Chapter 16 1865 - France
CLAUDE MONET
Monet’s mind spun after the Japanese delegation disappeared with the Emperor and Empress.
The announcer told the crowd that their Majesties would inspect the treasures brought from Japan.
Monet tried to follow them, but the massive crowd and security detail directing foot traffic made that impossible.
Instead, he made his way back to his paintings. Perhaps if he stood there, someone would show interest. “Or ask me to move a piano,” he chuckled to himself.
He sighed, looking at his work. If he could sell them for thirty francs, he could at least pay something to the framer for his work on these two pieces. Unfortunately, he owed the man much more.
He would never forget the woman or ceremony he had witnessed.
For the first time, he experienced living art, a beauty he might never encounter again.
Watching her float away seemed like viewing the last petal fall from a perfect rose.
He sighed, looked up at his two paintings, and scowled with disgust. In comparison, they seemed dead and unfinished.
How dare I call myself an artist? If he could have reached them, he would have destroyed them both with a slash from his pocketknife.
“There you are, my friend.”
Monet turned. Bazille spun, tipped his top hat, and posed like he’d just sung the final act of Le pont des soupirs.
His appearance pulled Monet out of his dark mood. “Perhaps if the art thing doesn’t work out, you can always sing opera. It suits you.” Claude laughed.
Bazille lifted his top hat and bowed. “Well, I’ve already given up on medicine, and I must support you bums somehow.” He grabbed Monet’s woolen cap and put his top hat on Monet’s head. “There, now the folks will come flocking to see the famous Claude Monet. How is it going, anyhow?”
Monet spoofed as if celebrating a huge group of people around him. “As you can see, I have to beat them off with a stick.”
They laughed together. Then Bazille put his hand on Monet’s shoulder. “At least you got in. The rest of us poor schmucks must live vicariously through you.” Bazille squeezed tighter and his face grew serious. “Truly, you should be very proud.”
Monet searched his eyes. Bazille, ever the true friend, knew the sacrifices.
“If you boys are having a moment, we can come back,” the voice came from the doorway.
Monet and Bazille turned to their mentor and friend, Eugène Boudin, who stood in the entryway.
Blood rushed from Claude’s brain. Standing beside Boudin was the leader of the Japanese delegation and a step behind him, the exquisite woman.
Monet tore the top hat off his head and grabbed his shabby cap from Bazille. Then he bowed subconsciously as he had seen at their presentation to the Emperor.
“The Emperor has asked that I introduce our most honored guest to some of the artists of the Salon. But I’ll introduce you two, anyway.
” Boudin laughed loudly, and the stern man from Japan shot Boudin a confused look.
Out of the corner of his eye, Monet noticed the mesmerizing woman whispering to the somber man. Her eyes directed toward the floor.
“Shibata Takenaka-san, these two young men are my pupils, Claude Monet and Frédéric Bazille,” Boudin said.
“Claude and Frédéric, this is the most honorable Shibata Takenaka. He is an official sent by the Shōgun himself and possibly most distinguished by the fact that he is samurai…the guardians of Japan.”
Monet kept his eyes locked on the man, waiting for an indication of what he should do next. The man bowed his head slightly, compelling Monet to bow deeply again.
The man then turned to the woman, said something, and she took two steps in Monet’s direction. His heart skipped two beats.
Without moving her stare from the floor, she spoke perfect French to them. “It is my father’s great pleasure to meet such accomplished artists. It is my father’s hope that you will see value in the art that we brought from Japan.”
Monet felt unsteady in his mind and legs.
He’d thought the woman to be flawless before, and now she speaks perfect French as well.
My God. And, this man is her father? Monet’s brain was close to short circuiting when, somehow, two brain cells fired, and he said, “I hope you find your journey to France successful.”
The woman translated his words to her father, and he nodded with a slight bow.
The man said something to his daughter, and she translated. “My father would like to see your paintings,” she said to Monet and bowed. Monet wanted to steal a glance at the woman, but thought better of it. I might never look away.
Bazille raised both hands toward Monet. “This is all yours, my friend.”
Monet turned toward the wall and pointed to his two paintings, hung far too high.
The man with the swords, adjusted them at his waist, and stepped toward Monet, who stood a foot taller than the man.
He straightened his back and stood on tiptoes.
He said something to his daughter, who covered the giggle in her mouth with her hand and said, “My father says he will bring a ladder next time.”
The group erupted in laughter.
Boudin waved at another friend, who stood several meters away under a wall of paintings. He turned to his Japanese guest. “Please let me introduce you to my old friend, Monsieur Courbet.” Boudin said and put out his hand toward the master artist.
Monet bowed, but this time stole a glance at the woman. Was it possible she stole one back?
And then they were gone. What a heavenly vision. Monet thought he might faint.
* * *
Yoshi had noticed the young man. In this sea of black suits and ball gowns, he was the only person who stood out in her mind.
It confused her, perhaps because he dressed like a servant.
In any case, she found him intriguing. She’d watched him clown with his friend as they approached.
His smile seemed sincere and thoughtful.
His show of honor to her father also surprised and refreshed her.
The men of this country seemed so forward and paid her too much attention.
So unbecoming of gentlemen, she shook her head, so removed from the code of bushidō.
That is it. He was one of the few men in France who carried the air of a samurai. Perhaps his long, heavy coat reminded her of the samurai kimono, or his thick dark hair that hung around his neck. What a fine top knot it would make.
Yoshi had seen two-hundred-year-old drawings of the samurai with their facial hair, but like her father, the samurai class now kept clean-shaven faces. She disliked the long beards that most French men wore, but the young man’s looked more like a heavy scruff.
It was his eyes. They were dark…full of life and passion. Kind.
And she enjoyed his paintings. They almost reminded her of the work of the famous Japanese artist, Utagawa Hiroshige or Katsushika Hokusai.
She wished there would have been more conversation with Monsieur Monet.