CHAPTER FOUR
A Summer Start
On the morrow, Boniface Roy was the last to emerge into the splendid sunlit dining room. It seemed so much livelier with the summer's warmth bathing the undraped wooden tabletop. Something more struck the artist as peculiar as he stepped into the light: the gay laughter of women lifted the scene. Ghislaine and Adele were sharing some girlish joke. Likely as not, it was at the expense of others gathered around the buttery breakfast who were each suitable for lampooning.
The host and hostess had, amid the hurly-burly of the scene, each assumed their proper antipodal points, so as to preclude intimate murmurings. Montaigne, unchanged in his attire, had refused to seat himself and now stood propped against the doorframe with a steaming bowl in one large mitt while in the other, he obstinately worked both coffee cup and spoon. Adele kept shooting watchful glances at the large guest, fearing that he should, in spilling, aggravate her toils. Ghislaine, through charity or restlessness, was aiding the serving girl by pulling plates from her parents. That pair, the Ferland wife and husband, had set themselves side-by-side at the table where she, the thinnest and coldest thing in the room, manoeuvred her broth from tabletop to lipless mouth with not a gesture spare. For each and every ill-considered movement from her husband, Madame Ferland would only glance but not issue one whispered reprimand. A silent tally of his faults was tolled, he knew.
The arrival of the blond latecomer caught the distinct attention of Monsieur de Grenville and it roused a bright smile from him that suited the scene perfectly. "Good morning, M. Roy. Welcome."
In turn, Boniface illuminated himself and fairly sprung a pace forward, returning such pleasantries as people do in such moments. Madeleine appreciated the younger man's energy and, given the increased clumsiness on the part of Adele just then, so did the maid. Ghislaine, bending by knees to retrieve the spoons that had just fallen from the distracted Adele, almost turned her movements into some sort of curtsey. It would have been inappropriate.
The gathering then settled into comfortable discourses. Ambrose, Jacqueline, and Roland chatted about the garden. Boniface smiled at Madame de Grenville and discriminately complimented her taste in furnishings and decor. Ghislaine followed along with Adele, the pair of them saying little but exchanging wordy glances. Madeleine sensed that the day was drawing long.
"Roland. We ought to let our guests get to work."
This remark earned an appreciative nod from Jacqueline. M. de Grenville controlled any clues as to his reaction and offered his wife a smile. Before he could speak though, Boniface raised a question. He asked, "What sort of work do you want us to do?"
Roland laughed. "You are painters."
"He means what sort of subjects are you seeking?" clarified Montaigne but then Roland could only shake his head and laugh again.
"Whatever you like."
"A Bacchanal then?" Boniface quipped and everyone shared a good laugh. Ghislaine blushed at this sidestep toward the indecent.
"Whatever you like," repeated Roland with some reservation. "We have converted the conservatory and sitting room into studios that should meet your needs. They have excellent lighting, particularly in the mornings." Montaigne's heavy brows rose appreciatively. Perhaps there was honesty at work here. Perhaps there was no swindle. Tension began to slip out of his frame.
Ambrose, on the other hand, had found something to alert him. “Two studios?" When Roland nodded the old painter was obliged to expand. "There are three of us."
"I thought that you could share… sometimes." At this, Montaigne only shrugged while Boniface reconsidered the other painters anew.
Ambrose tightened. "I would use the library."
"I don't… “ began Roland.
"Certainly" answered Madame de Grenville. "We will surrender the library to you. There is no good light."
"It will do perfectly."
"Thank you," said Jacqueline, for her husband. The room succumbed to silence then until Ghislaine's laughter rolled in from the kitchen. Jacqueline Berthe rose from her seat, her husband following suit out of deference, and went in search of her too-merry daughter.
Montaigne gave another heavy shrug as he said, "I'll start in the conservatory this morning." Then he pushed off from the wallpaper to make a straightforward exit. Ambrose made his own departure immediately afterwards, leaving Boniface alone with the de Grenville couple.
"Could I trouble you for some lunch?" asked Boniface through as charming a smile as he might muster.
For the small congregation of M. Roland de Grenville, the first days of summer were happy and bountiful. While each of the artists toiled away at their private projects the rest of the villa sought to leave the men to work in peace. Madame Ferland occupied her time and her daughter's by aiding in the general running of the household. Adele certainly appreciated the assistance. Madeleine de Grenville did not discourage her guests from these domestic efforts in the least nor did she encourage them. Truth to tell, she was glad not to have to entertain the elder Ferland woman. She was not any type of interesting, after all. Ghislaine even was pleasant enough but her naiveté had quickly begun to grind against the tougher hide of Madeleine. Madame de Grenville tried to invest herself in her gardening but she could not remain there for long. She was too interested in the project.
At first she was overly expectant. She did recognize soon though that it was foolish and futile to pace the hardwood halls outside the studio doors, to wait anxiously and count down the moments until dinner when the troops would muster and she could get reports from her soldiers in the field. Madeleine would sometimes feel herself ridiculous, having to wait until her husband had directed the conversation to the progress of the artists. This was his project. She had to hold herself in restraint, dutifully and demurely, allowing it to always be his project.
On one of the early mornings, Montaigne awoke to find three new nightshirts pressed and laid out at the side of his bed. He had, by then, moved his bed into his studio. His first instinct was to refuse this charity. Any filthy clothing that he liked to work in was his business. It was a part of his being an artist. Whoever provided the shirts (it had to be Madame de Grenville) had no business trying to dress him, trying to change him. He did know that his principled stance was petty and pointless. Worse, it was a lie. Charles feared gifts. They required a reaction. They required that he accept the kindness of another. Yet, these smelled so clean and fresh. He was, he reasoned, a guest. The hostess did not place the shirts here for his benefit. No, this was for everyone at the villa and it was for herself, because she was ashamed to see her guest so rudely clothed. What would she think if he refused the raiments? She might be hurt. He knew that none of his principles were so important that they should be an excuse to injure a good woman.
Still, when he tugged off the ruined cloth that was his old shirt, he balled it up and firmly stuffed into his travelling bag. He would want it later.
Across the hall from the conservatory studio, Ambrose Ferland was quietly, patiently working in the library. He would work very long hours but never after dark, even though he required lamps to work, even by day. After dinner, Ambrose would spend all of his evenings with his wife and daughter. The rooms for the family were at the opposite end of the house from the library and no matter how occupied he might be with an idea, he would not cross that divide when it was his wife's time. The three would spend their evenings sometimes reading together, sometimes praying together, and often simply sitting in silence absorbed in their own thoughts.
In the days though, Ambrose worked. His primary project was a still life of a wine bottle, a stack of Roland's books, and some too quickly rotting fruit from the Adele's kitchen. In style it was entirely classical and in temperament, it was precise. Ambrose though was undertaking the painting with a palette of oils that he had never used before, but had purchased in Paris before coming to Amance.
It is not fair to say that Boniface Roy was not working as hard as the others, but it would certainly have seemed that way. He had the sitting room all to himself but he seemed to find excellent reasons to wander the house and grounds. There were a few afternoons, in those early days, where Boniface would sit and discuss the philosophy of aesthetics with Roland and just as often he would find time to socialize with the ladies of the villa. The young artist was restless and missing the Parisian society, but he was not all play. His Madonna and child progressed more quickly than anyone would have expected.
Roland de Grenville was certainly surprised by the quality and alacrity of Boniface. On the host's regular rounds, he too often found the lyric to not be at his easel but still the work got done. Ambrose would always be at his workplace but his pace was painstaking. Montaigne was always there also, except when he would take his long marches, and would work long into the night but though much paper was marked, little was produced. Once per day, Madeleine would take the rounds with Roland. If she was disappointed with the production of the artists, she was certain never to express such a sentiment. She would travel in near silence, making certain never to contradict the esteemed critic that her husband was known to be.
In the dying hours of one chill afternoon, Roland took the opportunity to slip into the conservatory studio. Montaigne was off on one of his long brooding hikes through the countryside. Likely he would miss his dinner once more. At first glance, Roland despaired at the mess that had, this early, been made of his fine room. The drop cloths took most of the damage but it was the general debris that left him aghast. "It is all for the good of art," he would tell himself. "From such ruin will beauty be born." That was when Ghislaine, too late aware of M. de Grenville's arrival, gasped and tried to hide herself.
"Ghislaine!" he bid her halt. There was nowhere for her to hide in any case.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't touch anything."
Roland smiled at the young woman in her young girl's skirts. "You shouldn't be playing in here."
Ghislaine's first reaction was to take offence. She was nearly seventeen years old. She was no child.
"I wasn't playing." She defended herself. "I was…" Less deftly than she wished, Ghislaine put the drawings back atop the protected piano. "I was just looking. They are beautiful."
Roland stepped up to appraise the worth. These sketches by Montaigne were certainly well crafted. Female nudes emerged by graded chiaroscuro from the cream surface of the treated paper as ghostly conjurations of the artist's imagination. Roland always was astonished at the ability of artists such as this, but he quickly moved past that oft-experienced sensation. He commenced to critique the nudes.
"The anatomy is askew. Something is amiss" he lectured.
"No," she asserted. "They are beautiful."
His smile was entirely condescending and Ghislaine did not misinterpret it.
"Here," and the critic snatched up a drawing and spun to find a mislaid mirror. Holding the drawing up before the reflection he issued a certain "Ah ha!" and then beckoned his audience over. "You can see it here. It is clear." The girl peered past his shoulder to examine the mirror image and her eyes widened.
"Oh."
"The torso is too long below the rib cage. Oh, and the ankles too are clearly now seen to be all wrong."
"Is it some kind of magic trick?"
Ghislaine ran to get more drawings. No, they looked right and proper. They were splendidly drawn. Putting one up to the mirror though, she was shocked. "The arms are different lengths! Why couldn't I see that?"
Roland rolled his shoulders and continued to speculate on the images. "Why couldn't he see that?"
She held her drawing upside down and gazed at the mirror. "Its not at all right."
"No," he said. "It isn't."
"But it is still just fine from the front… isn't it?"
He wandered around the room and stopped before the single canvas that Montaigne had begun. It was nothing more than a few broad brushstrokes outlining some seated figure. It was the product of twenty minutes work at most. The volume of drawings though amounted to fully employed days yet they were cast offs, unfinished ideas, and explorations. He was trying to do something with the female nude but it was clear to Roland that Charles had not the least idea what he was going to do.
Ghislaine, in her turn, turned to see the umber image upon the canvas.
"Will it be a Venus maybe?"
Roland shook his head. "Venus does not sit. She might recline but nothing so vulgar or common as sitting so. There isn't enough here to know the subject. Evidence suggests to me that indeed, he does not know his subject yet."
"But all these drawings?”
"Fumblings. Failures."
"But they are beautiful!" asserted the young lady.
"They are half-finished notions and experiments. Do not be fooled into appreciating the potential of a piece." Here Roland issued a long sigh and returned to the charcoal drawings.
"That is why these are flawed," he continued, "Look at the cross-hatching used to describe this arm. Here, in the same drawing, he is now trying some subtle sfumato with parallel lines. Even his light source has changed. Look! Now here he has found delight in a contour… see here he emphasizes the curve of the hip. That is fine but there is no unity of vision. These are three distinct and different ideas crammed into a single picture. Of course it fails! There is no unity of purpose. No grand idea. They have nothing in common." His thoughts trailed off here.
Ghislaine surveyed the changes that the pair had made to the chamber. "He'll know that someone has been here."
"And so he will rumble and shake and threaten an avalanche."
"And?"
“And he will remain," Roland seemed certain.
"You seem certain."
"I am certain of nothing. I do not know how to make this work."
"Will it work?" the girl asked.
Ghislaine's question put doubt into the eyes of Roland. "I don't know. I may have chosen the wrong people. No. I had to choose these ones."
"You will give M. Montaigne more time then, yes?"
"Yes. Time won't help him though. M. Montaigne needs inspiration... passion and inspiration. He is not Mozart."
"Mozart?"
Roland explained, "A lyric. The lyric can work without passion. He can simply craft beauty from expertise and … and … sensitivity. People like M. Montaigne, they need to be fired from cannons."
"Like my father?'
With a laugh, he stepped into the middle of the room and began to gesture as he continued. "No, your father is the staccato of a rolling barrage of musketry. Each barrel has a different target. Each bullet is hitting a different mark. There are misfires and there are good hits but he does not hesitate to advance his marksmanship. They are ramming home new ideas before the smoke of the last volley has been cleared."
"Then what is Monsieur Roy?"
"Monsieur Roy is… a gaudy, glistening squadron of cavalry, marshalled on the battlefield in marvellous, colourful uniforms. They wait, always at the ready. Finally, they will ride forward and make their marks with precise arcs from silvered sabres. They rally then, rein in, and return once more to wait until their next grand moment."
The girl was beaming then, enjoying the energy of Roland. "You are their Napoleon?"
"Perhaps I am their enemy. I am, at most, but a Marshal, perhaps little more than a courier bearing a dispatch from Providence." Too proud of himself, Roland allowed his moustache a twirled indulgence.
Ghislaine thought about her own role in this metaphor. What was the place of a girl in such struggles? Should she remain at home, making bandages? Maybe it is her role to wave as the heroes march off to war and then welcome them all warmly home. Nobody ever fired her from a cannon. Yes, she drew. She had learned to draw as a young girl. All proper girls did portraits and silhouettes. These images from Montaigne though, these were something more. These were greater than her father ever did even. His drawings were always nice enough and well made but no, they never fired her from a cannon. It was Ghislaine's turn to sigh while holding Montaigne's nude studies. "What an eye he must have. We do not see the world as he does."
"It is the same world," the man answered as though it was something profound.
"Yes. I know. Of course, but he sees something that we do not. But still… but still… he sees what is there."
"The artist's role is to illuminate the truth for the blind."
Ghislaine smiled as though she had thought of something very clever. "I see" she said and then began to try putting the drawings back as she'd found them. "He'll be back soon."
Roland despaired of trying to do any tidying. If he started on this mess he'd not be able to stop. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and retreated toward the exit.
"We don't wish to be caught," he said, speaking of the return of the bear to his cave but as they words fell, they both took on a fresh awareness. It was only then that it occurred to either of them that their encounter was indiscreet. No matter how often her mother sought to impress upon her the responsibilities of her sex, Ghislaine had not shifted her psyche from that of a young girl to a woman of society. It did not feel right to her yet. She still did not regard men first as predators. Suddenly everything though seemed awkward.
"No. We should go," said Ghislaine quietly.
"Yes. No. It has been…"
Now there was no context. Now there was no comfortable level of conversation. Small talk was no longer even an available course.
"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle."
Roland made his exit, leaving the disorder behind for Adele.