Read Online Lisette's List by Susan Vreeland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Vreeland
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presence! A man who painted to live, and lived to paint. They were the same to him. He thought only of painting, loved only painting. There was not a minute of the day that he did not respond to the world as a painter. He was obsessed, the poor man, and that separated him from normal life. He complained that he was never understood, yet he said that his progress was at least some consolation for being misunderstood by fools.”
With that I went back to my scrubbing, knowing that I did not live to scrub. Or did I?
Out of breath at the end of the day, I rehung the still life on the clean white wall. It looked all the more splendid. The colors were richer. The highlights sparkled. Pascal stood up in acknowledgment of what I had done and turned in a circle, mournfully surveying the other stained walls. His arm waved vaguely to them.
“Yes, I will. But not today.”
I carried the buckets outside. The instant I flung the dirty water over the cliff, a thought burst cleanly into my mind. This I could do for Monsieur Laforgue someday. I could wash the walls of his gallery. She-devil would be too haughty to do it. I could even wash walls for other galleries. Their paintings would look more brilliant, and I would be the cause of it, just like a framer sets off paintings. I could have gallery clients across Paris! Even the Louvre. And the Louvre had kilometers of walls. Floors, too. I could study the paintings as I cleaned. I clanked the wash buckets together in ecstasy.
I would write to Maxime. I would write to Monsieur Laforgue. I would write to the Louvre !
CHAPTER EIGHT
AN EARFUL FROM CÉZANNE
1937, 1897
A NDRÉ HAD COME HOME FROM A VIGNON WITH A SUPPLY of hardwood and an order for two frames from an antiquarian shop selling Roman maps of Provence. He started working immediately. Pascal spent the morning writing at his little desk. From time to time, he pressed his fist against his forehead as if to squeeze out a memory. Their absorption in their work gave me time to write to the Louvre.
I had to think out carefully what I would say—that I wanted to serve the Louvre by cleaning walls and floors to make the paintings even more beautiful, that I wanted to dust the frames and the sculptures, that I didn’t care how humble the work would be, that I just wanted to be surrounded by art. It seemed to me that Pascal was not dying and we could return to Paris soon, so I wrote that I couldn’t begin quite yet but that I would come to inquire the very day I returned to Paris.
My letter probably sounded naïve, but it was from my heart. Before I could change my mind, I went to the post office and mailed it. If the Louvre rejected me, I would write to Monsieur Laforgue myself. When he saw how hard I worked, he would advance me above stiff-necked Madame Snob. Someday.
B ACK HOME IN THE courtyard, I watched André practice drawing acanthus leaves on the plywood board he had set across two sawhorses.
“Pascal told me why he sent you that desperate letter. It was so he could tell us everything about the painters he knew while he can still remember them,” I said.
“No. So he could tell you . He has already told me. Let him talk. He’s an old man.”
“Oh, I do. His stories fascinate me.”
André fell silent as he scribbled out some measurements and determined how many leaves there would be on each side.
“Be patient with him. His love for those paintings runs deep. They’ve been his life. The paintings, and me, and now you too. It’s hard to let your life dissolve and your love amount to nothing. He wants it to live on, to show that he mattered, that Roussillon mattered, and still matters.”
“I understand that now.”
He lodged his pencil behind his ear. “Those paintings will be ours someday. It would behoove you to learn about them.”
“I want to. And other paintings too.”
I knew enough not to distract him while he measured and positioned the molding in his miter box. Carefully, he inserted his saw and drew
With that I went back to my scrubbing, knowing that I did not live to scrub. Or did I?
Out of breath at the end of the day, I rehung the still life on the clean white wall. It looked all the more splendid. The colors were richer. The highlights sparkled. Pascal stood up in acknowledgment of what I had done and turned in a circle, mournfully surveying the other stained walls. His arm waved vaguely to them.
“Yes, I will. But not today.”
I carried the buckets outside. The instant I flung the dirty water over the cliff, a thought burst cleanly into my mind. This I could do for Monsieur Laforgue someday. I could wash the walls of his gallery. She-devil would be too haughty to do it. I could even wash walls for other galleries. Their paintings would look more brilliant, and I would be the cause of it, just like a framer sets off paintings. I could have gallery clients across Paris! Even the Louvre. And the Louvre had kilometers of walls. Floors, too. I could study the paintings as I cleaned. I clanked the wash buckets together in ecstasy.
I would write to Maxime. I would write to Monsieur Laforgue. I would write to the Louvre !
CHAPTER EIGHT
AN EARFUL FROM CÉZANNE
1937, 1897
A NDRÉ HAD COME HOME FROM A VIGNON WITH A SUPPLY of hardwood and an order for two frames from an antiquarian shop selling Roman maps of Provence. He started working immediately. Pascal spent the morning writing at his little desk. From time to time, he pressed his fist against his forehead as if to squeeze out a memory. Their absorption in their work gave me time to write to the Louvre.
I had to think out carefully what I would say—that I wanted to serve the Louvre by cleaning walls and floors to make the paintings even more beautiful, that I wanted to dust the frames and the sculptures, that I didn’t care how humble the work would be, that I just wanted to be surrounded by art. It seemed to me that Pascal was not dying and we could return to Paris soon, so I wrote that I couldn’t begin quite yet but that I would come to inquire the very day I returned to Paris.
My letter probably sounded naïve, but it was from my heart. Before I could change my mind, I went to the post office and mailed it. If the Louvre rejected me, I would write to Monsieur Laforgue myself. When he saw how hard I worked, he would advance me above stiff-necked Madame Snob. Someday.
B ACK HOME IN THE courtyard, I watched André practice drawing acanthus leaves on the plywood board he had set across two sawhorses.
“Pascal told me why he sent you that desperate letter. It was so he could tell us everything about the painters he knew while he can still remember them,” I said.
“No. So he could tell you . He has already told me. Let him talk. He’s an old man.”
“Oh, I do. His stories fascinate me.”
André fell silent as he scribbled out some measurements and determined how many leaves there would be on each side.
“Be patient with him. His love for those paintings runs deep. They’ve been his life. The paintings, and me, and now you too. It’s hard to let your life dissolve and your love amount to nothing. He wants it to live on, to show that he mattered, that Roussillon mattered, and still matters.”
“I understand that now.”
He lodged his pencil behind his ear. “Those paintings will be ours someday. It would behoove you to learn about them.”
“I want to. And other paintings too.”
I knew enough not to distract him while he measured and positioned the molding in his miter box. Carefully, he inserted his saw and drew
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