It was the next winter when I returned to Paris and as I had promised, looked up the Boits.
They were living in one of the splendid new apartments on the Avenue de Friedland. I had visited one or two such places before I left Paris last spring and had been most impressed with their elegance and size. That the Boits could afford such an address said they had more than enough money for anything they might want.
An exchange of notes and it was agreed that I should come there on a Tuesday afternoon in November.
It was a bitter day, with pellets of snow shooting down from the sky like buckshot. I climbed out of the dank, smelly cab, paid the driver, and climbed the steps to the Boits’ door.
It was an English butler, Flint, who let me in and took my things. He was a thin, slightly gray man with glittering blue eyes. He had a rough, easy stride, and he swung his arms when he walked. In spite of his quiet and polish, he didn’t seem bland enough for a butler.
I stood there alone in the foyer while he went to announce me.
The ceilings were high, the walls brightly painted with a scene of trees. It might have been beautiful in the sunlight, but the large windows behind me let in only the hopeless gray of the sky. Flanking the dark hall that led to the apartment itself were two huge matched vases. They were taller than I was, and I am more than six feet.
I was intrigued and went to examine them. They were intricately painted with Japanese designs and were lacquered to a high sheen. Even on this cloudy day they seemed to have a faint glow. They were impressive. They were meant to impress. But they were not antiques. Such things were made for the export trade. I wondered why the Boits, who could have afforded much better, put them here to welcome their guests.
I heard light, girlish feet coming toward me.
Hand in hand, Florence and Jane came to the end of the hall and stopped exactly beside one of the vases.
They were dressed as I would paint them later. Each in a black, long-sleeved frock and a schoolgirl’s classroom pinafore. The dimness made their dark-stockinged legs invisible. They seemed to be floating in shadows.
Once again I was struck by their beauty. But it was a different beauty now. In the few months since I’d met them, they had changed much. I could not imagine Florence singing in public to a painting, or pointing with a dancer’s foot. Jane had an edge that had not been there before. They seemed like two half-grown does stepping into a forest clearing, alert for danger. Girls must grow up to be women, and these two had started on that dark journey.
“Hello, Uncle Sargent,” said Jane.
“Hello, Uncle Sargent,” Florence said after her.
“Did you like Italy?” Jane asked.
“Yes. I did some good work down there, I think,” I said.
Florence whispered something to Jane.
“Perhaps you should go back there, Uncle Sargent,” Jane said.
Then, without speaking again, they backed up the hall and disappeared into the shadows.
Some game or other. The private world of children.
“Will you please follow me, Mr. Sargent?” Flint said, returning.
I went up the dark hall.
The parlor into which I was led was amazing. It was the richest confusion of fine furnishings and peculiar treasures. Between the paintings, the walls were hung with swords, Egyptian antiquities, Chinese dragons, even a harpoon. There were sprays of hothouse flowers sharing their vases with peacock plumes and tasseled sticks. Among the sofas and chairs were bright-patterned Turkish floor pillows and stacks of Japanese mats.
In the midst of this, carefully positioned in front of a large, white, folding screen, was a woman all in white, dressed as an Arab. An incense burner was on the floor in front of her, and she was holding a veil above her head to concentrate the smoke rising to her face.
She was an almost exact replica of Fumee d’Amber Gris. But the woman looked nothing like the dark, exotic creature I had painted. She was a high-colored blue-eyed blonde, and she was smiling at me.
“Welcome, Mr. Sargent,” she said loudly. “Behold your creation.”
“Mrs.—Mrs. Boit?” I stuttered.
“Mrs. Boit indeed,” she agreed. “And your great admirer, sir.”
She dropped the veil and crossed the room to shake my hand.
“I am sure my opinion of your work is even higher than Mr. Boit’s, if that is possible.”
I took her hand, wondering what kind of woman posed as a painting to welcome its artist. She meant it well, of course, but what sort of mind conceived such a thing?
“Thank you—very kind,” I said. “Your husband—these paintings—his work?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “My dear husband’s own watercolors. I fear they are not very good, are they?”
She led me over to the harpooned wall, where three of Boit’s works, all well framed, were hanging. Whatever the merits of the paintings—they were few, I confess—the merits of the man shone through them. Each pallid, flat attempt spoke of earnest attention to detail and reverence for its subject. Boit took care.
“I very much like the petals on these marigolds,” I said.
Mrs. Boit laughed.
“My dear Boity has been painting for nearly fifteen years. And the best you can say is that he is rather good at marigold petals. Never mind, I cherish them all. As you can see, Mr. Sargent, I surround myself with them. I would never permit him to sell one, even if anyone wanted to buy it, for they are part of my household. And I must have my household about me wherever we travel, or I cannot be happy. And above all things, I must be happy.”
It was clear to me that Mrs. Boit was—how can I put this?—her own person. I wondered if she was always so blunt.
“Your collections are indeed unique,” I said.
“My collections are the story of my family,” she said. “I was a
Cushing, you know. We are an old Boston seafaring family. The China trade, whaling. We have been part of it all. I come by my restlessness naturally.”
She crossed the room to put herself in the brightest light and struck a pose.
“I can never be happy in one place very long,” she said. “Back and forth across the Atlantic we shuttle like migrating birds. Birds who drag their nest along with them. Dear Boity is very good to put up with me.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I mean—”
She laughed loudly.
“I know I am not an ordinary woman, Mr. Sargent. There is no point in trying to pretend that I am.”
Boit appeared in the doorway.
“Sargent, forgive me,” he said. “I was—well, I was at my painting, and I simply lost track of the time. When Flint told me you were here, I was appalled at my rudeness.”
“Boit, it’s very good to see you again,” I said, hurrying to shake his hand.
“Boity, he likes your marigold petals,” Mrs. Boit said.
“Very good of him to say so.”
“Just said—I mean—marigolds—difficult flower,” I said.
“Perhaps more difficult for me than for you,” said Boit, charming as ever. “Iza, will you ring for tea?”
So, Mrs. Boit’s first name was Iza. A strange-sounding thing, and a little unpleasant. It suited her.
When the tea appeared, the three of us sat down under the one picture in the room that was not Boit’s work. It was an oil portrait of Mrs. Boit. I recognized the work of my teacher, Carolus-Duran. The small plate on the bottom of the frame read MRS. CHARLOTTE LOUISA CUSHING BOIT. Iza, I decided, must be a childhood name.
Carolus-Duran had painted Iza Boit sitting between the huge Japanese vases. Leaning against one was the harpoon. Her hand was slightly raised as though she were reaching for it. At her feet sat Popau, at the point of one of her shoes. Perhaps Popau was about to be kicked. It was an awkward pose. An uncomfortable picture.
“Tell me, Sargent,” Boit said. “What are your thoughts on painting my girls?”
“I have had one idea,” I said. “It came to me the day I met you at the Salon.”
“And congratulations on your triumph there,” Iza interrupted. “Fumee d'Amber Gris certainly merited the first prize it took.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “As I meant to say, I have had a thought that your daughters are a sort of garden. I have an idea to cluster them among pots of blossoms, each of the kinds they like best. A bouquet, do you see? And, in a way, a tribute to your own interest in painting flowers, Boit.”
“You understand we want something quite large,” Iza said. “Something bigger than Fumee d'Amber Gris.”
“How large?” I said, surprised.
“Large enough to take in everything that must be there,” Boit said. “It’s Iza’s idea that the painting will be a sort of emblem.”
“It must include certain things,” Iza said. “Besides myself, surrounded by my daughters, it must have Popau. And the vases.”
She gestured toward her portrait. I saw her fingers curl, seeking their harpoon.
“Household gods,” Boit smiled. “Our lares and penates.”
Lares and penates. The household spirits of the ancient Romans, I recalled.
“Wherever we go, wherever we set up our camp, those vases mark its wall,” Iza explained.
I looked at the portrait with new understanding. My teacher had painted Iza to suggest the goddess Minerva, Rome’s defending spirit. The vases were her gates. The harpoon her spear. Her hair, I saw now, had been coiffed to suggest a helmet. But the doll?
“Popau must also be present, since he is the mystery at the heart of us,” Iza went on. “He has been part of my family for three generations. No one recalls when he came to us or where he came from, but he was my mother’s toy first. He was called Billy then. When she gave him to me, he became Horatius. Horatius was transformed into Popau by Boity when I passed him on to Florence. All the girls have played with him in turn. Now he is chiefly Julia’s.”
“It’s an odd name,” I said to Boit. “Popau. It’s the pen name of that journalist who’s always fighting duels here in Paris.”
“Exactly,” Boit said. “I have always thought Popau is a doll of bad character. A stirrer up of strife and a source of whirlwinds. The fights that Jane and Florence used to get into over him were the stuff of legend. And Mary used to blame all her misbehavior on his advice. Now Julia does so. A wicked creature, Popau.”
“And my daughters are all like me,” Iza Boit said. “Very much their own persons. I am sure they will all be remarkable women.”
“Most men would regret having had no sons,” Edward Boit said. “But I can’t imagine boys being nearly as fascinating as these creatures. Trying to understand them will be a life’s work.”
“And they adore him for trying,” Iza Boit interrupted.
“I find Florence and Jane to be a matched pair,” Boit went on. “Though not a perfect match, and certainly not broken to harness yet. And Mary—”
“Mary is my little soldier,” Iza Boit said. “Very loyal to me.”
“And a little mother to our youngest,” Boit said.
“And though she is the youngest, it’s already clear that Julia will be the family beauty,” Iza Boit said. “And all this must be enclosed within the frame of a portrait. So you see, Mr. Sargent, a painting of the usual size is too small. As to its price ...” She gestured toward her husband.
Boit named a figure that made me gulp. I almost protested that it was too large. But that would have been haggling.
“Oh. Yes. Acceptable. Very,” I said.
“Good,” Boit said. “Though I almost wish you had said you would be too busy next year. I am leaving tomorrow for Boston. Some business back there has come up that I must deal with in person, and I expect to be away for several weeks. I very much regret that I will not be here while you are painting.”
“As do I, Boit,” I said. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to dealing with Iza Boit alone. But having already said I wanted to start, I could hardly unsay it.
“Very well then, let the adventure begin,” said Iza. “Boity, summon your darlings to the parlor.”