Varnishing Day at the Salon is a hell only an artist can know. Thousands of paintings have been hung on the walls of the Palais d’lndustrie, more than anyone can possibly see in one day. And for the unfortunate many who have been “skied”—hung near the ceilings—the prospects for being seen at all are dim.
Then the doors open and thousands of the most demanding and opinionated art lovers in existence attack this year’s crop of paintings, armed with sneers that in some cases have been in their families for generations. The art public of Paris will leave hopes shredded and lives trodden underfoot in its search for the next great painter.
That Varnishing Day of 1880 I was twenty-three and had my first picture there. Fumee d’Amber Gris had a decent place on the wall, thank God. My beauty was hung now, her varnish was dry, and it was time to turn her over to the tender mercies of the art world.
I strolled past the many pictures, wishing all of them well, and stopped at the one I’d come especially to see. It was all the talk of the Salon that year, the inside favorite. The subject was perfectly ordinary,and the style was just slightly daring—a good candidate for a prize.
It was a huge, glossy, elegant thing that depicted a festival day in ancient Rome. The gates of the city were open, and a long line of girls, garlanded with flowers, were trouping through them. Standing in the shadows, almost lurking, were a cluster of ancient crones. They seemed about to enter the city.What gave the painting its slightly daring air was the angle of vision. The artist had managed to paint his scene in such a way that the two busts of Janus, facing inward and outward over the gates, dominated the picture. It was very clever. The title was La Porte du Janus; The Janus Gate.
“Papa, where are all the girls going?”
The voice came from behind me and not much above waist level. A child’s voice, an American voice. Surprised, I turned, and found myself staring into the face of a grotesque china doll as big as a baby.
The doll was in the arms of a beautiful child of about three. She herself was in the arms of her father. He was a man some years older than myself, very pleasant looking and extremely well dressed.
“Papa, where are the girls going?” the voice repeated.
I looked down, and almost gasped.
Tugging on the sleeve of her father was the most perfect child I had ever seen. She was perhaps six; and her pale skin, blonde hair, and dark blue eyes were somehow the emblems of childhood itself. And the way she looked up at her father, with perfect love and trust, pierced me with its truth. I am afraid I stared. I am beauty’s fool.
The father shifted the child he was holding to free up one arm and gestured at the scene.
“They are going out into the countryside to celebrate the spring and their own youth,” he said.
“But why are there two ugly goblins over their heads?” the little beauty asked.
“They’re not goblins, Mary,” the father said. “That is Janus, who guards the gates of Rome. He has two faces.”
“If he’s not a goblin, why does he have two heads?” Mary asked. “There you have me,” Father said. “I’m sure I was taught that in school, but I’ve forgotten it.”
There was something about the three of them that I liked at once. A warmth that is rare between children and fathers, a quality of easy elegance. I wished to know more of them, and it made me bold.
“If I may,” I said. Lessons were not very far in my past then; I remembered my Latin readings perfectly. Now if I could only explain them! “I—I—Janus—not only the guardian of Rome’s gates—all entryways—way to the future and the past. So—two faces in opposite directions. See? The old women going the opposite way, looking back at—at youth and beauty.”
At least my hand did not fly off the end of my arm as I wildly gestured.
“That’s it exactly,” the father said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “Intrusion, I know.”
“Not at all, sir.” The father smiled. “Very good of you. Thanks.” There was a thunder of feet coming toward us. The wall of art lovers was suddenly pierced by a trio of young harpies.
The tallest and oldest had each of her claws dug into the shoulders of the other two. Their governess, I guessed. A very prim mademoiselle she seemed, and at that moment she was furious. So were the other two, an almost matched pair of dark-haired beauties.
“Monsieur Boit,” Mademoiselle hissed in French. “Your daughters are insufferable!”
“What have they done now, Mademoiselle?” Father Boit asked. He seemed as much amused as worried.
“We were only singing, Papa,” said the younger girl, who was ten or eleven. “We were singing to the painting. It was singing to us.”
“And what were you singing, eh, Mademoiselle Jane? Tell your father that,” Mademoiselle demanded.
“Au pret de ma blonde,
Qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon.
Au pret de ma blonde,
Qu’il fait bon, fait bon!”
Jane began. The older girl joined in, in perfect harmony.
I blushed, despite my best efforts to look worldly. The words, of course, are about being “near my dear one,” but they are distinctly inappropriate for young ladies.
“Cease!” Mademoiselle said.
Father Boit laughed. He laughed so loudly that he had to muzzle himself with his free hand.
The passersby glared at this outburst, and they were right. It was a wholly improper song for young ladies, and laughter is never encouraged at the Salon—except at the expense of artists. Still, I could not help being further charmed. The girls were so natural, their father so delighted by their misdeed. Most fathers would not have been.
“Girls, you must not sing to the paintings,” Father Boit said. “No matter how much they might seem to wish it. And you must never sing that song at all.”
“But Papa, why not?” the older girl asked.
“That is the sort of answer that your mother can give you when you are a little older, Florence,” Father Boit said. “Now, suppose you tell me to which painting you were singing.”
“That great big one over there, Father,” said Jane, pointing.
“Mademoiselle Jane, do not point. It is rude,” said their governess.
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Jane said. “But it was that one.”
And she pointed with her foot, lifting it like a ballerina.
“Jane,” her father warned. “If you drive this mademoiselle off as you did the others, you will be sent away to school.”
“For how long, Papa?” asked Jane. She seemed very concerned.
“Until you are forty-two,” her father said.
Jane lowered her foot.
“Papa, you must not send Jane away,” Florence implored. “I cannot exist without Jane.”
The two girls clasped hands.
“I shall do so only if you force me to it,” Father said. I turned away so the girls would not see my smile, and realized the painting they had sung to was mine. Fumee d’Amber Gris shows a beautiful North African woman standing before an incense burner at her feet. She is dressed in white and has a shawl spread above her head to concentrate the perfume she is inhaling.
“Oh, look,” said Mr. Boit. “It must be the new Sargent. I see your point, girls. It sings to me, even from here.” He sighed. “If I could paint like that...”
I blushed at the praise. I was curious too. In Paris almost all the American painters know each other, at least slightly. But I did not know this Mr. Boit.
“I beg your pardon,” I said again. “Are you a painter? Do you have something here?”
Again my arm waved, taking in the Salon.
“Yes, I paint a little,” Mr. Boit said. “Watercolors. I try to resemble Corot. But no, I have no painting here.”
A Sunday painter then. No harm in that.
“Papa paints the most beautiful flowers in the world,” said Jane. “They are very sad.”
“Why is that?” I asked, charmed again. “If I were a flower, I think I’d be very happy about it.”
“They are sad because they are not real and they want to be,” said Florence.
“Mademoiselle Florence, that is an enchanting insight,” I said. “From now on I shall always look at flowers in paintings and ask myself, ‘Are they happy?’ Many thanks.”
I was feeling awkward now. Boit and I had practically fallen into a conversation, but we had not introduced ourselves. Very rude, and all my fault. The best thing to do would be to leave now. I bowed, and got control of my tongue.
“Sir, please forgive my intrusion. I wish you the best of luck with your painting. And mesdemoiselles, my thanks for your company. Good day.”
“Just a moment, sir,” said Mr. Boit. “Have you anything hanging here?”
Now was the time for me to say something elegant and modest about my work, smile, bow again, and lose myself in the crowd. What came out was, “Well... yes—that thing over there. I did it.” Again my arm signaled the fleet.
“Fumee d’Amber Gris?” Boit said, reaching for me with his hand outstretched. “You are John Singer Sargent!”
It wasn’t a question. If I had not been John Singer Sargent, the force of his words would have convinced me that I was.
“Sir, yes,” I said, taking his hand. “I am.”
“Good heavens, you’re young,” Boit blurted out. Then he winced at his slight rudeness. “Forgive me, please. I only meant that you’re awfully young to be so accomplished.”
“Well, yes,” I said, blushing. “I am young, I mean.”
“Girls, this is the man who did the painting that sings,” Mr. Boit said.
“What song was it?” Jane asked. “What did you hear?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t understand the words,” I said, “so I tried to paint the music. The music is hard to describe. Very strange.”
That was enough to tell the girls. There had been a hot, dark night in a city crowned with minarets. I had been making my way down an almost-deserted street, wondering if I would be attacked. Then for a moment an upstairs curtain had parted, and I had seen a beautiful woman lit by a low, golden glow. She spread her veil over her head and breathed in a rising smoke. I caught one whiff of ambergris. Beauty’s fool was pierced. I had stared until the curtain dropped,knowing I would never see her again, never know who she was. My painting was my way of claiming her, keeping that moment alive. But all this was my secret.
We made our way through the crowd to my painting. The four girls studied it along with their father, Mademoiselle, and the doll. Beside me, Florence hummed “Apres de Ma Blonde” very softly. “Florence!” Mr. Boit said.
“Papa, it was P-paul,” said the littlest girl. “He is a bad doll.” “Hush, Popau, or I will send you away to school with Jane,” Mr. Boit replied. “Now, darlings, I am going away into this picture for a little. Don’t speak again until I come back. Especially you, Popau.” Boit studied my painting as if it were an important document. His eyes went slowly back and forth, almost memorizing each stroke. And the girls let him do it in silence.
“Such light,” he murmured once. “Such luminous air—”
He turned to me.
“Sir,” he said. “My congratulations. I have never seen such a lustrous, subtle glow.”
“Oh—Rembrandt . . . I said, shamelessly comparing myself to him. “Velazquez. Plenty of others.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve never met them,” Boit said. “I am deeply grateful for our encounter today.”
“As am I, Mr. Boit,” I said.
“Gray amber,” said Jane, translating amber gris. “What is that exactly?”
Ambergris is sperm whale vomit, or something like it. How could I explain that?
“Uh—we get it from whales,” I said. “And it smells something like sweet wood. It is used in perfumes. I suppose whales must smell very nice.”
“The lady must smell nice then,” Jane said.
“I’m sure of it,” I said.
“I like the lady in the picture,” Jane went on. “She looks very happy.”
“I would like to be her,” Florence agreed. “To be happy like that.”
“Papa, would Mr. Sargent paint us?” Jane asked.
“Paint all of us,” Mary agreed.
“Yes. Paint us happy,” Florence said.
“Paint, paint,” Julia added. “Paint P-paul too.”
Boit broke his contemplation of my painting. He smiled.
“What about it, Mr. Sargent? Would you paint my girls? Would you give them glows like this one?”
“Paint them? Certainly I will,” I said. “But I fear I’m leaving for Italy very soon. I will be gone for some time. I could begin when I come back, perhaps next winter.”
“Ah,” Boit said, “that will have to do then. Please look us up when you return, Mr. Sargent. We spend a great deal of time traveling. But if we are not in Paris when you get back, we will be eventually. Then we may begin at your earliest convenience.”
“Please—just Sargent,” I said.
I already felt very warmly toward this man who lived so happily among a bouquet of beautiful daughters. He somehow reminded me of my own dear father. Though I was living by myself now, it had not been long since I had spent long, pleasant times being taught by him.
I still went home when I wanted his advice or simply his company. Boit was clearly the same kind of man. I looked forward to the painting I would make of them. Perhaps I would cluster them together like exotic tulips in a seventeenth-century Dutch still life. With Popau as a sort of slug.
“Yes. Let’s seal the bargain,” he said. “Please, call me Boit.”
Boit extended his hand and I took it.
“I shall. Gladly,” I said.
“Very well, girls, Uncle Sargent is to paint you the next time we are all in Paris together,” Boit said.
But only Julia and Mary were there to hear their father’s promise. Somehow Florence and Jane had slipped away from us, and even from the hawklike gaze of Mademoiselle.
“Where have they gone now?” Boit asked no one in particular. “How did they go? Excuse us, Sargent. We must seek for the prodigal daughters. Good day.”
“Good day, everyone,” I said.
As we parted, I heard a couple of girlish shrieks and a babble of angry voices not far away.
“Ah,” said Boit, “I believe I know where they are.”