“You must forgive me. The color of your hair,” he said. “It is quite extraordinary. Other shades are often faded, or false. Yours is rare, the sort an artist should paint.”
La Geness was of medium height, with a receding hairline and beard without the usual side-whiskers that were the fashion in London.
His eyes were hazel green, brows arched in a tentative expression, one hand tucked into his pockets.
The one that held onto mine longer than might have been proper shook slightly. He quickly released my hand.
“To paint such a portrait would be an honor.”
“Is Madame here as well?” Linnie inquired, interceding as I had a particular comment I would have shared with him.
“Not this evening,” he replied. He gestured to his paintings.
“Tell me, Lady Forsythe. What do you think of my young ladies ?”
I caught the warning look from my sister, something she should practice for little Catherine. Most amusing.
However, I was not a cruel person and could soon escape to another part of the gallery for the next two hours.
“Each one seems to convey emotion—shyness, perhaps even a certain sadness. This one in particular,” I indicated the third painting with the young woman wrapped in a shawl. “I have always wondered how artists persuade women to pose for them. Are they all from Paris?”
He smiled, somewhat indulgently I thought.
“It is not difficult to find subjects to pose. The difficulty lies in finding one that can provide the image that is in the artist’s mind, an expression, or nuance.
Innocence, perhaps as you see there, or a question that is in the look of the subject.
It is often necessary to persuade the desired emotion from the subject,” he added.
“And if you cannot persuade the desired emotion?” I inquired, curious at his description.
“There are always young women eager to pose for a few coins. And if I cannot find that one young woman to be part of the collection, I am always making sketches of faces I see.”
I wondered about the emotions I saw on the faces of the three young women in the portraits. Especially the young woman with the shawl—a face and an emotion from his imagination, no doubt from his studio in Paris. Still …
“How long will you remain in London?” Linnie asked.
“I have found a residence here. It is old and has stood empty for some time, I am told. Yet it suits my purpose. It has a studio for my work that I hope to add to my collection before leaving for Paris, then New York in the fall.” He turned to Linnie.
“And you must return to your work. As I am certain you are aware, it is an obsession that we have.”
“I hope to take up the brush once more very soon. Although I must think of my family,” Linnie replied.
“Ah yes, the child. I remember well from Paris.” He turned to me. “And you, mademoiselle?”
Mademoiselle? The French were quite notorious for their less than subtle flirtations with women of all ages.
“I am not the artist in the family,” I replied. “I do not have the talent for it.” Nor the patience, I thought. “I leave that to my sister.” I then made my departure to view the other paintings on display.
“If you will excuse me ...”
However, the truth was that while I had a passing appreciation for art, I either liked a piece of art, or not.
I did not proceed to analyze every nuance of it for some particular meaning, which was much like one’s opinion, I thought. Very different from one person to the next.
I ventured across the gallery to observe the other works that were displayed, with styles that included the Renaissance, two pieces of Medieval art, as well as other pieces in the Impressionistic style, some which were quite bizarre by Cezanne, then quickly moved on, exchanging a nod or greeting with those whom I recognized.
I did hope that Linnie was enjoying her evening as I paused before a painting by Monet.
He was part of the Impressionist movement. He painted with loose brushes, and used light and atmosphere in a scene to show movement, according to my sister.
Of all the artists I was exposed to while in Paris, his paintings seemed to pull me in, as if I was standing on that cliff with the wind under my umbrella, like the young woman in this painting, Cliff at Dieppe .
If I had explained that to Linnie, she would have been astounded.
I smiled to myself. We shall keep our secret, Monsieur Monet, I thought. N’est-ce pas ?
I remained several minutes longer with the ‘lady on the cliff’ with my questions that others perhaps had when viewing the painting.
What did she see beyond the cliff? Someone, perhaps? A lover? Or was she simply lost in thought, enjoying the day?
It was impossible to tell with Monet’s style what he might have intended. To leave it to each person as they looked at his work.
I felt it at first, that very peculiar sense of something, that inner voice my friend Templeton called it—an awareness of something not quite discernible, but there nevertheless.
When I turned to continue on to the next painting, I noticed a woman some distance apart among the guests. She was staring at me.
She appeared to be alone, although I supposed that a companion could be off inspecting another painting, as she continued to stare.
She had fine features, with dark hair coiled at the back of her head, and was dressed in a dark-blue gown. Her expression was most thoughtful, almost as if she knew me.
I slowly moved on then stopped before a painting by Pissarro, a French landscape that included a vineyard that reminded me of my great-aunt’s property in the south of France.
I lingered for several moments, stealing another glance then turning back once more to the painting. As I continued on, I looked for her once more, but she was gone. I glanced among the guests but failed to find any trace of her.
I realized that I had been absent for some time, and re-joined my sister. James had arrived and she was most anxious about being absent overlong from young Catherine. I was more than ready to leave as well.
I looked once more for the woman I had seen, but failed to find her, as we made our way to the coach James had waiting.
I was too restless to sleep after returning to the townhouse. Instead, I sat at my writing desk and added notes regarding the evening in my notebook, including that somewhat odd encounter with the woman in the blue gown that was actually not an encounter at all.
As for La Geness’s showing at the gallery that evening, it was difficult to explain my thoughts about the painting of the young woman in a shawl.
What was it? Merely my reaction to a very intimate portrait? Or was it something else, I thought, as I poured a dram of whisky.
The young woman’s expression had been wistful, almost sad.
What was she thinking as she posed for La Geness? Something she had hoped for, that was not to be? Disappointment perhaps?
No, it was far stronger than disappointment. Sadness perhaps?