‘Claude,’ Part 6

Trees are in the foreground of the painting, with a farmhouse behind the trees.
“Farm at Les Collettes” by Renoir, 1908-1914

This continues my historical-fiction story about Claude Monet and Auguste Renoir in their later years. To read from the beginning:

Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5


Part 6

Two decades ago, Auguste had moved away from Impressionism after viewing works by Raphael during a trip to Italy, and he began to paint his subjects with a clearer line. Auguste had written of this shift to Claude, and Claude had sent a letter back that he understood, was eager to see what came out of Auguste’s changed method. Claude never communicated his disappointment, but he supported his close friend. 

Auguste’s path had been difficult in tuning the voice of his fingers. Out of that difficulty, he had developed a personal style blending qualities from Impressionism and classical art, resulting in art akin to Peter Paul Rubens with looser brushstrokes.

In the garden, Claude noted the differences between here and Giverny: the types of plants thriving in this climate, the hillside, the areas left to grow wild. He had become accustomed to his careful strategy of plantings and he needed to bite his lip to avoid recommending alterations. This was Auguste and Aline’s garden, not his. Aline had arranged a formal garden in an area, but Auguste’s wish was to not overly design and manicure nature. So the poppies and iris were allowed to proliferate to their desires underneath the trees.

Those flowers were not blooming now, in summer. The roses, which seemed to be everywhere, were in bloom and they perfumed the air, along with lavender, angel’s trumpet, eucalyptus.

Some garden paths were sloped for Auguste’s wheelchair to be pushed. Other paths were stepped, and Auguste was carried in a sedan chair. Claude joked that he looked like a sultan.

A woman stands in the middle of the painting, surrounded by flowers and trees. This is on hillside, and part of a farmhouse can be seen on the top of the hill.
“Young Woman in a Garden, Cagnes” by Renoir, 1903-1905

“Please paint,” Claude said. “Don’t refrain from it on my behalf.”

“You don’t mind?” Auguste asked.

“Not at all. Just because I’m not painting doesn’t mean you shouldn’t paint either.”

Auguste accepted. He sat in the shade, a brush slid into his grip, and worked on a canvas of the old farmhouse of plaster walls, chunks missing to show stones, and a terra cotta-tiled roof.

Meanwhile, Claude roamed the garden, admiring it. Masses of red pelargoniums softened the tops of retaining walls. The Venus Victrix statue, the goddess holding an apple. Cacti, yucca, agave, wild oat grass, bamboo. Trees: palm to linden to pine to orange to peach to cypress. Claude saw Coco climbing a tree, and saluted. He enjoyed the garden’s progress since he had last visited here.

Also while Auguste painted, Claude visited Cagnes with Aline, Jean, Coco, and Gabrielle. The buildings in town were of similar architecture of the farmhouse, the streets of cobblestone. Then the docks for the fishermen, the Mediterranean opening up in her dazzling blue, the salt air more pungent.

During the visit, Claude feasted on the freshest seafood he had eaten in a long time—fish, oysters, mussels, octopus, scallops. Cooked with garlic, lemon, butter. Or cooked with wine, tomatoes, herbs. All washed down with Sancerre and other white wines. 

Claude’s grief from the passing of his beloved Alice made space within him for peacefulness brought by being with the Renoir family. He fit effortlessly in their embrace, strengthened by the years they had known each other. Auguste’s history, Aline’s compassion, Coco’s laugh, Gabrielle’s delightfulness.

Woman and child rest in the shade made by trees. In the middle ground are more trees, and in the background is the Mediterranean Sea.
“Cagnes Landscape with Woman and Child” by Renoir, 1910

The day before Claude left, he and Auguste sat on a balcony to soak in the view of the garden and sea beyond. An umbrella protected Auguste’s sensitive skin from the sunlight. They discussed the news from Paul Durand-Ruel about the buzz in Paris over a Spanish painter. Rumors had swirled about one of the Spaniard’s paintings. Five nude women, their bodies formed by odd angles. Some of the women had masks for faces, and one’s face was twisted about.

“Sounds very strange,” Auguste said.

“It does,” Claude said. “But after I thought about it, I realized that’s what people used to say about us. The young artists are now shaking things up. It’s their turn.” 

“But with weird angles? Masks instead of faces?”

“I don’t understand it either,” Claude said. “But it could be the new direction. That’s no longer in our hands.”

“What’s the painting called?”

“The Spaniard calls it Mon Bordel.”

Auguste winced in distaste. “As if he made his own brothel?”

“I had a similar reaction,” Claude said. “Then I remembered a certain prostitute that sent the old hats tittering many years ago. Back when Édouard was the bad boy.”

Olympia.” Auguste’s distaste smoothed away.

Édouard Manet’s Olympia, by her direct gaze at the viewer, demanded you acknowledge her nudity and her position as a prostitute. Behind Olympia, a black maid presented a flower bouquet that could’ve been a gift sent by a client. Shocked viewers called the painting vulgar. Previously, art’s nudes were gods and goddesses.

That was the second of Manet’s paintings to cause tongues to sharpen and wag in Paris. His earlier Luncheon on the Grass had ignited controversy by showing two dressed men picnicking with a nude female, while another female in an opaque dress bathed in a stream, the group surrounded by dense forest.

Claude had been inspired to paint his own Luncheon on the Grass, women in billowy dresses, additional figures for a more complex arrangement. However, Gustave Courbet had criticized the painting as a knock-off, saying, “By chance of birth, you nearly match Édouard’s surname. People will confuse you two with only a letter of difference. Why would you encourage that confusion by creating a similar painting?” Claude didn’t finish the artwork. Later, he was always irritated when someone confused him with Édouard. “Monsieur Manet and I are distinct individuals,” he would say.

Auguste and Claude bemoaned the recent theft of La Joconde from the Louvre. Saying the act greatly disrespected art’s history. The small painting was a treasure. The way da Vinci had painted the lady’s curious eyes and mysterious smile, the ripples in her dress and sleeves, was masterful. The artwork deserved to hang in a museum for all to appreciate, not secluded in a thief’s apartment. With any luck, the authorities would soon track down the painting and slap justice on the thief. 

As Auguste cursed the burglar, he lifted an arm and shook his hand, as if the thief stood before them and could see Auguste’s outrage. Then he sat back in his wheelchair and let out a grunt.

Once again, Claude was impressed by the man’s resilience. He had been beaten down by pain and frozen muscles, but he kept pursuing his art. The man had immense courage in his heart. Claude’s eyes teared up and he wiped away the moisture.

“Look at us,” Claude said. “Me with my blurred eyesight. You with your difficulties. We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

That earned another grunt from Auguste. “I feel I have several more years in me, God willing. But I miss the vitality of youth.”

“As do I, mon ami.

“The alternative is giving up,” Auguste said. “What kind of choice is that? Not one for me. I will move forward. The pain passes, but the beauty remains.”

Claude looked from the trees to sea, a study in viridian and blue. “Always beautiful, yes.”

“That is the arrangement everyone is given,” Auguste said. “We get difficulties and in return, we get this.” He gestured toward the setting before them. “And a great deal more.”

story concludes on Part 7


copyright © 2020 Dave Williams. The first image is from Wikimedia Commons; the final two images are from WikiArt.

Note

I made up nearly all of the dialogue in the story. The only exception is in this part: “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.” A quote attributed to the elderly Renoir when asked by Matisse why he continued to paint while afflicted with rheumatoid arthritis (source: Experiment Station, website for the Phillips Collection). In my story, Monet asks instead of Matisse.

‘Claude,’ Part 5

Painting of small harbor, with boats at docks and houses by a curving walkway
“Cagnes Landscape” by Renoir, 1910

This continues my historical-fiction story about Claude Monet and Auguste Renoir in their later years. To read from the beginning:


Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4


Part 5

A train brought Claude from Vétheuil to Paris, then another train in a longer journey south, releasing him in the village of Cagnes-sur-Mer.

He inhaled the smell of the sea and understood again why Auguste had moved here. The area provided plenty of subject matter for art, and the air itself was marvelous. Particularly in winter, when the warmth of this area was better for Auguste than the northern region’s cold that worsened his arthritis pain.

Auguste’s chauffeur drove Claude to Les Collettes estate, and on the climb to the house, the car passed a pine grove, olive trees, and palm trees. At the top of the slope, the house was made of pale stones and white shutters.

The door opened and out came Aline Renoir, plumper than the last time Claude had seen her, graying hair swooped in a bun. A little white-and-brown dog raced out and barked at the visitor.

Madame Aline Renoir is sitting with Bob the dog on her lap.
“Madame Renoir With Bob” by Renoir, 1910

“Don’t mind Bob,” Aline Renoir said. “He’s always running about. Hardly ever keeps still.”

“Unlike the rest of us,” Claude said and kissed her cheeks, followed by an embrace. “And I couldn’t forget about him. Bob is such a funny name for a dog.”

Aline looked at the dog sniffing Claude’s shoes. She said, “He’s a funny little thing. The name fits.”

“It’s a joy to see you. You are as lovely as ever, Madame.”

“And you are as full of flattery as ever,” Aline said. “I apologize for not coming to see you, but I needed therapy.” Aline had suffered from diabetes for years.

“I hope you were treated well at the spa?”

“I was. Now, let’s get you inside and to the table. You must be famished after your travel.”

Gabrielle was the next to welcome the visitor, cheerful as she was back in Giverny. She had been a buoyant addition to the Renoirs, although Aline had been jealous of the younger woman spending time with her husband. However, Auguste had told Claude he had never been romantic with Gabrielle, and he even had asked permission from Madame Renoir for Gabrielle to pose nude for him.

Auguste seemed more comfortable in his own home. Before, he had said the place felt like a convent to him, that nearby Nice—where Auguste went to his doctor for treatment—was more energetic. But he had also called Les Collettes a paradise. The garden was to his liking, but the house not as much.

Dinner was sole fillets poached in white wine, and the adults were joined by two of the three Renoir boys: Jean and Coco. Jean was in his late teens, and Coco was only ten years old. When Coco was born, Auguste had written to Claude with concerns about becoming a parent again at the age of sixty. But Coco, whose real name was also Claude, had been in many of Auguste’s portraits. The oldest Renoir son was Pierre, working as an actor in Paris, mostly in the theater, also in the silent film La Digue.

Jean and Coco had met Claude on several occasions, and weren’t shy around him. The boys talked about Bob’s mischief, his chasing rabbits and barking at hens and goats. However, the dog ventured too close to the goat and was kicked in the hindquarters, so Bob had kept a farther distance since then. And the boys told of the time Bob stole part of a roasted chicken from the kitchen table.

Gabrielle said, “That’s the last time I let Bob in the kitchen while I’m cooking. You turn around for a minute, and the naughty devil grabs his chance.”

The boys’ energy reminded Claude when his sons were their ages. After the Monet and Hoschedé households had combined, the meals had been noisier by the increased number of kids. Claude sometimes missed those stimulating meals, and he now enjoyed the lighter dose of them in the Renoir house. 

The pattern of days in Les Collettes reflected those the friends had spent in Giverny. 

In the studios inside the main house and in a separate structure, Auguste showed his paintings to Claude. A mix of landscapes around the property and Cagnes, portraits, a few still lifes. Claude thought the two self-portraits in a white hat were striking in the honesty of showing his age. Auguste had peered into a looking glass and had not flinched.

Surely, people had criticized Auguste for painting scores of nudes at this late stage of his career and called him a dirty old man. To Claude, the paintings were celebrations of beauty. Responses to a wish to reproduce on canvas the things you adored. All artists were fixated. Your eye caught on certain items, and you investigated their curves, colors, textures. Was the eye the originator of the fixation? Or the head or heart? Claude didn’t know, and the answer didn’t matter. He had been too busy investigating what he considered wondrous.

The portraits held a kind of magic. The nude and clothed models would never grow old inside them. Not Aline, not Gabrielle, none of the others. As long as the paint held its color, the model’s age would remain as on the day of the painting’s creation. 

Also, a curiosity about the style of the women, changed since Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette. While the artist had become more shrunken—resembling the numerous gnarled olive trees on his land—the women in the paintings had grown fleshier and rosier. As if Auguste wanted to portray the joie de vivre yet burning inside himself, but instead of showing it in his self-portraits, he enhanced women with vigor.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” Claude said. “If anything, you have become better at the subtleties. These are luminous.”

Merci,” Auguste said. “I’m pleased how they came out. Of course, you always see parts that could be improved.”

“A curse of the artist,” Claude said. “Ever since you veered away from our style, you’ve become more of your own person.”

continued on Part 6

Two paintings: one is a self portrait of Renoir, with tan hat ad a white beard. The other painting is of a mostly nude woman sitting next to a garden wall, with a spout that has water pouring from it
“Self-Portrait” 1910 and “Woman at the Fountain” 1910, both by Renoir

copyright © 2020 Dave Williams. First two images are from Wikiart; the last two are from Wikimedia Commons

‘Claude,’ Part 3

Trees are on the left side and background. The Seine River flows from the right side of the canvas to the middle. Many blue and purple ripples are on the river.
“Branch of the Seine near Giverny” 1897

This continues my historical-fiction story about Claude Monet in his later years. To read from the beginning:

Part 1Part 2


Part 3

Arriving in the summer were Auguste and Gabrielle, coming from Cagnes-sur-Mer in the South of France. Paul had arranged a driver and car to take them the many kilometers to Giverny.

A blessing for Claude to have a dear friend with him, yet it brought sadness when Claude watched the chauffeur and a gardener carry Auguste from the car to a wheelchair. The slim man who used to stroll with Claude for hours around Paris. Decades later, Auguste was even thinner, and walking caused him a great deal of pain. Rheumatoid arthritis had ravaged the poor man’s body and paralyzed a portion of his facial muscles. He had sought relief from massages and baths at spas, which, if any relief was found, turned out to be temporary.

As it happened, Madame Renoir was at a spa in Vichy and wasn’t among the visitors. Gabrielle aided Auguste in the trip. She was Aline Renoir’s cousin and had been hired as a nanny for Auguste and Aline’s second son, Jean. Since then, Gabrielle had become a caregiver and model for Auguste. She was just less than half of Auguste’s age of seventy.

As Gabrielle pushed Auguste’s wheelchair toward the house, Claude welcomed them.

Auguste’s demeanor remained serious, as he said, “There has been a mistake. I was expecting to see my friend Claude. Instead, I have been brought to his grandfather.”

Claude laughed. “I am a grandfather, and a proud one at that.”

“I’d like to be one,” Auguste said, now with humor in his eyes. “I was later than you in having children.”

“You already resemble a grandfather,” Claude said. “If you doubt me, you should look into a looking glass. What you see is not the future, but the present.”

Auguste stroked his white beard with the side of his hand, the fingers paralyzed in a grip. He said, “Oh, I’m quite aware. But your beard is longer. You were always the bushier one.”

Claude leaned down, held Auguste’s bony shoulders, and gave him kisses on both cheeks. The men’s white beards touched, and Claude’s was indeed longer. Despite the humor, Auguste couldn’t hide his disappointment in having to sit during the greeting.

“Are you two finished comparing your beards?” Gabrielle asked. “I would like to see the garden. I had to listen to Auguste go on and on about your famous flowers for the entire trip.”

“A slight exaggeration,” Auguste said. “But let’s go see what keeps Papa Noël busy when he’s not delivering presents.”

During Auguste’s visit, many hours were spent by Claude pushing Auguste’s wheelchair in the straight, orderly paths of the garden next to the house, and the more curving path that followed the perimeter of the pond. Claude would stop the wheelchair next to a bench, then take a seat and the men smoked cigarettes while admiring the blossoms and trees. They exchanged updates of what their children had been up to since their last letters to each other. They talked of Alice Monet and in a way kept her alive.

A train arrives in the train station, with steam billowing up.
“Gare Saint-Lazare, Arrival of a Train” 1877

The painters reminisced about their youthful days, such as when Claude convinced the director at the Gare Saint-Lazare to temporarily delay the trains, so he could paint them and their churning steam.

“It still amazes me how you pulled that off,” Auguste said. “You with your lacy shirt cuffs and your talk of how the trains would make grand art.”

“I impressed the train station director,” Claude said with a smile. “The man knew a true artist when he saw one.”

“Bah,” Auguste said. “You were far from famous back then. You hoodwinked the man. You were a common charlatan.”

“None of us was famous. But we dreamed of success.”

Auguste nodded. “And you were the biggest dreamer of us all. With your studio on a boat.”

Claude liked the mental picture of people on shore, pointing at him in the small boat. He had been quite a sight, starting in Argenteuil. The floating studio had shown him the Seine’s ripples in a different way than from land. He said, “I still have the boat, moored close to here.”

“Of course you do,” Auguste said. He motioned a clutched hand at the scene before them. “And for you to dream up this … this ecstasy of color. As if these flowers have crowded together to get your attention. They’re positively falling over themselves to get the great Monet to paint them.”

“Not recently, I haven’t.”

Auguste looked gently at his dear friend. “But you will get back to it. You’re in a miserable place now, and you may think you’ll never paint again. But you have been there before, and you returned to painting. It’s too deep inside us to ever go away.”

Gratitude washed through Claude. “I’m very glad you are here.”

“Certainly,” Auguste said. “Have faith in the light inside you. It will come out again. As artists, we have to have that. Otherwise, we would only paint the night. And who would buy that?”

“Perhaps some would like paintings of nighttime Paris.”

“Perhaps. But limiting yourself to those would not be good for you.”

“Canoe on the Epte” 1890 and “Rouen Cathedral, Portal, Sunlight” 1893

They spent time in the studio, converted from a barn when the Monets bought the property. The space also served as a drawing room where family and guests conversed after meals, sitting on the wicker chairs, drinking coffee or liqueur, eating cheese straws or fruit jellies or violet-flavored bonbons.

The walls, crammed with paintings, offered a visual biography of Claude’s interests and homes and travels throughout the years. A viewer could shift his or her feet on the wooden floorboards, move their attention around, and absorb a sense of the artist’s history without being told a word. Self portrait of a younger Claude with dark hair, Rouen cathedral, haystacks, water lilies, London’s Houses of Parliament, Camille holding a parasol before a cloudy sky, poplars, two women paddling a canoe, youthful Jean and Michel on a path between beds of tall sunflowers at Vétheuil, Waterloo bridge, cliffs at the sea.

“You see?” Auguste said. “These are far better than if you painted the night.”

Claude inhaled from his cigarette and swept his eyes across the paintings. Here was result of learning from tradition, then breaking it to strive on the path of plein air painting. Claude had been joined not only by Auguste, but Sisley, Bazille, Manet, Cassatt, Morisot, and others. They interpreted how nature looked and felt in a place, at a specific time. Short strokes with the brush, varying colors, becoming intoxicated with color and light. For Claude, that intoxication remained.

Lunches and dinners were livelier than before Auguste and Gabrielle arrived. Claude couldn’t help but think of how Alice would’ve loved to be here, with these guests. He felt guilty for having a nice time without her.

In his first lunch of the visit, Auguste said the yellow dining room was like being inside a daisy’s petal, one decorated with Japanese prints on the walls.

With Marguerite’s skillful hands in the kitchen, the group ate very well. Chicken with chervil. Duck with turnips. Broiled steak in wine. Tomatoes stuffed with thyme, mushrooms, bacon, and shallots. Salads that Claude dressed at the table, but some guests—such as Gabrielle—asked for a separate bowl, due to the host’s fondness for a lot of black pepper.

Meals raised yet another difficulty for Claude to see the state of his friend’s condition. Twenty years earlier, Auguste had suffered from dental neuralgia and his teeth were extracted to lessen the pain. His food had to be mashed or liquefied. It was a blow to a man who loved eating, especially grilled herring with mustard sauce and fire-roasted meat and potatoes.

Marguerite accommodated Auguste’s culinary need, mashing his food and preparing soups for him: cream of sorrel, garlic, and cream of turnip.

“Tell me more about the good, old days,” Gabrielle said at a lunch. “I’d like to hear again about when you two used to kick up your heels.”

People are walking by the dock on the Seine River, with buildings and trees in the background
“Quai du Louvre” 1867

Gabrielle had already heard many stories, since she had been with the Renoirs for so long. The Renoirs had been living in Montmartre, which had felt like the countryside, when they hired Gabrielle as a nursemaid. She had arrived after Auguste’s time of poverty in downtown Paris and she witnessed his rising success. Gabrielle had experienced the Saturday nights when friends came to the Renoir house for conversation and dinner of Aline Renoir’s pot-au-feu that had filled the house with a wonderful aroma.

“I never kicked up my heels,” Auguste said. “I was too dedicated to my art for such frivolities. Claude was the wild man.”

While Claude chuckled, Gabrielle said, “Oh, come off it. I know you didn’t spend all your days bent over a canvas. You were young once, I am sure of it.”

“We were young once?” Auguste asked the host.

“Once upon a time, we were,” Claude replied. “And you participated in the frivolities, too. You can’t deny the truth, mon ami.”

The friends described regularly meeting with other painters at Café de Bade, then later Café Guerbois to discuss their works. The gatherings were valuable for camaraderie among like-minded artists. As were evenings at Frédéric Bazille’s studio. Frédéric had been generous in allowing Auguste and Claude to use his studio, since they didn’t have studios of their own when starting out. The three painted and caroused together, and friends joined them in merry making after the sun set. Noisier were Friday nights at Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s studio, where party-goers drank from the assortment of liqueur bottles, sometimes of unusual cocktails that Henri invented. Classier receptions were held at Georges Charpentier’s home, as well as that of Berthe Morisot’s parents.

“My, my, you two were quite the bon vivants,” Gabrielle said.

“We had our moments,” Claude grinned.

Behind that grin and unsaid was the thought of the friends who had died since then. Many had gone. Bazille at the tragic age of twenty-eight. Berthe Morisot, courageous and graceful amid the group of mostly men. Édouard Manet was older than much of the group, but his passing still stung. Alfred Sisley, just before the turn of the century. Toulouse-Lautrec, soon into the new century.

Sadness added to sadness from those departures. Claude knew Auguste felt it as well; his eyes did not hide it. And Auguste rubbed his nose, a typical gesture when he was troubled.

Claude also knew those vibrant and beautiful people had made marks inside him. Here he was, with a fellow survivor, who could share in telling stories about them.

continued on Part 4


copyright © 2020 Dave Williams. All images are from Wikimedia Commons