll be back next Saturday for dinner. Would you like to join us?” Papa says that one can and should expect anything of life, but I never, ever expected this!

  July 18, 1895

  The Lygon Arms

  Broadway

  Mama hears that some guests of the Millets’ wear costumes to dinner. “I’ll wear a hat with camellias,” she said, “like the one I saw in London.”

  She took a plain straw hat to the village hatmaker and had her sew red camellias and a pink ribbon around the crown. Today we went to pick it up. Mama looks beautiful in it. We bought velvet ribbons for my hair—midnight blue.

  After, we went to a tearoom and had English cream tea: scones with clotted cream—a cream so thick I could stand my spoon in it.

  July 20, 1895

  The Lygon Arms

  Broadway

  Tonight was the Millets’ party. The garden was lit with Japanese lanterns. Everybody was drinking champagne and eating pigs in blankets—little sausages wrapped in pastry. Suddenly there was a loud screeching sound and all the little children ran for the house.

  “C’est le paon,” said a voice behind me—it’s the peacock. “Il n’aime pas les petits”—he doesn’t like little children. I turned and saw Hippolyte standing there with a girl with a crown of flowers on her head. She said her name was Tessa Gosse. Then she disappeared and came back with a crown of flowers for me and a crown of laurel leaves for Hippolyte. Once the children were inside the house, the peacock sto
pped screeching and we went in to dinner.

  The little children were already seated at their table. When I found my place card, I was glad to see I was sitting next to Hippolyte. Mr. Henry James was at our table, too. I could tell he was having a good time—he said “How jolly!” over and over again.

  We had salmon from Scotland, peas from the garden and Beef Wellington—roast beef in a pastry crust. While we waited for dessert, Hippolyte taught me the French words for the flowers in my crown. Then out came the strawberries and cream.

  I heard Mr. Sargent’s name mentioned and listened carefully.

  Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens, the sculptor, was talking about how Mr. Sargent had painted a portrait of his son. “Whenever the boy grew restless and squirmed, Sargent simply sat on him to keep him still,” he laughed.

  Then Hippolyte whispered, “Je sais où il y a des Gitans”—I know where there are Gypsies. “I’ll take you there tomorrow.” And I could think of nothing else.

  July 21, 1895

  The Lygon Arms

  Broadway

  This morning on our way to the Gypsy camp, Hippolyte pointed out things I’d never seen before: wild orchids in the woods, flowers called “scarlet pimpernels” and yellow “cowslips”—yellow frogs, too! We crossed a meadow filled with rabbits—they hopped off in all directions when they heard us coming. And we saw a girl picking cabbages “pour faire de la soupe,” said Hippolyte—to make a soup. “By the way,” he added, “the Gypsy word for rabbit is ‘shooshi.’ ”

  We came to the edge of a wood and smelled food cooking. “I bet that’s ‘ragôut de hérisson’ ”—hedgehog stew—said Hippolyte, sniffing the air. Then he told me the Gypsy word for hedgehog—“hotche withchi”—and the recipe for hedgehog stew: “First they wrap the hedgehog in wet clay. Then they cook it over a fire. When it’s done, they crack the clay open and pull it away and the spines come with it.”

  I was about to ask how he knew so much about Gypsies when we got to their camp. There were dogs and children around the campfire and, tethered nearby, spotted horses with furry, feathery feet. Gypsies have the most beautiful wagons I’ve ever seen, painted bright colors and covered with designs—even the little stairs leading up to the wagons are decorated with shapes, stars and swirls. Hippolyte says a Gypsy owns his wagon forever and that no one else can ever live in it. When a Gypsy dies, his wagon is burned.

  Just then the dogs began to bark. A man pulled aside the curtain at the back of his wagon and stuck his head out. We didn’t stop running until we got to the rabbit meadow!

  I have so much to tell Lizzy when I see her next week.

  July 28, 1895

  The Lygon Arms

  Broadway

  When Papa went to the Millets’ today to paint, I went with him. There was a game of lawn tennis—artists against writers. We stayed to cheer the artists, but Mr. Edmund Gosse, a poet, and Mr. Henry Harper, who owns Harper’s Magazine, won. Then we set our easels up in the garden and got to work. I squeezed the colors of a Cotswold summer onto my palette:

  All at once I heard Toby barking behind the greenhouse. There was a tiny yellow bird lying on the ground. It must have flown into the glass. I held the bird in my hands a moment—then it fluttered its wings and flew away.

  I turned to go back to my painting and heard a man say, “Wait! Stay just as you are.” He was very tall and stood behind an easel with a small canvas on it. He looked a long time at Toby and me and started to paint. Then he walked forward and back, whistling as he went. “At last I found you, Mr. Sargent!” I thought.

  I’m used to posing for Papa so I know to stand very still. Mr. Sargent paints quickly and keeps his paints in a fruit basket rather than a paint box. When he finished, he held the canvas up for me to see. The painting looked so real, it was like looking into a mirror.

  When I told Mr. Sargent that we had traveled all the way to London from Giverny so he could paint Mama’s portrait, he said he promised himself he would never paint another formal portrait. “I’m sick and tired of people who insist that I paint their portrait and have sitting after sitting and complain when they see what they look like once the painting is finished,” he said. “So now the garden is my studio and I paint what I please.”

  He looked around. “The light’s fading,” he said. “Time for my evening ride. Wish me luck—I’m no better on horseback than I am on a bicycle. I always fall off at least once! By the way, thanks for posing,” he called over his shoulder.

  When I told Papa, he said I had been in the presence of a great man. “Sargent may be famous for his portraits,” he added, “but it’s in his landscapes that you see his genius. He was painting en plein air in Giverny with Monet long before we thought about going there. They’re still the best of friends.”

  Papa turned and looked out the window. “Sargent’s paintings of the canals in Venice and the gardens of Tuscany are without equal,” he said. Then he looked at me and smiled. “We should go to Italy some time.”

  August l, 1895

  Badger Bosk

  Broadway

  Papa has found us a beautiful cottage with big stone fireplaces and window seats for reading. There’s a well in the front garden with water that heals sick eyes and ears. At least that’s what people in the village say. And a thatched roof, made of straw. Papa says every thatcher has his own pattern and that you can tell who thatched a roof just by looking at it. Best of all, our cottage will have the Fosters in it this afternoon—they’re on their way and I can’t wait!

  August 20, 1895

  Badger Bosk

  Broadway

  It’s been a while since I’ve written—Lizzy and I are so busy. Today we took a picnic to the Vale of Evesham. On the way we passed a church filled with white lilies.

  We could tell the church was built with money from selling sheep’s wool. In the stained-glass window it says:

  “I thank my God and ever shall

  It is the sheep hath paid for all.”

  A lady told us they were getting ready for a wedding. “Listen for wedding bells around three o’clock,” she called to us when we left. Later, as we ate cucumber sandwiches, we heard bells ringing through the woods.

  When we got back to Badger Bosk, there was laughter outside the back door. We opened it and saw three Gypsy girls selling clothes pegs. One of them was the girl from the cabbage patch. She smiled when she saw me. I asked her name. “Esmeralda,” she said.

  September 4, 1895

  Badger Bosk

  Broadway

  Tonight we were invited to Russell House for cake, biscuits and champagne to celebrate the birthday of Tessa’s father, Mr. Gosse. But first we had dinner with the Fosters at the Lygon Arms—roast goose with applesauce. And for dessert, raspberry fool. The chef told us how he makes it. I wrote the recipe down for Raymonde.

  Then the chef told us about the ghost. “He sits here and has himself a pint of bitters,” he said. “And when he’s finished, he up and walks through that wall where the fireplace is. There’s no door there now,” he added, “but two hundred years ago there was. Ghosts are creatures of habit!” he laughed. Lizzy and I saw lots of men drinking beer but not one of them left through the wall.

  When we got to Russell House, we followed the sounds of music and laughter to the barn. The gaslights were turned up and people were playing cards, having their palms read and dressing up in costumes for charades. Mr. Sargent was singing and playing the piano; another man, the trombone. Mr. Abbey put on a red wig and a skirt and danced the Virginia reel while Mr. Millet did a jig.

  Mr. Saint-Gaudens cut silhouettes of Lizzy and me from black paper. Then he put them up on the wall—two more silhouettes in a long line of guests who have come to Russell House. After Mr. Gosse opened his presents, Papa said it was time to go home—he didn’t want another late night and hoped to get some painting in tomorrow before the sun was too high in the sky.

  September 15, 1895

  Badger Bosk

  Broadway

/>   Today Mr. Alfred Parsons, a friend of Mr. Henry James’s, rented a steam launch and we all spent the day on the Avon River. Mr. James says Mr. Parsons is a gardener extraordinaire as well as a painter. I can see why—Mr. Parsons trims the hedgerows at his estate, Luggers Hall, into perfect fat shapes—an art called “topiary,” Papa told me.

  Papa and Mr. Foster rented dogcarts to take us to Evesham, where the boat is. Lizzy and I rode with Papa and the art supplies. I thought a dogcart was a small cart pulled by a large dog but it’s not—it’s a cart that’s pulled by a pony. It’s big enough for four people with room under the seat for a hunting dog or two. Since Toby isn’t a hunting dog, he sat on my lap.

  A table ran the entire length of the boat, set with the biggest picnic lunch Lizzy and I had ever seen: goose, ham, chicken, meat pies, pickled walnuts and cakes, biscuits and pies—fruit tarts, too. Mr. Abbey played the banjo while we helped ourselves.

  We motored up the river until we came to a landing, where everybody got out to paint—or to explore, like Lizzy and me. Mama sat by a brook lined with ferns while Lizzy and I walked upstream. I was surprised to hear someone call my name. It was Mr. Sargent, peering around a small easel. “That’s your mother, isn’t it?” he asked. I nodded and then he turned the painting around so I could see it. It was of Mama and so beautiful I couldn’t speak.