Paris: The Novel (74 page)

“Tell them how that adventure began,” said Aunt Éloïse.

“Our first exhibition of Impressionists was not in France at all,” Durand-Ruel explained. “During the German siege of Paris, in the war of 1870, I managed to get out and go to London. Monet, Sisley and others were painting there at that time. I made their acquaintance, and was so excited by their work that I organized a show in London, on New Bond Street. Then in the seventies, we started Impressionist shows here in Paris. And people laughed at us. They said we were mad. But your aunt saw the light. She was one of the few. She bought Manets, Monets, Renoirs, Pissarros, Berthe Morisot, the American Mary Cassatt …”

“It was you, monsieur, who single-handedly brought the Impressionists to New York,” Hadley interposed.

“You are very kind,” said Durand-Ruel. “And may I congratulate you on your excellent French. It is true that we opened a New York gallery, and also that the American collectors were wonderfully receptive to the Impressionists, far more so than the French at that time, I must say.” He turned to Aunt Éloïse. “But you must have a remarkable collection yourself by now. Wherever do you put them all?”

“In my apartment,” said Aunt Éloïse, simply. “But they are scattered about in every room. Most people don’t even know what they are.” She paused. “This reminds me. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask it.”

“Our friend Hadley here would like to visit Giverny, and I thought we might all go up there. I know that Monet is besieged by people wanting to take up his time, but I wondered if you might give us an introduction …”

“With the greatest pleasure. I shall tell him that you were one of the first to acquire his work—he likes to sell, you know!—and that you have the work of all his friends. He will be delighted to receive you. If you care to look around the gallery, I’ll write the letter straightaway.” And he disappeared into his office.

Marie was fascinated. She had always known that her aunt was cultivated and that she bought pictures, but she had never realized quite how far this went.

“I must look at the pictures in your apartment more carefully,” she whispered to her.

Meanwhile, Marc and Hadley were moving from picture to picture. After a few minutes, she noticed that Hadley had remained in front of one in particular for some time.

“Let us see what Monsieur Hadley is looking at,” she said to her aunt.

It was a painting of the Gare Saint-Lazare. Clouds of steam were rising from the railway tracks, as seen from behind a bridge above. The thing had an extraordinary life, and Hadley was gazing at it with rapt attention.

They were standing beside him admiring the painting when Durand-Ruel came back.

“This should do,” he said, as he handed Aunt Éloïse the letter. He looked at the painting. “You like it?” he asked Hadley.

“I love it,” Hadley replied.

“Many artists have painted the Gare Saint-Lazare, including Monet, but this is by a painter named Norbert Goeneutte. He painted at least three of Saint-Lazare in different lights.” He paused. “I’m sorry to say that he died, about four years ago. He was hardly forty years old. A considerable talent, lost.” He paused. “It’s for sale.”

“I’d love to buy it,” Hadley said frankly. “But my father gives me an allowance to study, and I don’t want to ask him for more. Perhaps later—though I’m sure you’ll find a buyer for such a fine work long before I can buy it.”

Durand-Ruel did not press the matter.

And it was then that Marie had her wonderful idea. But she didn’t say a word.

They set out early from the Gare Saint-Lazare. The train took them fifty miles down the broad valley of the Seine to the small town of Vernon. From there, it was only a four-mile ride in a cab, crossing the river by a long, low bridge and following the curve of the stream up to Giverny.

As the train puffed through the delightful countryside, Marie felt a great sense of happiness. Her little plan had worked.

Five days ago Aunt Éloïse had bought the Goeneutte painting for her. It was a private matter between themselves, and nobody else knew about it. Aunt Éloïse had the painting now, safely in her apartment, but it was agreed that when Marie could, she would buy the painting from her at the same price that Aunt Éloïse had paid the gallery. There was only one other aspect to the business, that even Aunt Éloïse did not know.

One day—she did not know when, or under what circumstances—Marie was going to give the painting to Frank Hadley.

The Seine was broad and very peaceful at Vernon that June morning as the fiacre clipped across the bridge. Here and there they passed small houses, or an old mill, with their charming, half-timbered Norman frames and tiled roofs. Everything seemed wonderfully green. It was late morning when they passed the church and came to the center of Giverny, leaving them time to have a pleasant walk about the village before having lunch at the inn. After that, they were to call upon the great painter.

“There’s something strange about this place,” Marc suggested. “Does anyone notice what?”

“No,” they said.

“Then I’ll show you.”

They had gone only fifty yards, and were walking by a small orchard, when they encountered a pleasant young fellow carrying a folder and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

“Excuse me,” Marc said in English, “but could you recommend where to get a drink?”

“Why certainly,” the young man answered, in an accent that suggested
he came from Philadelphia. “I’d recommend Monsieur Jardin’s little café, where you can get an aperitif. Or of course, there’s the Hôtel Baudy. I’d say that’s the best place in the village.”

“Thank you,” said Marc.

A few moments later they saw a couple approaching. “Go on,” he told Hadley. “You ask this time.” And sure enough the couple responded the same way, in English.

“Where are you from?” Marc asked.

“New York,” they said.

“All right,” Hadley laughed. “You’ve made your point. The place has been overrun by my countrymen.”

“I doubt this village has more than three hundred French inhabitants,” Marc said. “And there must be another hundred American artists living here as well.”

“A gross exaggeration.”

But as they passed an old mill, they heard American voices within. And seeing a handsome old monastery on a slight rise, Marc asked a local French villager whether it was still a religious house and was told, no, a charming couple called MacMonnies had just moved in there.

Yet it had to be said, the invasion of artists seemed to have brought no harm to the village. The Americans were evidently quiet, and an easel propped up at the edge of a field, or by the riverside, did nothing to disturb the natural economy.

But if the rest of the village had absorbed the visitors without fuss, one family had seen its opportunity and seized it.

The Baudy family owned the stout inn of geometrically patterned brick that bore their name, in the middle of the village. And their enterprise was obvious as soon as the little party reached the building.

“Look at that!” Marc cried, as they approached.

For there, on a grass plot just opposite the hotel entrance, were two well-maintained tennis courts.

“Tennis courts, in the middle of rural Normandy! Those have certainly been put there for the visitors. I doubt that the villagers even knew what they were.”

Entering the hotel, they at once found notices which announced that the hotel had stocks of all kinds of art supplies, of the best quality—paints, brushes, canvases, stretchers—everything that a resident artist
might need. In the spacious dining room they found the walls covered with paintings by its many patrons.

Sitting down, they were offered all kinds of drinks, including whisky.

“Whisky for the Americans, eh?” Marc commented cheerfully.

“Perhaps, monsieur,” the waiter answered, “but Monsieur Monet always likes to drink it.”

They enjoyed a pleasant lunch. Everyone was conscious that they were about to meet a great artist, but Marc filled in a little more background for them.

“He may surprise you. He was poor for a long time, but he had a patron named Hoschedé, who owned a department store. When Hoschedé became bankrupt, the two families lived together, and finally after both Monet’s wife and Hoschedé had died, Monet and the widow married. Monet is an artist, but he’s determined not to be poor again, and a part of him wants to be a rich bourgeois. He’s been like a paterfamilias to both families for years.” He grinned. “You’ll find him very solid.”

“How do you rate him as an artist?” Hadley asked.

“You know what they say of him? He is the great eye. He may not think as much as some artists, but he sees, perhaps more than any man living.”

And then it was time to see the master himself.

Marie noticed his clothes first. Though it was quite a warm day, Monet was wearing a three-piece suit, the long jacket fastened by a single button over the chest, the other buttons left open, so that the jacket fell comfortably loose. He sported a folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket. But she knew enough to see at once that the coat was made of the finest cloth and had been made by a first-rate tailor.

His hair was cut short, and brushed forward. He had a full, rich beard. His face was large-featured and strong, the eyes luminous, but powerful. Had she met him in the garden of the family house at Fontainebleau, she might have taken him for the owner of an industrial enterprise, or possibly a general.

His wife, a stately, matronly woman, seemed to be of a similar type.

He welcomed them to his domain, addressing himself especially to Aunt Éloïse.

“I was so delighted, madame, to receive the letter of Durand-Ruel,
which gave me and my wife the opportunity to welcome you to our house after all these years.”

He suggested that they might like to visit the garden first, and speak in the studio afterward. And putting on a large, broad-rimmed straw hat, he led them outside.

The main building was a long, low farmhouse with green shutters, set close to the lane, its walls pleasantly covered with flowering plants and creepers. On the garden side of the house, in the center, stood a pair of yew trees, between which a broad path led down through the garden.

But there all resemblance with any garden Marie had seen before came to an end.

The garden was not a wilderness. Far from it. For a start, everything was divided into carefully planted flower beds, though they were placed so close together that one could hardly walk between them. There were fruit trees and climbing roses. But having placed them, Monet left the plants to develop a life of their own. The result was a richness and profusion that was astonishing.

“I plant for color,” he explained. “I have daffodils and tulips, hollyhocks and daisies, and poppies. Sunflowers. All kinds of annuals. In late summer the nasturtiums appear and cover the path. And then friends bring me all kinds of things, rare plants from all over the world, and I find a place for them all.”

This rich riot of color filled over two acres.

“I should have brought my mother,” Marie exclaimed.

“Bring her another time,” he said kindly.