The Book of Shadows (31 page)

The horror of having this told to me by the Prince—while we sat riverside in the fur-lined comfort of his carriage—was underscored by the groaning of the ice. I watched horrified as the pilgrims leapt from floe to floe, each making the sign of the cross, each convinced that should they fall in the river and freeze it would be…providential. The first to succeed in crossing the Neva presented a silver cup of river water to the Imperials; they, in turn, filled the cup with gold and passed it back.

The Prince enjoyed this day-long spectacle. I found it enervating—two men and a child drowned that day—and so perhaps I did not respond appropriately when, timed to coincide with the presentation of gold to the pilgrim, the Prince slipped a large bracelet onto my arm. Made of hammered gold, and inlaid with sapphire and pearl, it bore this inscription: “
Ornez celle qui orne son siècle.” Adorn she who adorns her century
.

It was days later that I was summoned home by my Queen, never to see the Prince of Nassau again.

…Jewels, jewels, jewels. Just so many rocks and stones, really, however exquisite. But that bracelet—touched as it was by first love and bearing that inscription—means a great deal to me. I do not wear it. I never have. (What painter wears bracelets?) But I have it here now, heavy in my free hand, as I write to you,
for
you, whoever you are.

Adorn your century, witch, in whatever way you can, for it is the application of our talents, with beauty our intent, that empowers us—and power, thus achieved, that renders us whole.

W
HEN WORD
of my return to Paris—and my riches—reached my husband, he sent his man around with his card, seeking my assent to a visit. I struck a line through his name and sent the card back; this quite piqued him; and when next his man came around it was to deliver a letter bearing a thinly veiled threat. (My husband alone knew of my provenance; and it is far easier to fake the provenance behind a portrait than behind a person, this I know.)

We met at a café, and spoke at length of nothing. Eventually it became clear: I sought his silence and he sought a quantity of my cash; a deal might have been struck if only I hadn't…
Alors,
it was when the man
dared
speak of that sum of money that would secure but one year's silence—he'd keep me on a tether, would he?—that I began to…to
trouble
him. Pain him. (It was my witch's will at work, perhaps for the very first time; of course, I did not know that then.)

And so, as he drew from his breast pocket a contract of sorts, I, indignant, angry, envisioned his heart to be a seizing machine; and watched with satisfaction as his hands returned to pat that same pocket, this time to press away the sudden sharp pains beneath it. Had
I
effected this? I wondered.
Impossible!
A moment later, when, recovered, Monsieur oh so politely suggested we might
negotiate
the sum, my world went red again, and this time it was his tongue I imagined as I knotted a cherry stem with my ungloved fingers. And, yes…he set to choking. Perhaps I
was
somehow effecting this. Intrigued, I was; and pleased. I watched as his hands ringed his thick neck and the flesh of his face progressed from pink to purple to white. If it
was
my will at work, what a wondrous discovery! (Of course, never for a moment did witchery figure into this; only in hindsight would I understand what I'd done that day.)…For certainty, for vengeance, and yes, for fun, I played upon my husband's lungs, saw them as the closing locks of a canal; and when he tipped backward in his cane-backed chair, I rushed around the tiny table to his side—ever the faithful wife—and, kneeling, lowering my lips to his ear, whispered, “You'll go away, won't you? And never utter my name in less than admiring tones?” Only when he nodded and snorted out his assent did I stand; closing my eyes, I let the locks of his lungs open and air flood in. Leaving him to the ministrations of strangers, I slipped from the café unseen, and greatly satisfied; but still I attributed the “success” of the mission to luck and the dissolute ways to which my husband had long ago taken, the toll of which showed: his burgeoning belly, his cherry nose, his shallow breathing.

As for my old friends, the people of the streets of Paris, they'd helped me so often, had taught me so much; but hadn't I crossed the continent in search of a new life? I had, and so I saw none of them. I even denied a few of them. I am not proud of this—no, not proud at all—but neither do I have any regrets. When I saw someone I knew from days past I ignored him or her. Those people did not recognize me, for I bore no resemblance to the girl I'd been. Once, in fact, an old woman with whom I'd huddled one winter night begged of me, of
me
. I gave her all I had, of course—money enough for several weeks' worth of food, or drink. But I found I could not bear the sight of my new and finer self as reflected in her jaundiced eye.

Some days after my arrival, I sent word to the Court that I was prepared to paint the Queen. I received this response: I was to copy four existing portraits of the Queen, hanging about the capital, in both public and private places, and only upon approval of these would I be invited to paint a portrait from life.

I was
enraged;
naively, briefly enraged. But what choice did I have? And so I dashed off the four copies and had them delivered to the Court. By what criteria they were judged, I've no idea. In due time, three liveried men arrived at my door bearing my invitation to Court—I noted pridefully that it bore both the royal seal
and
signature.

And so I went to Versailles, the splendors of which I will not describe, as such accounts are easily come by.

That first day I sat waiting for hours on a stiff-backed chair in a hall whose every surface seemed mirrored. The walls—mirrored, yes—were hung with mostly inferior portraits. Thankfully, there was a lone Van Dyke, as well as some heads by Rubens and Greuze to hold my interest.

Long hours passed. Finally, another coterie of liveried men arrived and issued me into an antechamber. (At Court, wherever one looked, there were servants or nobles in attendance; the French Court suffered a surfeit of servitude, the like of which I have never seen elsewhere.) More waiting. Finally, I was joined by Madame de Guéménée, a favorite of the Queen; she was also governess to the King's sisters, Clotilde and Elisabeth. This woman—and here I will suppress my
initial
opinion of her, owing to later kindnesses received from her—this woman, decorated to excess, entered the antechamber trailed by no fewer than a half-dozen pugs.

Soon more attendants arrived to lay a small table with the midday dinner. (I'd arrived at the palace just after break of day—as always, seeking to paint by early light—and now here it was suppertime!) Madame and I—and the dogs, porcine pests, no higher than my shin—proceeded to dine. The dogs had bowls with a china pattern all their own. An attendant fastened bibs around their thickly fleshed necks.

Some of the dogs, said Madame de G., were the Queen's. Indeed, they bounded about that antechamber barking and nipping and…and
relieving
themselves as though the throne were theirs. Amazingly, not one of the many servants present—there was one in each corner of the room, and two beside each door—seemed to have full charge of the mean-spirited, muscular mutts. I watched in horror as these dogs chewed the edges of age-old tapestries, shat on the Savonnerie carpets, and scratched at the parquet floors with their tiny clicking black-lacquered nails. They scrambled up onto damask-covered couches. They chewed the gold leaf from chair legs. (Perhaps that is the true and lasting measure of Versailles: that the dogs there passed precious metals!)

Only after supper was I informed that the Queen was unable to see me that day. “You are to return on the morrow,” announced de Guéménée, reading from the note that had been carried into the room by not one but
two
men—the one to carry it and the other, presumably, to catch it should it fall.

I was angry. Again, what could I do? I could refuse to return. I thought of those artists, my lesser peers, who sought
constantly
the Queen's attention. Tischbein, Grassi, Lampi, Vestier, Mosnier; and the women, Marguerite Gérard, Marie-Victoire Lemoine, Rose Ducreux—and
despicable
Adélaïde Labille-Guiard, whose work was indistinguishable from her master's and who…ah, but it is of no import now…. Yes, I thought then of those painters, rivals all, any one of whom would have
crawled
to Versailles to paint that corps of the Queen's pugs, and I said yes, fine, I would return on the morrow. I departed then, but not before I succeeded in showing the snapping, cerise-collared pug—it was worrying my hem—the pointed part of my shoe!

Neither did I meet the Queen my second day at Court.

The third morning at Court, I left my assigned chair in yet another vast and drafty hall, this one crammed with history paintings hung floor to ceiling, four-high, and went for a walk. I was growing increasingly indignant with each passing hour. I determined that I would never again be used in such a way, neither by queen nor pauper.

I was walking along a thin avenue bordered by high shrubs, fragrant with jasmine and honeysuckle, considering my proper vengeance—perhaps I'd portray the Queen with pendulous earlobes, or a too-thin upper lip, or large hands. Just then, hearing a commotion, I rounded a hedge and came full upon the Queen and her party. There she stood. Only at some pointed sign from an attendant did I remember to curtsy; unpracticed at that art, I nearly overbalanced.

It was Madame de G. herself who stepped forward and presented me to the Princesse de Lamballe and Yolande de Polignac, and then, finally, the Queen herself.

I said nothing. The Queen said nothing. Only the birds in the trees dared speak. And then, in a move which sent her party into paroxysms, the Queen slowly, slowly, took a half-step backward, snapped shut her fan, and with a grand gesture bade me continue my walk in whatever direction I chose. The sudden intake of breath among the Queen's courtiers sounded like the whistling mistral! This was, of course, an
uncommon
courtesy. Quite uncommon.

Arriving at Court for the fourth consecutive day, I was told that the Queen would see me directly, and so she did.

I confess: I became an admirer the moment I met her. Then—this was the middle eighties—the Queen was still quite beautiful, or so she seemed to me. She was tall and well-built; if one liked her, she was “large-boned,” “stout” at worst; if one disliked her, well, there were adjectives in abundance. Her features were not quite regular: she had inherited the long and narrow, oval-shaped face of her Germanic ancestors. Her eyes were a beautiful blue, but not large. They seemed to me
kind
eyes. Her nose was slender and fine. I will say that I found her mouth too small to be beautiful, and yes, her lips
were
a bit thick—but these faults will not be seen in any portrait
I
painted of her! No indeed.

Her walk was…stately. She carried her head—
mon Dieu!
the irony there—she carried her head, I say, with a dignity that stamped her “Queen” in the midst of all the Court.

What I most clearly recall these long years later is the splendor of her complexion. Her skin was nearly transparent. I had some difficulty rendering its true effect, for it bore no umber in the painting. I chose a fresh, delicate palette, and after only three sittings showed the Queen a bust that pleased her greatly. It was then she extended that invitation
most
sought after by all the portraitists in France—
no
, in all of Europe! She invited me to paint the royal children.

Soon all the Royals, or nearly all, had sat for me. The King's brothers, the Comtes d'Artois and de Provence, and their wives; plus other Princes of the Blood—the Ducs de Bourbon, Condé, Penthièvre, Conti, and Orléans. And Madame Royale. And Madame Elisabeth. And a
host
of lesser nobles. Those who had
everything
had nothing till they posed for me! Of course, I charged what I pleased, and it was quickly paid. In one six-month span, I declined
five times
the number of commissions I accepted. Of greater concern to me then was the hiring of bankers: I painted only between appointments with same.

The wealth suited me, but the renown did not. It was when a portrait bust of
myself,
sculpted in terra-cotta by Pajou appeared in that year's Salon that I
knew
it was time to travel. I'd evolved from an artist into a work of art! Unwittingly, I'd traded away my anonymity. Yes, it was time to leave Paris. Again.

Preparing for my departure, I discovered a slight problem: my fame had outstripped my credentials. And one
needed
certain affiliations, certain credentials. Licenses. Memberships, et cetera. A bother, really, but still a necessity. And so, I determined to gain admittance to the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture.

I set to work. I retired to my studio. I saw no one. I spurned suitors, rejected the few friends I'd made. I completed my outstanding commissions and took no more.

What followed was a difficult period, artistically. It was a time in which I learned the value of discipline. Let me explain: history was the most respected genre, not portraiture. I had never done a history painting. What's more, I never
would
have done a history painting if the Academy had not…. Suffice to say that inside of three months I had produced five histories—“Innocence and Justice,” “Peace Bringing Back Abundance,” “Venus Binding the Wings of Cupid,” “Love Testing an Arrow in the Presence of Venus,” and “Juno Borrowing the Girdle of Venus.” (This output would have taken another painter two, perhaps three years; indeed, I had to “play” with the dates of composition.) These paintings were all mediocre, by my standards, but they were more than good enough to gain me admission to the Academy. In truth, I might have painted anything, for the Queen was rather vocal in support of my application. Indeed, one day, in the course of a final sitting, I confided to her that these works shamed me, that having to do the histories angered me, and she paid me thirty-five thousand francs for all five paintings and promised to store them and never show them.

That same day the Queen gave me a letter of introduction to her sister, Queen Maria Carolina of Naples. And so it was I decided on a southerly route from France, from unwanted fame, and from a name not my own.