CHAPTER ONE
This too begins in Paris
1877
Charles stared at the painting. Some kind of undone woman challenged his ponderous glower. She was not yet Salome. She was only the hope of the artist.
Her fingers, splayed triumphant atop her grisly prize like some poised queen spider, had been born fully realized from a few bold sienna strokes. Reaching into the maelstrom of his mind, where dreams break upon memories, the painter had grasped that image of a hand and pulled it gasping from the depths. Endless other flotsam flailed in that wild storm of the imagination but they were left to flounder until, one after another, those nascent imaginings finally despaired and submerged, lost into the dark. He had saved that one breathtaking painted passage though. He had plucked it from the wreckage and hurled it into the world. The sinister hand had collapsed upon the Sinopia washed canvas and took breath. It lay there now, relishing its salvation, and exultating in its own perfection.
The woman's gaze, little more than a hinted wash of brown tones, stared back at the creator that had left her but a notion. Where there were no eyes, they did not question. They demanded nothing of their God. Silently, that thin layer of oils spoke only of the sadness of the unborn. His Salome's features could not be found floating in the frenzied waters of his psyche. Nothing sublime was surviving that tempest. No beauty hailed his attention. She would be, only if he worked her up from nothing.
Still, the man sat staring at this ghost of a thing, this fleshless frame for a dream. The potent weight of that next paint stroke immobilized him.
The Rue Duvivier studio was inadequate. Light was poor and quiet impossible. When Charles Montaigne lifted his mass up from the end of the bed, his restless pacing was immediately confronted by his confinement. Cornered, he swivelled to again contemplate the easel. His heavy, weathered brow remained dour. There was perhaps an hour remaining of sufficient daylight. He dare not use colour by candlelight. Spinning, he was already within reach of the flimsy yellow curtains that were among the residue of a former resident and he grasped them both to frame his face against the too narrow, too dirty window.
Nothing on that Paris street could solve his problem. No aspect of the waning sun would inspire a solution. He sought, he thought, distraction. The gnarled paintbrush was drawn from his teeth to be clenched in a powerful fist. Now, as he beat that balled and angry hand against the ledge and wall and on and on in metronomed demand for answers, always the hog's bristles were kept clear of any contact.
He was grand, M. Montaigne, and stout. A filthy nightshirt was the loose drapery for that barrel-chested nude. Counter pointing his heavy wrists were tiny ankles but this unfortunate feature was hidden within thick stockings. These grey, unwashed things were slowly trying to abandon their charges and had already crept far enough to find their tips dragging along under the soles of their distracted master. The painter was still young enough to be so considered but his brow, beard, and glowering visage wholly suggested that he was much closer to the midway mark of his years. Even smiling, this face would maintain the illusion of maturity. He did not smile. While his dark eyes were lit by a spark of insight and widened with resolve, his thick lips remained tensed. The fist unclenched and the brush flicked off away so that the man's gross hand could seize instead upon the necessary tool: the knife.
His free hand clasped the canvas edge and trapped it. For a breath, the knife wielding fleshy vice held back and the artist stared at that splendid, monstrous painted hand. That claw defined her. The wicked, playful digits could belong only to Salome. Those few smears of oiled pigments told the whole story with sublime perfection. Up came the palette knife and scraped it all away in a single, seeming hateful sweep. Reversed, it came back to massacre what memories remained and then that knife flew in an ungainly arc across the too small room where it clattered and fell and was lost among the ruin.
Charles dressed quickly. Grey trousers were tugged up, to be suspended from great shoulders. Worn shoes shielded his crumpled socks and a black, clumsy overcoat completed the figure before he stormed through the narrow, low corridors of the building. At the stairs, Madame Darlon obstructed him. She was done with her daily sad gossiping and was back to pursuing her own life, which, to Charles, seemed to be nothing more than the pedestrian purpose of dragging her crippled limbs back up to her empty room. Her slow ascent barred the anxious artist and he fumed, but waited. She lifted her aged neck and half smiled up at the large man but he did not counter even this simple courtesy and then his pungent turpentine air pinched her smile away. His neighbours were, once again, an inconvenience. He did, in time, bypass the obstacle to be free upon the Rue Duvivier.
The canyon walls of the Paris street were carved of regimented narrow windows, each with some variant on the same shallow shutters. Above the mansard rooftops, grey clouds broiled through fading skies, slowly floating the promise of heavy rains. Sweet, pungent urine hovered in the humid air.
Charles stuffed his fists into the deep pockets of his torn overcoat and slumped onward to elsewhere. He did not know where he was going. It didn't matter as he immersed himself into the beetling black crowds of the evening. The monochrome citizens, greyed out by the encroaching darkness, hurried to their homes with hats drawn low to insulate themselves against the opposing pedestrians. Charles weaved about and side-stepped the passers-by. Never otherwise though did he acknowledge their passage or presence. His march through the two million people of Paris was one for solitude. Mankind was his impediment.
He watched a portly merchant step out of a shop and commence to lock it. Charles was already planning his contingencies for avoidance depending on how the man might obstruct him. In the end, no dodge was required for Montaigne drew himself up at the glass pane of the storefront and halted. Knick-knacks. Curios. Jewellery… and paintings. It was a potpourri of wasteful decoration for tasteless Philistines and petty Bourgeois. None of his paintings were there in little faux gilt frames. They never would be.
The heavy storeowner, with a remarkably white moustache, smiled pleasantly at Montaigne. "I'll be open again tomorrow. Please come," he said and then, with a smile and a doffed hat, headed on home to his waiting family. Montaigne glowered. He did not know why the pleasantry of the fat man had angered him so. Why should he so despise one who had found happiness and at least some level of prosperity? That man would be eating tonight.
It must be envy.
It couldn't be envy. Montaigne wanted nothing from that man's empty life. He did not wish to find himself ever tipping his hat and grinning at strangers. Reflecting in the dark shop window stood a man that Charles respected. He was not handsome and he appeared pale. His ratted beard did nothing for his appearance, but he did not need to shave. The coat, given to him some four years ago by a friend now long gone elsewhere, fitted his large frame poorly and left those little ankles looking foolish. It was his Giotto cloak, another friend, also gone, had liked to say. It even almost made his hands seem small. He was proud of himself though. Nothing should be changed about his life… except the success. It was his own fault if he failed. He could not blame the world regardless of how much he wished for it to be otherwise. Charles Montaigne was fully responsible for every failure.
Long strides took Charles away from the storefront. Bustling through winding avenues, beneath busy, bushy trees that went about their own way, Montaigne was intent upon himself.
Arriving on le Pont des Invalides, the painter paused to look up the length of the Seine and at the other bridges and all the people passing across each on their evening excursions and retreats. Barges, more marks of commerce and productivity, lined both banks of the river on into the distance. Beside him, a tender couple, wrapped against the rising winds in formless blacks were united in an embrace. The city moved all about them, but at this moment, they saw only their lover. Their cheeks each brushed against their other so assuredly and that young kiss must have been so warm.
Montaigne shifted and pulled his collar higher in an effort to fend off the chill. There was some slight defence to be found beneath a humming black lamppost so he pressed his spine against the stone of the bridge and let the dull yellow light shape his mass.
It ought to be warmer for summer.
By day this place would be cluttered with painters making themselves a meagre living from watercolours of other people's architectural visions. Also hawking their skills would be caricaturists... and even Impressionists and faux impressionists (the technical term, thought Charles, was 'bad painters') would be here in search of open air. Realists would avoid this area. They were only happy digging into the bloody, hungry underbelly of the city. Prosperity and cheer was not realistic, they thought. Reconsidering the amorous pair, Charles decided that Realists never painted love. A moment later he admitted that he didn't paint love either. He was moving again then, leaving the quiet scene well behind.
A realist might have painted him, slouched against the encroaching dusk, drawn toward unknown solace of the streets. They would paint him as a solitary figure dwarfed by dreary neo-classical building facades. No, it likely would warrant nothing more than a charcoal sketch. Maybe pen. Maybe print. Certainly, it would be less than black and white, only too subtle shades of grey until he blended with the city and so vanished.
This man though had no intention of vanishing. He had too much that needed to be said. His voice needed humanity to hear it. It was not politics that Charles yearned to shout from the rooftops, nor was it ethics. He cared not a whit for the Rights of Man or the dangers of industrialization. He would not preach for God. God had his own voices. The desperate cry that was being strangled daily in the throat of this ugly human being was for Art.
The art schools, the salon, and the academy all shouted him down. The workers, with rolled sleeves, and the busy bourgeoisie ignored him. They paid no heed to Art. Storming through the darkening avenues of the capital, Montaigne knew that not one soul there cared if he should live or die but it was not this loneliness that drove his anger. His soul was embroiled by a fury that so few understood what beauty could be theirs. Beauty sends man to the stars and these mortals sought only to burrow deeper and darker into their own selfish existences, into the ruin and stink of Paris.
"I am bored," determined Boniface aloud," before I come to Madame Delattre's gatherings!" and Madame Delattre and Madame Delattre's husband and Madame Delattre's gathering breathed silent sighs that became a rolling laughter of relief.
Madame clapped her hands together and rose to welcome the young painter to the cluttered chamber. Her heavy embroidered skirts were no obstacle to her transport just as her ridiculous makeup did not conceal her earnest delight at the arrival of Boniface Roy. And Monsieur Delattre crossed his legs and arms.
Anton Levesque, at the piano, restrained himself from the sonata. The newcomer must have his due, afterall. The less fuss that is made, the sooner that 'artist' would be stuffed into one of Madame's uneven salon chairs to become, once more, a part of the audience rather than an object of attention. Anton's too thin fingers danced restlessly in the air over the keys as he waited for his moment in the sun. Annabelle, at his side on the mahogany bench, turned from admiring the handsome Boniface to frowning at her brother, as prettily as she could.
In the entranceway, Boniface was regally framed by draped, patterned curtains of deepest maroons but they were darkened and made dour by the man's ochre suit. His long blonde hair, like that of some Apollo, highlighted the ensemble and there was no hat in his delicate hands.
"You are late again, my incorrigible Mr Roy," said the hostess even as she clung to her guest's well-suited arm. Boniface allowed no hint of recoil to mar his complexion when he found his elbow pressed into bountiful cleavage. Rather, his magnanimous visage passed from one member of the crowded salon to the other, deigning to delay longer on each of the few almost attractive ladies that attended. He allowed himself to be led to a chair that was, he likewise noted without revulsion, exactly opposite Madame's.
"I offer apologies to my charming host and hostess," and here he paused to acknowledge M. Delattre who in turn gave a turgid nod. His excuse was perfect, saying, "I had started early enough, with earnest intent, but was arrested by the beauty of the evening sky! Halted, bound fast by furious beauty, I stood, no kneeled, and was defeated by the glory of celestial colours! Could I but grind out an orange pigment that paid homage to that sunset, I could never come again to my friends here, but instead would eternally be confined to the prison of my studio."
Madame left him there and, giddy with delight, traipsed to regain her own place.
Uncomfortable in the seat next to the sounding Boniface Roy was that once-noted author of a certain Tyrolean romance, Auguste Orden. He offered a challenge to the newest arrival, saying, "You did manage your escape though from that splendid Polyphemus. We are delighted that the sky did not devour you utterly. What wits and wiles did you employ?"
And Anton's fingers pressed so slowly down upon the ivory that no sound was issued.
"I… "
Boniface's pause was entirely uncomfortable to the entire room yet they waited on his word and allowed him the moment.
"I clung indeed to the belly of a cloud as the blind sky counted their passings!"
It was a general applause and even Auguste patted his palms beneath a smirk. Annabelle once more nudged her brother and a sonata began to thunder from the piano. After sufficient politeness had kept the room in rapt attention through the introductory passages, August leaned in to whisper for Boniface.
"Have you used that excuse twice tonight now or three times?"
Boniface's nose was turned up to play its part. "Only twice. I was timely to Madame Courvoisier' little soiree."
"Well, of course. I have seen her daughter."
"You misjudge me, my friend. Had I intentions upon her daughter… my visit there would be my last of the eve."
Auguste looked over the faces gathered in the gas lit room, from wrinkled attentiveness to naïve rapture and the semi-slumber of M. Delattre. Such stupidity. He once more murmured to Boniface, "Where do you go next then tonight?"
Boniface set a single finger upon his lip and then drifted it on up to an ear so that Auguste fell silent and swivelled his attention to the boney pianist and his similarly thin page-turner. M. Levesque's piano work was not entirely mediocre. There was some charm to it, some capability. He enjoyed the performance as did, it seemed, the remainder of the small and private assembly. They had likewise fawned over his drawings on the occasions when he had felt the need to bring them. They positively adored his paintings.
With the final crescendo that ended the sonata, before the friendly applause had subsided, Boniface affected great excitement. He sprung from his seat and fully stretched himself across the still vibrating piano. He looked as though he might have bounded into the arms of Anton had the instrument not obstructed him.
"I must paint you! Both of you! Together," he half-whispered.
Annabelle's eyes widened as much as her brother's narrowed. The room was yet humming with the energy of the moment, but they had been caught unawares by the handsome young artist's enthusiasm. Boniface would not unclasp his opportunity.
"There is a phantastical magic between the two of you, a symmetry and yet, in the same breath, a conversation of distinctions." While still pressed atop the piano, Boniface used his hands to mime quick picture frames about the pair. "Marvellous," he murmured.
"That would indeed be marvellous," exclaimed Annabelle and pressed her brother for assent. He surrendered it with a wary nod, but followed that up instantly with a bright enough smile.
"Certainly," he answered, beginning to take to the idea.
Boniface gave a wink and then leapt back from the scene. With nearly a bow and almost a pirouette, he glided back to his chair at the proceedings.
M Delattre took the opportunity to unfold his arms and lean in to the young pianist with a warning, "Negotiate and settle a price before he opens his paint box."
*
It was already nearly noon. Ambrose did not pause in the steady application of the viridian glaze. His gaze remained entirely fixed upon the line that the damp brush was making while it ascended the plane. Nearing the point where the line would need curve to simulate the neck of the bottle, the artist studiously tensed his thumb about the narrow wooden tool and so precisely achieved his nearly perfect demi-arc. As the crest of the paint approached the topmost point of its designated field, Ambrose shifted his concentration to how he would lift the brush away without depositing an excess of transparent pigments. The wrist twisted as he pulled back, elbow raised, and a thin smile would have shown to his wife but for the grey mass that bearded him and Madame Ferland's attention to her responsibility to remain behind her husband while he worked.
Jacqueline did not repeat her question but waited unmoved. Her hands remained clasped in the front where sharply boned fingers neither tightened nor tensed. Her narrow eyes were as focussed upon the bald skull of her husband as the painter was upon the colours and forms to his front.
Ambrose's brush was a pig's hairbreadth away from the small canvas before he pulled it back with a shake of his head.
"That's not going to work," he said and hovered the brush over the pan of pungent solvent as though he was uncertain. Jacqueline said nothing. She knew from the slightest movements of Ambrose's head that the deep furrows of his brow were rolling like waves.
"It will not finish today. It will need another two layers and no less than twelve hours of drying time between each.
Jacqueline unbound her hands to grip her elbows. The simplest of wedding bands hung loose upon her pale finger.
"You know that Ghislaine will be home tomorrow. There should be wine."
The painter sat back in his chair, rubbed his hooked nose green, and looked from still life to subject: A bread roll, two peaches, already darkening, a handful of spoiling grapes and an uncorked bottle of wine. He did not know if it was good wine. He knew that the bottle was a good shape and an interesting hue. There should be wine.
"It will be finished today."
Ambrose rose from the chair and turned about to look upon his wife in her black dress. He was surprised to see her dark hair down and unbound. When his cheeks peaked into a smile, she unpursed her dry lips and mirrored him without animation.
The apartment was modest with reasonable dark-wood furnishings. A single painting decorated the walls, over Jacqueline's shoulder: a picture of a simple young woman in blacks, contemplating a morning after the rain. Her hair had been unbound on that day also. The light of the living room was good and since there was no need to allow for guests, it offered a serviceable studio that overlooked the rue Cortot.
"Perhaps," ventured Madame Ferland, " if you get it finished in time to take to M. Denain's shop today, he can advance you enough to allow us to pay the butcher tomorrow. Ghislaine would enjoy some fresh beef, would she not? You have paint on your nose."
"He might take it, but there'll be no advance. It will not sell." Ambrose glanced at his hands and knew enough not to try wiping his nose with them.
"You've sold still lives before."
"This isn't pretty enough. I did this to learn."
Madame Ferland's voice rose, "To learn? What more do you think you need to learn? You've had a lifetime to learn. You know exactly how to make a painting that is pretty enough to sell. Stop learning. Make a living."
In silence, Ambrose watched his younger wife give him the earned rebuke. Her words were wise and they made perfect sense. He had a duty to Jacqueline and Ghislaine. His position, he knew, was defenceless.
"You're right. I was wrong. What can we do now to redress it?"
She had an answer fully prepared, "M Altret owes you payment on his portrait. Go to him and collect tomorrow."
"I have tried. He, like we, cannot conjure money from the air."
"I shall go and speak with Madame Altret. Perhaps we can find a way. How much is he in debt to you?"
Ambrose paused before answering, "Two Hundred Francs."
Jacqueline nodded. "I can get some part of that then without having to go to the authorities."
Her husband turned away then, ostensibly to study his painting once more. Jacqueline offered a new possibility.
"You, in the morning before you bring Ghislaine back from the station, take your painting to the streets and try to find a buyer among the hawker's stalls. I see paintings sell there all the time. Perhaps you could do a colourful painting of bridges on the Seine next."
"Perhaps" answered the old man as he now wrung out the solvent from his brushes.
His wife assured him, "You do not give yourself enough credit. This painting is very good. It is pretty. You could find a buyer if you tried."
"I have an appointment with M. de Grenville tomorrow morning. There may be an opportunity there." He resumed his seat before the canvas.
"Yes, well, we know the value of opportunities and dreams."
The gaze of Ambrose flicked from point to point, from painting to window to empty walls to the peaches and bread.
"My Love, I am finished with these subjects. You are entirely welcome to put a suitable end to them now."
"Wonderful, but we shall share our lunch, My Dear."
"So we shall then."
*