Chapter 30 1865 - France
CLAUDE AND YOSHI
“I should just start over,” Monet muttered to himself after painting for six straight hours.
Portraying the entire essence of this woman was futile.
How in the world do I capture such beauty, such grace, such fierceness, such depth?
It was like trying to paint the most perfect flower blossom—with absolutely no blemish, her flawless skin, plump lips, and beautiful lines.
But it was more than her outer beauty. The way she carried herself, the gentle way she moved performing the tea ceremony or ferociously brandishing her weapon.
How to paint such perfection with my own imperfection?
“Are you getting tired?” Monet asked her.
She simply smiled. “I am at your service, Monsieur Monet.”
She stood as still as the statue behind him, posed at the springhead of the water of Chateau de Fontainebleau, holding her weapon in one hand with the other outstretched as if holding a butterfly.
Both the statue and the woman represented the lion and the lamb, the warrior and the beauty.
As Monet painted, his butterfly transformed into a delicate pink water lily, duplicating the flowers embroidered on her grandmother’s kimono and the ones floating in the spring, complementing the elegant, pink jade hair pin holding her jet-black hair in place.
The light and shadows had been perfect, with delicate white clouds drifting past in the sapphire-blue sky overhead. Monet’s model was the very definition of perfection. If only I were a better artist.
He sighed loudly as he laid three more quick strokes of oil paint to the water lily in her hand.
Monet set the brush and palette down, stood and paced back and forth in front of the canvas. Taking a cigarette out of his vest pocket, he lit it, inhaled deeply, and blew a large cloud of smoke.
He looked at Yuria and sighed. “I’m afraid I have failed miserably, Ma Belle. You are simply too much for this simpleton artist.”
She broke her pose and bowed. Her look of sadness broke his heart, and he realized she was taking his discouragement on herself. “No, no, no, Ma Belle, please…It is only I who has failed. You just need a better artist.”
“May I see it?” she took a step toward him.
He put out his hand to stop her and reached for the easel to turn it toward her.
As he did, she put a hand over her mouth. When she saw the painting, her shoulders quaked, and tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, Monsieur Monet, my father will be so pleased. It is beautiful.” She’d embarrassed herself with enthusiasm and covered her face with a sleeve. “I mean, the colors are magnificent.”
Monet looked at the painting again and softened his gaze. “You think it is okay?”
“You have honored me with your talent.” She bowed deeply.
Startled and relieved, Monet smiled, “Then let us celebrate with a picnic and some wine.” He pulled out his pocket watch and saw the time. “You must be starved.”
* * *
Yuria insisted they enjoy their picnic overlooking the lake and pavilion.
He rested the new painting on the easel and spread out the blanket on the lawn in the shade.
He invited her to sit, and when she had composed herself on the edge, he set the basket of bread, cheese and sausage in the center of the blanket, and took a bottle of wine from the basket.
“My friend loaned me this bottle of wine.” He laughed, “I borrowed it from his cellar this morning. He will get the bottle back in one piece,” he said, pulling out the cork.
She regarded him with concern. “Will your friend be upset?”
“C’est la vie! He will get over it.”
Monet produced two glasses from the basket, poured wine into each, and handed her one. He held his glass toward her. “à ta santé, to your health.”
She surprised him when she responded with “kanpai.”
But when she did not take a drink, Monet said, “You must take a drink after toasting.”
Yuria made a sour face at the glass of wine but brought it to her lips and took a small sip. Then she couldn’t help making a face as if she were taking bitter medicine.
Seeing her expression, Monet laughed out loud. “We come from very different countries, you and I,” he said and sat on the edge of the blanket. “People of France are very interested in your country. Do you mind if I ask about your life there?”
“Yes, of course you may.”
There was so much he wanted to know about her that he hardly knew where to begin, so he started simply. “Where do you live?”
“I live in Edo Castle in…I’m not sure how to say this in French…but it is the inner chamber, the place of women.” She tilted her head, checking to see if he understood.
“That is where you live with your family?”
She brought her hand to her mouth. “No, I live with the women of the palace. My family dedicated me to the Shōgun when I was five.”
Monet’s mind spun. “Your family gave you away at five?”
“It is our great honor to serve the Shōgun.”
“How many women live in this…place?” he was having a hard time finding the right words.
“Almost one thousand.”
“Can you come and go from the palace?”
“No, we stay at all times in the inner chamber. We are forbidden to go outside it. In fact, the doors are locked.”
“It sounds like you are imprisoned,” his words came out before thinking of a better way to express his terrible thoughts of the Shōgun.
She smiled gracefully at him. “Our cultures are very different. It is my duty and honor to serve the Shōgun. The inner chamber is very beautiful. We have magnificent gardens. It is why I like it here so much by the lake.”
“Are you married to the Shōgun?” He had wanted to ask this from the beginning, but a look of sadness crossed her face, and he wished he could take back his words.
“This is a difficult question. Our Shōgun has just recently died. I do not know if I will be asked to stay in the palace or not.”
Monet did not know what that meant. They sat in silence, watching a man paddle a rowboat over the calm water. He drained his glass.
Yuria set her full glass down, picked up the bottle, and offered him more wine. He tried taking it from her hands, but she resisted.
“This is our way,” she said.
He held out his glass, and she filled it.
The wine relaxed his mind, and he probed even deeper. “Have you been in love, then?”
She did not answer and seemed to search for answers from the solitude of the lake.
“I know this word, love—l’amour.” She looked at him and searched his eyes. “It is difficult to explain. We think of this…” she searched for the word, “affection…perhaps differently than you. I’m not sure you would understand.”
Monet wanted to say something but felt out of his depth.
“And you, Monsieur Monet?”
The question surprised him, but he smiled at her. “I thought I was a couple of times, but now I understand it was only a shadow of true love. And please, you must call me Oscar.” Heat rose in his cheeks.
“Is this the Juliet that broke your heart?”
Monet shot her a surprised look. “Do you know the story of Romeo and Juliet?”
“Yes of course. We have read Monsieur Shakespeare. We are not in prison, as you say.”
“Please forgive me…I am so dumb. I didn’t mean to…” he apologized. “Juliet, please forgive me.”
She suppressed a giggle. “Are you in love now?”
It was his turn to search for his words and used hers instead. “I’m not sure you would understand. What is love, anyway? L’amour est comme le vent, nous ne savons pas d’où il vient, Love is like the wind, we don’t know where it comes from.”
The conversation turned to silence again.
Monet tossed a pebble into the lake, then looked back at her and caught her admiring the painting. “Do you think it is really okay?”
“I don’t think I am as beautiful as you painted me.”
The words surprisingly brought a tear to his eyes. If she only knew.
“Have you always wanted to be an artist?” she asked.
“Yes, much to my father’s disappointment.
But my mother let me enter Le Havre’s secondary school of the arts when I was six.
Aside from painting and gardening, I am worthless.
But alas, I’m never finished with my paintings; the further I get, the more I seek the impossible perfection, the more powerless I feel. ”
“You paint brilliantly.”
“I would like to paint the way a bird sings,” Monet said and raised a toast. “You are more beautiful than my paints can ever capture.”
It made her blush scarlet red.
“Would you want to do anything else?” he asked.
She looked out over the lake for a long time. Monet hoped he hadn’t offended her again.
“At the palace, we practice calligraphy every day. There are few Japanese women artists.” She raised her hand toward the painting.
“I would like to be a famous artist like Oscar Monet,” she teased.
He sat up straight. “Are you serious? It would be my honor to give you your first lesson.”
Without an answer, he jumped up, pulled his painting from the easel and balanced it against the picnic basket, replaced it with a spare blank canvas from the wheelbarrow of supplies and put dabs of paint back on the palette.
“The famous Juliet will now paint her first painting,” he announced and offered her a brush.
She stood and accepted the brush. “I don’t think…”
He put his arm around her waist and escorted her to the easel. It was the first time he had touched her, and he hoped he hadn’t offended her. She seemed to take it in stride as he held out the palette and showed her how to hold it. She held the brush and the palette perfectly the first time.
“Let us paint the lake and the trees. Don’t look at anything else,” Monet instructed.
“In fact, when you go out to paint, try to forget what objects you have before you—a tree, a house, a field, whatever. Merely think: here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow.”
It was also the first time he had stood so close to her. Her fragrance, like the most delicate of wildflowers, intoxicated him. His heart pounded. He wanted to kiss her neck, but stopped himself, and watched her effortlessly lay down strokes of color.
“Yes, yes,” he encouraged.
He stepped back, for he thought his heart might rupture. He whispered to himself, “Oh, si tu pouvais lire dans mon coeur, tu verrais la place où je t'ai mise! Oh! If you could read my heart, you would see the place that I keep you!”