SIX

In The Schoolroom

 

An exchange of notes later that day settled that I would come again on the following morning, an hour later than before.

When Flint let me in, I saw that the big Japanese vases were back in the foyer. I wondered what scene Iza Boit had prepared for me to view today.

As it turned out, she was perfectly normal when I was shown in to her. Indeed, she looked more normal than I had ever seen her. I supposed that was her latest performance.

“Good morning, Sargent,” she said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Boit,” I replied.

She indicated that I might sit down, and I took a chair beside her.

“What do you think of our work so far?” Iza Boit said.

It was the perfect opening for me to begin the plan that had come to me yesterday in the bistro.

“I think there are tensions,” I said. “Artistic tensions, that is. I am not sure that I see how to resolve them.”

“Artistic tensions of what sort?” Iza Boit said.

“Well, perhaps you can help me,” I said. “I am not quite sure what they are. Perhaps you have some feelings on the matter.”

She smiled. Then she closed her eyes in thought. Then she smiled again. My flattery was working, so far.

“All I can say is that you are right,” she said. “There are tensions, problems with the entire concept.”

“Concept, yes, thank you,” I said. “I think I have it now. It seems to me to be a question of mass. Five of you. Six with Popau. All different sizes. And the vases. It makes for crowding.”

“Crowding, yes, exactly!” Iza Boit said, leaning in toward me. “I felt it keenly yesterday but could not name the feeling.”

“There is another thing, I think,” I said. “If I were to describe you as music, I should say you were a full chord.Your daughters are still single notes. And each note is different, and they do not all complement one another or the chord.”

Iza Boit laughed with pleasure. I was pleased as well. I had practiced that speech.

“Then what are the vases, Sargent?” she said. “What part of music are they?”

“The vases? Oh—the pedals on the piano, I suppose.”

It was the first thing that came into my head, but Iza Boit laughed again.

“Boity has done well to bring you among us,” she said. “Such insight you have, Sargent. You must find a way to proceed.”

“I fear I don’t quite see how,” I said.

“Surely there must be some way,” Iza Boit said. “Boit wishes you to paint our daughters. I desire it.”

Iza Boit’s eyes flickered with delight. Then she said exactly what I had been hoping to lead her to say.

“Perhaps you should paint us separately,” she said. “I in one portrait, the girls in another.”

I pretended to hesitate.

“Yes, that could be the solution,” I said. “But which one first?”

I watched her features work as she turned the idea over in her mind. She wanted to be painted now, right away; I could see that. But she wanted even more for me to see her as a person putting art above all.

“You should begin with the girls, I think,” she said.

“Then I shall,” I said.

“I will have Flint show you to their schoolroom,” Iza Boit said. “They should be there in a few moments for their morning lessons. Spend an hour with them and see what may come to you. This time, sir, guard your sketchbook.”

The schoolroom was on the second floor. It was a large and airy place, equipped with everything a governess or tutor might want. A large blackboard had been hung on the wall, and on this was written a poem in colored chalk. Against the wall opposite was a small harmonium with shining ivory keys. There were portraits of Washington, Lincoln, and Napoleon, a bust of Shakespeare, and a French-English dictionary on a stand. Besides these, there was a large globe in one corner. I gave it a spin and was pleased to see that it was modern enough to show Colorado, the newest state.

The sound of feet behind me made me turn.

“Hello, Jane.” I smiled.

Jane did not answer. She moved across the floor to the window in three long glissades, like a ballerina.

“Did you hear me coming?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Liar,” she said. “You only heard me at the last second, when I came in. I was following you all the way from the salon.You didn’t know.”

“You’re quite right,” I said.

“I’m a very good sneak,” Jane said. “Even better than Florence. I can sneak anywhere.”

“That’s a very useful talent,” I said.

“Very, very useful,” Jane agreed. “I learn lots of things from sneaking.”

She stood en pointe and raised her arms over her head.

“Did you come to make more sketches for me to rip up?” she said.

“I came to make more sketches,” I said.

“Well, you’ll have to wait,” she said. “The other three are hiding.”

“Why aren’t you hiding?” I said.

“Because I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“That’s good,” I said. “There’s no reason to be.”

“You don’t know that,” Jane said. “You don’t know everything there is to be afraid of.”

“That’s true,” I said. “There must be something to be afraid of that I haven’t met yet.”

“Maybe you should be afraid of me, Uncle Sargent,” she said.

I laughed.

“I could kill people and get away with it,” Jane said. “I could

sneak up behind them and just do it. Did you ever kill anyone, Uncle Sargent?”

“No,” I said. “Anyway, not yet. Have you?”

“I’m not telling,” Jane said.

“That isn’t fair,” I said. “I told you.”

“But how do I know you were telling me the truth?” Jane said, and began to prance around the room in relevés.

“I always tell the truth,” I said.

“Well, I don’t,” Jane said.

“Is that the truth?” I asked.

“Yes—no—I mean—” and the girl laughed hard and long. Then she said, “Suppose I promised always to tell you the truth. Would you believe me?”

“I promise,” I said.

“But what if I lie?” she said.

“Then I will be fooled,” I said. “But what good will that do you?”

Jane considered this.

“Then I won’t lie if you won’t lie,” she said. “Promise?”

“Certainly. Look that way,” I said.

With her face in profile, Jane said, “What do you think of Mother?”

“A gentleman couldn’t possibly answer that question,” I said, whipping my pencil across the paper. “And a young lady shouldn’t ask it.”

“Why not?”

“Because some things are private,” I said.

“Some things are very, very private,” Jane said. “Those are the ones worth knowing.”

I went on sketching her.

“I’ll tell you something very, very private,” she said. “Papa is the best husband in the world, but Mother doesn’t like him much.”

I could feel myself blushing. I looked down at my sketch to try to hide it.

“You dance very well,” I said.

“Uncle Sargent, are you married?” Jane asked, ignoring my compliment.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“That’s one of those very private things,” I said.

“I just told you one,” Jane said.

“But I didn’t ask—Oh, very well, Jane,” I snapped. “I will tell you a truth and then we will stop this.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I was engaged about a year ago. I was in love. But then I painted the young woman, and I found I wasn’t in love anymore. All the love had gone into the painting.”

Why would a man say something like that to a child? But Jane had got me off balance.

“That is the truth,” Jane said, looking at me hard. “You did tell me the truth.” Then she grinned and shouted, “You told me the truth, you told me the truth! And I lied to you! Ha-ha, I lied! Good-bye, Uncle Sargent.”

And she ran out of the room.

I stood there, furious and idiotic.

“Damn!” I whispered over and over again. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.”

Someday, I promised myself, I would be done with portraits and

only paint flowers, like Boit. Flowers are what they are.

Some minutes passed, and I calmed down a little.

At last the Boit girls appeared in the doorway, all four of them.

“He’s here again,” Florence murmured.

“It’s nice to see you again, Uncle Sargent,” Jane said, and once more stuck out her tongue.

Mary and Julia were accompanied by a delicate-looking young woman no larger than Jane, and, as always, by Popau.

“Hello, Uncle Sargent,” Mary chirped.

“Uncle Sargent, Popau still says ‘No.’” Julia told me.

“This is Miss Joseph,” Jane said. “She is going to die horribly.”

“Horribly,” said Julia.

“Stone dead,” Florence agreed.

Miss Joseph seemed to be used to being told that she was about to be murdered. At any rate, she showed no surprise.

“Sir,” said the young woman.

“Permit me,” I said. “I am John Singer Sargent. I have been engaged to paint the children.”

“I was not informed of your coming,” Miss Joseph said.

“I believe Mrs. Boit had the idea to send me here only this morning,” I said.

“I see,” said Miss Joseph. “Well, how do you wish to proceed?”

“He mustn’t,” Florence said.

“He won’t,” Jane said.

One of these girls has called for help like a drowning sailor, I reminded myself. Which one? I studied them, looking for clues. It was impossible to say. But I noticed Florence’s eyes on my sketch

pad as if it were a weapon pointed at her.

"Tell me, girls,” I said, “what would you think if I were to paint only you, without your mother. Would that be a good idea?”

Florence and Jane looked at each other.

“He’s not going to leave,” Jane said quietly to her sister.

Florence closed her eyes. She began to sway gracefully back and forth with her arms over her head. She stamped her feet. It looked a little like a flamenco danced by someone who had never seen one.

“Florence, my dear, are you well?” Miss Joseph asked.

We all stood looking at Florence for what seemed like a very long time.

“Dare the gate, meet your fate,” was all she said when she finally spoke.

“Dare the gate, meet your fate,” she repeated.

It was an incantation, I thought. A charm of some kind.

Now all eyes turned toward me. On the faces of the two older girls, I saw the wariness. On Mary’s face the grave, brave look of a guardian angel as she clutched Julia’s hand. Julia’s expression was as blank and unreadable as Popau’s. And in Miss Joseph’s eyes was a mute cry of fear.

I wanted to break this mood, whatever it was. I sat down at the harmonium, ran my fingers over the keys, and began. I did not look at the girls or speak. I simply played the little melody every child in France knows, about dancing around and around on the broken bridge of Avignon. As I played, I made each repetition a little more elaborate, a bit more fantastic. I let out the anger I felt, let it pass into the music.

After a few moments, I heard Mary’s voice,

 

“Sur le Pont d’Avignon

L’on y danse, Von y danse,

Sur le Pont d’Avignon

L’on y danse tout en rond.

 

Florence began to dance. Jane joined her. Mary danced with Julia and Popau.

I went on playing, verse after verse, while the girls flung themselves about more and more freely Miss Joseph stood with her back against the wall and smiled.

At last, they formed a chain, with Jane at the head, Florence behind her, then Mary, Julia and Popau. In and out among the desks they wove until they were flushed and smiling, all but the doll.

I played a last crashing chord and bellowed,

 

“l'on y danse

Tout en round!

 

Across all barriers of age and experience, for a moment we were friends.

Florence whispered something to Jane.

Jane said, “If we let you paint us, how will you do it? Will you make us look like flowers? We don’t want that. We hate all flowers but Papa’s.”

“I was thinking I might portray you as Indians in front of a burning cabin,” I said.

Jane and Mary laughed. Florence smiled sadly.

“Or if that doesn’t suit you, what about something like The Janus Gate? The four of you lurking in the shadows, ready to set upon those old women and rob them.”

A little more laughter.

Florence whispered to Jane again.

“Paint us like the Arab lady,” Jane said. “We dare you.”

“The woman in Fumee d’Amber Gris?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jane said.

“Your parents will never approve of it,” I said. “What about this? I will paint you as you are dressed now, but I will paint you in the style of Velazquez, the great Spanish artist. I know your father would like that. He admires Velazquez’s work.”

Florence looked down. Then, after a long moment, she said, “Play the music in the lady’s picture.”

“It was something like this,” I said, and began to play a simple tune I’d heard on the street in Tunis. It was not a true Arab song but sounded vaguely like it.

Once again Florence began to sway, raising her arms and lowering them, stamping her feet erratically.

Jane clapped her hands, trying to keep time and failing. Mary and Julia skipped around their sisters in a circle.

They were trying to create the dance of the perfume from what they had seen in my painting. What rich, elaborate imaginations they had. I was charmed again in spite of the sadness I felt lay at the heart of their dance.

Miss Joseph, I noted, was biting her lip and fluttering her fineboned hands. The strangeness of what her students were doing was quite beyond her.

Then, in the middle of the third or fourth repetition of the song,Florence suddenly stopped moving and sat down at her desk.

The other girls stopped when she did and took seats, all but Julia, who went to a corner with Popau.

“Our time is nearly up,” I said. “I’ll just do one or two sketches of each of you.”

Quickly, I did a few drawings. Then I tore them out of my book and handed them to each of the girls.

“I don’t ever want you to feel frightened or worried about being drawn or painted,” I said. “It should be a friendly thing between us.”

Florence took her drawings, stared at them, and let them fall to the floor.

Jane took a pen and drew mustaches on her pictures.

“I always wondered how I’d look with whiskers,” she said. “See, Uncle Sargent? You should paint me like this.”

No one else spoke.

I walked over and added a Van Dyke beard to the mustache.

“Even better,” I said. “This brings out your noble profile.”

Jane laughed, then looked at Florence and stopped.

I flourished a drawing I had made of Miss Joseph and gave it to her.

“Thank you for indulging me this morning, Miss Joseph,” I said. “It is much appreciated.”

Miss Joseph looked at the sketch.

“Sir, you flatter me, I fear,” she said.

She blushed, and that made her delicate little face quite beautiful for a moment.

It made me long to say something gallant, such as, “Flattery is

quite unnecessary, I assure you.” But that might be too bold. What came out instead was, “Oh, no. Rough thing. Cartoon, really.”

Miss Joseph blushed again, and I looked away in embarrassment. My eyes fell on Florence and Jane, who were looking at us over the tops of Jane’s sketches.

“Monsters lurk in your work,” Florence said. “Lay them bare if you dare.”

“Yes,” Jane said. “If you dare. We don’t care.”

She gave her scimitar smile again.

I had no idea what any of that meant. Nor did I yet have the least clue which of these girls had cried for help. But it seemed that they would agree to being painted. That was as much progress as I could make in one day.

To my surprise, Miss Joseph accompanied me as I left the room.

“Are you determined to paint the Boits, sir?” she whispered to me.

“Painting is how I earn my living,” I said.

“Then, sir, let me tell you one thing that may help you. Believe nothing that you hear in this house. Believe less than half of what you see. Good day.”

And Miss Joseph was gone.