Chapter 27 1865 - France
CLAUDE MONET
The night before he was to paint her portrait, Monet slept only a few restless hours; still, he had no trouble rising before dawn.
What will we talk about? Somewhat aloof, the Japanese woman carried herself with such an air of confidence, she seemed impenetrable, but Monet sensed a depth in her that he had never experienced in anyone else.
Yet he knew very little about her and stewed most the night, trying to remember the correct pronunciation of her name.
He tried to tell himself just to relax, but he felt so inadequate.
Now, standing by the carp pond in the cool of the morning, he sweated under his painting jacket just thinking about spending time with her.
He figured her father would accompany her, and that heightened his anxiety.
The intimidating man seemed mistrusting of French men around his daughter. I would be too, Monet laughed.
Monet sniffed at his armpits. He’d tried cleaning up the best he could last evening, even rinsing his hair in the stream that ran through the property, but staying in a friend’s horse barn while painting at Fontainebleau afforded him little luxury.
His shoulders slumped like a self-conscious adolescent regarding his threadbare clothing, his shabby jacket, woolen vest and pants, and worn-down wooden clogs.
Monet wished he’d dressed the part of a successful artist, but these clothes were all he’d brought.
He never expected to see the woman again.
After arriving at the chateau by horseback, he commandeered a wheelbarrow from a gardening shed, hoping the groundskeepers would extend him grace for borrowing it to carry his easel, paints, canvas, picnic basket, and blanket.
Monet looked across the lake at the rising sun.
The early morning stillness slightly calmed his thundering heart.
The swans glided effortlessly over the top of the water and through the fine mist that shrouded the pond, barely leaving a wake.
He inhaled the crisp morning air deep into his lungs, trying to chase away his jitters.
He pulled his pocket watch from his vest and flipped open the top. It read quarter past six. When he’d asked her if they could get an early start, all she said was, “As you wish.” What did that mean? Perhaps this is too early for her. Or worse, maybe she isn’t coming at all.
His heart sank until, through the trees, he heard the faint sound of footsteps in the gravel.
Then he saw her.
For a moment he wondered if his heart had stopped or, at the very least, his breath had been snatched away.
He was but a shadow in the shade of perfection.
As gracefully as the swans swam across the water, the young woman tread along the path.
She moved effortlessly with a long walking stick in one hand, taking tiny steps.
Suddenly he remembered that in his waking hours last night, he had realized he had been so flustered by the prospect of painting her that they hadn’t even discussed what she should wear.
But now, watching this vision glide along the earth, she had chosen perfectly—a brilliant blue silk kimono adorned with delicate flowers that seemed to ripple with the breeze coming off the water.
It was the shade of sky blue that one only experienced on the clearest of summer days.
Her face, without the white makeup, was framed by her jet-black hair arranged in a fancy bun as she had worn during the tea ceremony.
Her full lips were highlighted in bright red, and her skin shone in the morning sun with a flawless natural glow and enchanting shadows.
Truly living art…and, to his joy, she was alone.
He sighed at the image moving toward him.
He wanted to call out to her right then and there, to stop her and capture her image on canvas.
One day, unsuccessfully, Monet had tried to capture a bluebird in a painting.
The beauty was so fleeting, he had to abandon the idea.
He wondered if the same thing might happen today.
She had not looked at him or even acknowledged his presence, keeping her eyes cast down, focused on the step ahead of her.
She stopped ten feet in front of him and bowed deeply. “Monsieur Monet, bonjour du matin. Thank you for accepting my father’s request. You are so kind.”
“Good morning...uh” He bowed, not knowing if he should call her madame or mademoiselle. What an idiot I am. “Is your father joining us today?” he said, trying to recover.
“My father will meet with the Emperor and Ambassador today. The Ambassador is a trusted translator. But please forgive me. My father insisted I bring my naginata.” She lifted the walking stick.
Now up close, Claude realized the walking stick was actually a weapon with a sharp sword-like end that glistened in the sun.
“He wanted me to be able to protect myself against the bears you mentioned…and other predators.” She bowed.
Monet thought he saw the trace of a smile cross her lips.
“Do you know how to use that thing?”
She smiled a delightful smile, bowed, then, with lightning speed and precision, brought the weapon up over her head, spun it twice, stabbed an imaginary target in front of her, spun it around her waist, and sliced off a large branch of a nearby tree.
Then, just as fast as the attack started, she stood relaxed, not breaking a sweat, the weapon again positioned as a walking stick.
“Bravo!” Monet caught his breath and cheered. He was relieved he was ten feet from the sharp edge of the weapon. “You are the true daughter of a samurai.”
“I am samurai,” she corrected him.
“Excusez-moi,” Monet bowed. “I will keep that in mind.” He smiled at her.
She ignored his teasing and walked to the edge of the lake where the sun peeked over the treetops. Monet followed and stood silently beside her. A swan chirped a warning at the intruders for interrupting their serenity, rippling the smooth morning water as it paddled away.
“So beautiful, so peaceful,” she whispered.
Monet nodded.
“It reminds me of home,” she added.
“You must miss your country.”
She looked at Monet without emotion, searching his face. Her dark eyes pierced the heart of his soul. He was confused. Did I say something wrong? He saw both a fierceness and tenderness in her eyes.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…I mean, of course you do, miss your country.
” Monet could no longer hold her look and let his eyes focus on her kimono.
He couldn’t have painted anything more stunning.
Now, up close, he saw an almost perfect reflection of the pool in front of them.
The blue on top gave way to more subtle shades of blue, yellow and white near the bottom of the kimono, embroidered with lily pads and delicate pink water lilies, with perfectly textured carp peering from the foliage.
Delicate white morning glories bloomed at her shoulders and down her arms. And a brilliant pink sash a foot wide with a subtle crisscross pattern wrapped around her chest and upper abdomen.
It seemed elaborately tied in the back, making it appear that she carried a silken backpack.
A vivid fuchsia silk cord tied around her waist further secured the sash.
Monet could only wish he could achieve such beauty in any of his paintings.
When Monet’s eyes reached her neckline, he saw many layers underneath the beautiful robe. Heat shot up his neck with embarrassment when he realized that she was still staring at him.
“Oh my gosh,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry. It is just that I have never seen such an intricate dress before.”
“It is my great-grandmother’s kimono. She wore it on the day she was married.”
He followed her eyes as she relaxed her gaze and looked back over the lake. Monet breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that she had not given him the same scrutiny. He knew he looked like he should be shoveling out the horse stall rather than standing with this most enchanting woman.
“How do you capture such beauty in your painting?” she asked, spreading her arm toward the pond.
Monet chuckled. “I was just asking myself the same thing.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
He blushed and took a step toward the lake, squatted, picked up a small stone and tossed it into the water.
“Sometimes, I just sit here for hours taking it all in. Not only looking at the water, or the trees, or the lake, or even the swans, but trying to understand what I am feeling when I take it all in, what emotion bubbles up.”
He stood again.
“Maybe this is dumb…but I ask what my heart is saying.” He glanced at her as she nodded looking over the scene.
“Many artists today paint nature as pristine and perfect. I like to see it all, the imperfections and the beauty, trying to capture that fleeting moment in time. How the sunlight dances off the ripples of the water, the trees sway in the breeze, or the swans…” He couldn’t find the words, and they stood in silence.
“And look how fast it all changes. The light, the shadows. It is constantly moving…alive…breathing. Just look at the water. Do you see all the colors? How the reflections of the trees and the swans fill the pond with more than blue. And what about the clouds or if a storm rolls in? It will be all different again.” He shrugged.
“Ca m’enerve, it annoys me!” Monet playfully shook his fist in frustration at the ever-changing scene.
“Yes!” she said, smiling with enthusiasm. “It is all perfect.”
Monet looked back at her. Friends had told him stories of love at first sight, but knew he was too much of a scallywag to hold on to such a silly notion. However, at the moment, his heart could not contain what he felt.
A tiny flush of red crossed her cheeks, and she looked away from his stare.
“Is this where you will paint my portrait?”
“Oh no, I’m afraid we do not want to make the swans so jealous of your beauty.”
She covered her smile with her hand.
“I have picked a perfect spot for us today. It is why the chateau is even here. In the English Garden is a natural freshwater spring, the Fontaine Belle-Eau, the spring of beautiful water.” He pointed toward the forest behind them.
“It is a bit of a walk, but look, your chariot awaits you,” he pointed to the wheelbarrow with all his supplies.
She covered her mouth and laughed. “You are so funny, Monsieur Monet. I think I should walk and protect us from those bears.”
* * *
The Fontaine Belle-Eau disappointed Yoshi as they arrived at their destination after a walk through the forest. She looked back toward the lake.
“I know it is not so picturesque here,” Monet said, reading her mind. “But the lighting is perfect. After all, you are the star of this portrait…you bring life to the spring.”
Yoshi nodded and looked at the fountain.
Surrounded by trees, an ancient stone urn marked the springhead, which poured down a meter-length trough into a two-meter by two-meter octagonal pool.
A granite curved bench invited guests to sit for a rest, and an intricately carved goddess, wearing a carved toga with one breast exposed and holding a crown of flowers, held vigil over the spring.
“Do you know who she is?” Yoshi asked.
“That is a good question…one for which I have yet to find a good answer. The chateau has been here in one form or another since King Louis VII, the Younger. It started as a hunting lodge for royalty but has obviously grown from there,” Monet said, smiled, and looked at the statue.
“I just call her, ma belle, my beautiful.” He held out his hand toward Yoshi.
Such a strange young man. Is he calling me beautiful or the statue?
She had never had such strange feelings.
Always so forward. Revealing everything, it seemed, that was on his mind—so different from the handful of men she knew.
Living in the ōoku she rarely saw men. Perhaps a gardener or a maintenance man, occasionally a soldier, and very rarely the Shōgun.
As an ochūrō, she’d been taught how to serve and even please a man, but this common interaction with a man seemed so strange.
He dressed like a peasant and smelled like a mixture of horse, tobacco, and body odor—an odd, but comforting smell, like the soldiers who passed through the ōoku from time to time.
Yet there was something about him that intrigued her.
Perhaps it was his passion for capturing the world in its natural beauty, or his easy-going spirit and relaxed demeanor.
Maybe it was the freedom he seemed to exist in. Most of all, she enjoyed his humor.
The way he looked at her, making her both uncomfortable and curious at the same time. The way he is looking at me now.
“Please forgive me, ma belle, I am confused about your name, and I do not wish to call you by the wrong name,” he said.
“At the royal Palace I am called Yoshi no-kata. But only those at the Palace call me that. My given name is Shibata Yuria.
The young man looked confused. “Is no-kata your last name?”
“When we serve the Shōgun, we are given a new name of honor. No-kata is more of a title than a name.”
“Then I call you…Shi..bat?” he stumbled over the name.
She raised her hand to her mouth and giggled. “Shibata is my family name. My given name is Yuria.”
“Julia?” he repeated back to her, misunderstanding her pronunciation of her name. “Do I address you as madame or mademoiselle?”
It was her turn to look confused, as Japanese names and titles were used so differently. She knew the connotation in French, but was she married or unmarried? With the Shōgun dead and an uncertain future, that question seemed that much harder to answer.
“You may call me Julia,” she settled. “And what is your full name?”
“Claude Oscar Monet,” he answered.
She tried saying his first name, and it came out like, “Cod,” which made him laugh loudly.
“How about Oscar? That is what my family calls me, anyway.”
“Os...Car,” she said tentatively.
“Yes, Oscar and Julia,” he repeated.