Charlotte in New York (6 page)

July 20, 1894

24 Fifth Avenue
New York

Raymonde says, “Il fait chaud, chaud, chaud,” and it
is
hot, hot, hot. When I got to the studio today, Papa was painting in his underwear. He told me he was painting from memory. “Thinking of cooler climes,” he added. When I asked what that meant, he turned the canvas toward me. It was Marie Poupée and her dog Limouzin. Papa was remembering the cool sea air in Le Pouldu and how Limouzin would run to greet everyone who came to stay at the inn under the pines. All at once, Papa put his paintbrush down. “Enough of this heat,” he said. “Appledore Island, here we come!”

I ran home to tell Mama and Raymonde, and when I got there, I found a postcard waiting for me. From Lizzy. From Appledore!

On the back it says:
Windswept cottage, Appledore Island.
Everybody misses you. Me most of all! When are you coming?
Love, Lizzy

There isn't time to write her back. She'll be so surprised to see me!

When I told Hippolyte we were going to Appledore, he said he and Monsieur Durand-Ruel were off to San Francisco. Then he pulled an egg from his pocket. “It's so hot,” he said, “I can fry this on the sidewalk.” An he did! We put the egg on a plate to cool, and Toby gobbled it up. I have so much to tell Lizzy. . . .

August 1, 1894

Appledore Island
The Isles of Shoals

I'm so happy to be back in Appledore! To get here, we had to take a train from New York to Boston, then another from Boston to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. When we stepped from the train at Portsmouth harbor, a gust of wind came up and blew our hats into the water. We didn't mind—we could smell salt air and hear gulls screeching overhead. And see the steamboat Pinafore waiting to take us out to Appledore.

When we got to our cottage, Raymonde opened the shutters and windows and let the sunshine in. We haven't been here for two years, but everything looks just the same. Toby and I raced to the Fosters'. He got there first and leapt into Lizzy's arms. She was so glad to see us!

Tonight we went to Appledore House for dinner. Everyone was there, including the poet Mrs. Celia Thaxter with her houseguests. She always has lots of those—artists, other poets and musicians, mostly. Raymonde said the clam chowder was “beau et bon”—beautiful to look at
and
good to eat. Then she disappeared into the kitchen and came out with the recipe for the chowder and the peach crisp!

After dinner, we sat by the fire and listened to island stories. One was about a ghost who haunts the hotel, an old lady who warms her toes by the fire. Then Mrs. Thaxter told us about a wild storm they had when she was a girl, when her father was the lighthouse keeper here—the wind was so strong, they had to bring the cow into the kitchen so she wouldn't blow out to sea!

August 12, 1894

Appledore Island
The Isles of Shoals

I went to meet the mail boat this morning and saw a strange-looking package for Mrs. Thaxter—a box of dirt with wire across the top. I told the mailman I'd take it straight to her.

Mr. Childe Hassam

When I got to Mrs. Thaxter's house, Papa's old friend Mr. Childe Hassam was on the porch. He was signing his name to a painting he had just finished. Next to it, he put a red crescent moon. When I asked if he knew where Mrs. Thaxter was, he said, “Try the parlor.”

There were so many flowers in the room that I couldn't see her at first. Then I spotted her. She was lying down, reading a book. When I handed her the box, she exclaimed, “Come with me!” and took me out to her garden.

“Poor, dry, dusty creatures,” she said as she put the box down and sprinkled it with water from a watering can. All at once, I heard the high peeping sound of many little voices. She removed the wire and turned the box on its side. Out hopped what must have been a hundred tiny toads. “I ordered them from the mainland,” she said, “to feast on my pesky slugs. Before long, the toads will grow as large as apples, and there won't be a single slug left in my garden.” Now I know why I saw toads for sale at markets in France!

Mrs. Thaxter loves poppies, too, and has lots of different kinds.

I told her how I sowed poppy seeds Monsieur Monet gave me over the snow in my garden in Giverny. She said that in February, when it's still very cold, she plants poppies, too. But she plants them this way: