Daughter of Deceit (33 page)

“So when you paint a portrait, you are trying to discover what is hidden?”

“One should know something about the subject if one is going to do a really good portrait.”

“And all the people you have painted are subjected to this … scrutiny.”

“It
makes you sound like a detective,” said Robert. “You must have lots of information about people you paint.”

“Not really,” said Gerard, laughing. “What I discover is for me alone … and it is only with me when I am working on the picture. I want to do something which is true.”

“Don’t you find that people don’t really want to look so much what they are but what they would like to be?” I asked.

“The fashionable painter is usually the one who does just that. I am not a fashionable painter.”

“But if a flattering picture gives pleasure, what harm is there?”

“No harm at all. It is just not what I want to do.”

“I should like to be flattered,” said Marie-Christine.

“I daresay most people would,” added Angele.

“Do you think you really discover what secrets people are trying to hide?” I asked.

“Perhaps now and then. But the portrait painter often has a vivid imagination, and what he does not discover, he will imagine.”

“And does not always come up with the right answer.”

“What he likes to do is come up with some answer.”

“If it is the wrong one, his endeavours might seem to have been wasted.”

“Oh, but he has greatly enjoyed the experience.”

“It seems to me,” said Robert, “that one should be wary of having one’s portrait painted, if in the process one must submit to an analysis of one’s character.”

“I can see I have given a false impression,” said Gerard lightly. “I am really talking of an exercise practised for the artist’s pleasure. It is completely harmless.”

A shadow fell across the glass door which opened onto a roof, and I saw a figure there. A very tall man was looking into the room.

“Hello,” he said, in deeply accented French.

“Come in,” said Gerard unnecessarily, for the visitor was already stepping into the room.

“Oh … I’m intruding,” he said, surveying us. He smiled on
us all. He was very blond, and in his late twenties, I imagined. His eyes were startlingly blue, and there was something overpowering about him—not only because of his size. His forceful personality was immediately apparent.

“This is Lars Petersen, my neighbour,” said Gerard.

I had heard the name before. He was the man who had painted Marianne.

Gerard introduced me. The newcomer obviously knew the others.

“It is delightful to see you all,” said Lars Petersen. “You must forgive my calling in such a manner. I came to borrow some milk. Have you any, Gerard? If I had known you were entertaining, I would have drunk my coffee without milk.”

“We have some coffee here,” said Angele. “It might be a little cold …”

“I’d like it however it comes.”

“We have milk here, too.”

“How kind you are to me.”

“Do sit down,” said Angele, and he took his place on the couch beside Marie-Christine.

“You’re a painter, too, are you not?” she said.

“I try to be.”

“And you live in the next studio … and you have come across the roof.”

“Well, it is not so hazardous as you might think. We can walk about on that roof, and there is actually a path from studio to studio. My studio is exactly like this one. They are a pair.”

Angele gave him the coffee, for which he thanked her profusely.

I thought Gerard looked mildly annoyed and was wishing his neighbour had not joined the party. The big man certainly had an effect. He was soon dominating the conversation … talking a great deal about himself: how he had been a student in Oslo and had suddenly had the idea that he must be a painter.

“It was like St. Paul on the road to Damascus,” he told us. He had suddenly seen the light. So he packed his bags and came to Paris … the Mecca of artists. Such friendly people. So like himself. “There we are, in our garrets … poor but happy. All artists should be happy.” He was looking rather mischievously at Gerard, who would, of course, not be exactly poor, coming from such a family. And was he happy? I did not think he was, which might have something to do with the death of his young wife.

“To starve in a garret is an essential part of the flowering of great art, so they say,” went on Lars Petersen. “So we are all living from day to day, knowing that we are on the road to fame and fortune, and the hardships of the present are the price to pay for the glories of the future. One day the name of Lars Petersen … and Gerard du Carron … will stand with that of Leonardo da Vinci. Never doubt it. That’s what we believe, anyway. And it is a nice comfortable belief.”

He told us how he had come to Paris. He had struggled for a few years … going from lodging to lodging. And then he had sold a few pictures. One of those pictures was a success. People talked of it.

I was perceptive on that day. I was immediately aware of the expression on Gerard’s face. It was fleeting, but it was there. He was thinking of Lars Petersen’s portrait of Marianne which had attracted so much attention.

“If you have one success, people get interested,” went on Lars Petersen. “I began to sell pictures. It was a step up. That’s what everyone needs. Now I have a fine apartment … just like this one. It’s an exact replica. And where could you find anything more suitable to our needs?”

He talked on, and I had to admit he was amusing. Though his French was fluent, he would often search for a word, throwing up his head and clicking his fingers, as though summoning someone to supply it. Someone—Marie-Christine, for instance—usually did. She was greatly amused by him, and I could see that she was enjoying the visit more since Lars Petersen had appeared.

He described his own country, the magnificence of the fjords. “Fine scenery. Paintable, but”—he lifted his shoulders and shook his head—”people would rather have the Louvre or Notre Dame … than all the wild scenery of Norway. Yes, yes, if you want to
succeed, you must serve your apprenticeship in Paris. Paris is the magic word. You cannot be great without Paris.”

“So Gerard assures us,” said Robert. He glanced at Angele. “I think, my dear, that it is time we left.”

“It has been such fun,” cried Marie-Christine.

“You are not far away in the country,” said Lars Petersen. “Just a few miles from Paris, is it not?”

“Yes,” replied Gerard, “you should come to Paris more often.”

“We will,” cried Marie-Christine.

“It has been good to see you, Gerard,” said Angele. “Do come home soon.”

“I will.”

Gerard had taken my hand.

“I have so much enjoyed meeting you. I am glad you are in France. I should like to do a portrait of you.”

I laughed. “After all your warnings?”

“There are some people one sees and wants to paint. I feel that about you.”

“Well, I’m flattered, but I should be a little wary, shouldn’t I?”

“I promise you, the process would be painless.”

“We are going back the day after tomorrow.”

“As we were saying, you are not far away. Would you agree? It would give me great pleasure.”

“May I think about it?”

“Please do.”

“Would you come to La Maison Grise?”

“I would rather do it here. The light is so good. And I have everything I need here.”

“It would mean my staying in Paris.”

“For a week or so. Why not? You are here now. You could stay at the house. It is only a short way from there to the studio.”

I felt quite excited. It had certainly been a stimulating afternoon.

Later that day Angele came to my room.

She said: “I wanted to hear what you thought about the visit to Gerard.”

“I enjoyed it. It was very interesting.”

“He worries me, really. I wish he would come home.”

“But you know how he feels about his painting.”

“He could do it at home.”

“It wouldn’t be the same. Here he is with those people. Imagine the cafe society … the talks … the aspirations and the rivalries … all his friends who understand what he is talking about. Naturally he is happier here.”

“It was different when his wife was alive. She could look after him.”

“He seems to manage very well with Madame Garnier.”

Angele made a contemptuous gesture.

“And there is that man living close.”

“He is certainly a character.”

“I suppose you know him quite well.”

“He has been a neighbour of Gerard’s for some time. He’s always been very garrulous when I have seen him … talking about himself most of the time.”

“Gerard has asked to paint me.”

“I know. I heard him. That would be nice.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure it would.”

“I said that, after all these revelations, I was put on my guard.”

“Oh, that was just idle talk. Besides, you have no dark secrets.”

“Still …”

“I think he could do a good portrait of you. Some of his are really quite beautiful.”

“He did a great many of his wife, I suppose.”

“Oh yes. She was his chief model. There are some lovely ones. It was a pity there was all that fuss about the one Lars Petersen did. I think some of Gerard’s were as good. It’s just a matter of what takes the critic’s fancy.”

“He did not show us any that he had painted of her.”

“No … I think he doesn’t want to look back on all that. It seems to be too recent … even now. But you must let him paint you.”

“I think it would be rather amusing.”

“We’ll arrange it. We have to come to Paris again. I can’t really leave the household much longer now, so we must get back. But we can come again … in a few weeks’ time. I’d come with you and you could go off to the studio every day. I expect he’d want to work in the mornings. The light is best then. Oh yes, certainly, we’ll arrange it. Say in about three weeks’ time.”

I began to feel quite excited by the prospect. I was really rather intrigued by the bohemian life. I found Gerard’s conversation interesting; and I was sure he had many friends as amusing as Lars Petersen.

When we arrived back at La Maison Grise, there was a letter waiting for me. It was from Lisa Fennell.

I felt uneasy when I saw her handwriting. I realized that the visit to Paris had helped me take a few steps away from the past. I had certainly been stimulated—especially by my meeting with Gerard and the glimpse I had had into his way of life.

I felt a sympathy for him. He had lost his young wife as I had lost the husband I had never had, so I felt there was a bond of a kind between us.

And now I was brought back with a jolt to that other world from which, such a short time before, I had escaped.

I took the letter to my room so that I might read it without interruptions.

My dear Noelle,

I have been wondering a great deal about you. In fact, I have never ceased to think of you since you left. How are you? I am sure you are feeling better. Robert is the kindest man I know, and you did right to go with him.

The show finished and it will be some weeks before we open
with the new one. There is a place for me in it, Dolly has promised. Only in the chorus, though. I think Lottie Langdon is going to take the lead. I’m hoping to get the understudy. But at the moment I am resting.

What do you think? I went down to Leverson. I wanted you to know that I had been.

You see, there was a good deal in the papers about that discovery of the Neptune temple. Apparently it’s a great find and all that about how the landslide had revealed it made good news. I was quite fascinated, and I wrote to Roderick, saying how I should like to see it.

He came up to London. I was still working then and he came to the show. We had dinner afterwards. He seemed very sad. He wouldn’t talk about you, so we discussed this temple and he asked me down for a weekend, so that I could see it. I went. It was fascinating. I loved it all. I met that nice Fiona Vance, and she showed me some of the work she was doing. I had a most interesting weekend. Lady Constance was very cool towards me. Clearly she didn’t approve. I understand how you must have felt.

Apart from that, I enjoyed it very much. I became so interested in what Fiona was doing. She showed me how to brush off the earth and stuff from some of the drinking vessels, and I was ever so sorry when I had to go.

Fiona said it was a pity I didn’t live nearer. Charlie was there. He is very unhappy, too. I am sure you are never far from their thoughts.

Both Charlie and Roderick said I must come again. Lady Constance did not add her invitation to theirs!