The Watercolourist Page 2

  The little girls, all dressed in white cotton, are playing Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses on the great lawn, their brown hair gleaming in the sunlight. She sets up her easel near the poplar tree, places a pad upon it, and opens the mahogany box that holds her pencils on one side and her charcoal sticks on the other. The sight has reminded her of a Romney painting she saw in England, on one of the stops along her reverse Grand Tour.

  In that painting, three little girls and a boy, dressed in summer sandals and tunics, dance like tiny deities while an older sister plays on the drums, an annoyed look across her face. The older child is clearly from another marriage, while the four dancers are siblings. And undoubtedly this bothers the older girl tremendously.

  ‘Lady Anne looks as though she’d rather be somewhere else,’ Bianca said to her father, as they stood contemplating the painting in one of the sitting rooms of the estate, which was located in some idyllic corner of the English countryside that was itself a work of art.

  ‘You are right,’ he agreed, without lifting his eyes from the painting. ‘One can only hope that she eventually married well.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Bianca cried.

  ‘I’m only teasing,’ her father said firmly. ‘I only said it to see if you were listening. Although really, do you think that she had any other option?’

  That memory is fading fast. She is here now, and the colours of this reality are different and fiercer than any painting. The whiteness of the little girls is almost too painful to look at against the full greens of the forest and meadow.

  Donna Clara comes up behind her quietly, announcing her arrival by clearing her throat. Bianca is always startled by how thin she is. Once it might have been considered a virtue but now her figure seems almost comical. Bianca gives a slight curtsey without interrupting her pencil strokes.

  When you are working, her father said, never stop what you’re doing just because someone tells you it’s teatime.

  This echo lasts only a second; short but penetrating. And when she comes back to her senses, as if emerging from a trance, she readies herself to respond to a circumstantial comment with a circumstantial smile. Instead, Donna Clara just coughs.

  ‘You’re quite talented. My son has chosen well. He and his eccentricities . . .’

  Bianca wipes her hands on a rag, pleased with the unexpected compliment.

  Meanwhile, the girls have finished playing and come over to the easel, their tiny hands behind their backs. They look at the picture, curious but confused. Their governess apologizes quickly.

  ‘They wanted to see your drawing, but . . .’

  Of course they are disappointed. They expected to see clear representations of themselves. They shift their gaze from her to the piece of paper and back again, perplexed, waiting for an explanation or perhaps some kind of magic. They expect her to take a brush, dip it into her watercolours and fix everything.

  ‘Those marks,’ Donna Clara explains patiently to the girls, leaning forward a little, ‘are the lines of your bodies. Miss Bianca has caught you in the moment. This is Giulietta, lifting her foot in the air. This is you, Matilde, and here is Franceschina, skipping. Your faces will come later. You aren’t running away, but the moment is. Isn’t that right?’

  Bianca nods.

  ‘All paintings start out like this – a sketch, a jumble of marks,’ Bianca explains. ‘Some stay sketches, others turn into finished paintings. Do you girls draw?’

  ‘I can draw daisies,’ says Giulietta, the eldest.

  ‘One day we can try and draw together if you’d like,’ Bianca hears herself say.

  Donna Clara breaks up the group as if they are a brood of chicks.

  ‘Shoo, shoo, leave Miss Bianca alone now and go back to your games. Oh, what good children,’ she adds to Bianca as they run off. ‘Angels from heaven, here to bless our lives.’

  Bianca is surprised to hear such simple, affectionate words when just a moment earlier, in speaking to the children, she had used such a different tone. With newfound respect, Bianca watches as the elderly lady leaves.

  The following evening he joins them at dinner. At last. He looks elegant, dressed in a light grey waistcoat. His face, in the candlelight, is no longer ghostlike. Actually, he looks like a truly healthy man who spends much of his time outdoors. He extends his hand to her in a modern half-bow. The children sit very still, delighted by their father’s presence, and keep shooting him reverential glances. Donna Clara stares at her son feverishly, as if to keep him from disappearing again, turning away only to oversee the servants. Even Donna Julie seems more serene than usual and for once she stays at the table from the beginning to the end of the meal, without running off to take care of someone. Her charges are all present. She has fair skin, a braided bun of thick brown hair, and a long, delicate neck. Every so often she rests her elbow on the tablecloth in a childish, coy manner, before resuming her composed posture again as if it were a bad habit.

  They have potato and leek soup, cold chicken in aspic, and a medley of shredded carrots and courgettes, all of which are truly pleasing to the eye. The meal ends with a blancmange with wild strawberry sauce. It is a meal for convalescents. Or for kings. Or for convalescent kings.

  ‘The children picked the strawberries. They got incredibly dirty but it made them happy doing it,’ says the young mother, rolling her Rs in the French way with charm.

  He eats voraciously in a silence that is more intimate than solemn. He stares straight ahead, absorbed in his own thoughts.

  ‘I have been toying with the idea of letting the children have a small vegetable garden,’ he says finally. ‘Beyond the shed, by the well, so that it’s easy for watering. It is important that the children have a garden.’

  ‘But the season is almost over. What could you plant? And really, Titta, next to the well? I think it’s dangerous.’ Donna Clara speaks assertively, pressing her napkin to her lips. ‘I think I’ll have another helping of dessert,’ she adds. Her empty plate disappears and a new portion of blancmange arrives instantly.

  ‘Your mother is right,’ says Donna Julie. ‘The girls barely know how to swim yet. And they’re so fragile.’

  ‘I hope you’re not worried that they might get too much sun. At least they would look a little healthier. They’re as pale as linen,’ the master of the house says. ‘And you, signorina, do you have freckles? I imagine you were raised in the English manner.’

  Bianca, addressed for the first time, wipes her mouth delicately on her napkin while thinking of her reply.

  ‘In the English manner? I wouldn’t know. I’d say I was raised rather rigorously. My father always had clear opinions when it came to children. I learned to swim when I was three years old. Everyone knew how to swim at the lake. My brothers and I spent all our time outside, in every season. During the winter they would dress me like a boy in leggings and trousers, to keep me warm and comfortable.’

  Donna Clara raises her eyebrows while swallowing her last pink and white spoonful of blancmange. She licks her lips as a cat would its whiskers.

  ‘My mother didn’t entirely agree with his approach,’ Bianca adds, looking at the older lady. ‘But then she gave up arguing.’

  ‘Is your mother English as well?’ Donna Clara asks, her plump hands resting at either side of her plate.

  ‘No, she was Italian,’ answers Bianca.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘We had an English tutor,’ Bianca offers, to fill the silence.

  Donna Clara glows with approval.

  ‘Just like our own Innes! He’s away now, taking the waters in the Venetian countryside. He took a break from us, so to speak.’

  ‘Did your tutor take an interest in plants?’ Don Titta asks her. ‘Or did you start to botanize on your own?’

  His eyes are animated and observant. His tone soft and worldly. It occurs to Bianca that the forest ghost she has previously encountered could have been his crazy twin brother. Their physical appearance is the only trait that connects
them. She pauses for a moment before answering, weighing that verb in her mind – to botanize. She likes it tremendously.

  ‘I started out on my own, when and where I could,’ she explains. ‘I would ask the names of flowers and trees, and then compare the leaves with images in books, and learn the scientific nomenclature. I used to own a herbal encyclopaedia. I did the kinds of things that all children do. And then, a dear family friend helped me learn a great deal more.’

  She lapses momentarily into silence, distracted by the recollection of afternoons spent at Conte Rizzardi’s home, with that smell of dust, old paper and tanned leather, a smell that would forever remind her of her fondness for study. The large estate and its domesticated wonders lay outside; theory was separated from practice by just a pane of glass. There were countless volumes of books – she used to call them the diaries of flowers – and they were ready to spill their knowledge and complex terminology.

  ‘The flowers are not shown in the manner in which they truly exist,’ the count had explained. ‘It is only a representation. There is always a slight margin of difference between the way the eye sees and the hand draws.’

  She recalls the old man’s patience, the way he’d take her by the hand out to the vegetable and flower garden to see the originals.

  Don Titta’s voice brings her back to reality.

  ‘If you could come by my study tomorrow morning after ten, we can discuss the tasks I would like to entrust to you.’

  He then pushes his chair aside and stands.

  ‘Would you please excuse me,’ he says, and leaves the room.

  The two boys wait for him to disappear down the corridor before imitating him and running off in the opposite direction, towards the French window, which opens onto the darkness.

  The girls and the women remain seated. The younger lady is surprisingly animated, her cheeks flushed.

  Donna Clara observes, ‘Julie, my dear, you look quite rosy this evening. Have you started to follow my very own wine treatment? A nice glass of Marsala after a meal will have you wanting more, to be sure. You should try it too, Miss Bianca,’ she says, turning to Bianca. ‘It won’t do you any harm. I’ll call for some.’

  The maid appears with a tray, decanter and tiny glasses. The liquid looks like aged gold in the crystal. As it touches Bianca’s lips, it releases a burst of sun and almonds. It is heavy, full-bodied.

  Donna Julie raises her glass to look at it through the light.

  ‘What a lovely colour. Like an ancient coin,’ she says, but puts it down. ‘I apologize, Mother, but I just can’t tonight. I don’t need it. I am so pleased that he’s doing better that I don’t need it to feel well.’

  Donna Clara flashes a piercing glare in her direction, as if to quiet her. Then she looks down and, without waiting for the maid to do so, pours herself some more wine.

  Donna Clara advises that Minna will serve as Bianca’s personal maid.

  ‘She’s too delicate for heavy labour and needs to learn a trade,’ she says, holding the girl’s arm and forcing her to bow clumsily in front of her, intimating that Minna can learn her trade at Bianca’s expense as Bianca herself is young and probably doesn’t know any better. And with that she leaves the room.

  Minna is just a young girl. She has pink cheeks and dark brown hair, which she wears in a bun with a few loose curls. Her mouth is sealed shut with shyness. Bianca tries to meet the child’s gaze, but it is as if a dark force keeps her chin glued to her chest. Bianca pretends not to notice. She continues to organize her clothes, something she hates doing because it reminds her of their inadequacy. Minna approaches her timidly, aware of her duties as maid, and begins to help put away her freshly laundered undergarments. Someone knocks at the door. Minna hurries forward to open it.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she says, glowing with happiness.

  ‘May I come in?’

  The person at the door is another young girl whom Bianca has noticed before, out walking with the governess. She is older, taller, but must be twelve or thirteen at the most, with lively grey-green eyes and freckles on her cheeks.

  ‘I’m Pia, signorina, here to serve you,’ she says.

  There is nothing really for her to do. However, Bianca soon realizes that she has only come up out of curiosity. Pia looks around the room, peeking into the half-closed wardrobe as if hoping to uncover a mystery. Then she looks over at Minna, who has shrunk into a corner.

  ‘You’re a lucky one, aren’t you?’ she says with unabashed envy, running over to hug her tightly. Minna lets herself be hugged without moving her arms or altering her expression. ‘You deserve kisses! That’s what you deserve.’ Pia plants one on her cheek. ‘There, there, what good are kisses if we don’t give them?’

  The little one continues to stare at the floor, without smiling. Pia, satisfied, curtseys, offers her respects, and then leaves.

  What a strange household, Bianca thinks to herself, where maids have such independence, but the scene has cheered her up.

  Minna, meanwhile, comes back to her senses, stands up straight, and gives a deep curtsey, holding up each side of her skirt as the little girls have been taught to do by their governess.

  ‘I am Minna, my lady, here to serve you. What would you like me to do? Shall I brush your hair? Shall I organize your clothes? Shall I put your hairbrushes in order?’

  Bianca smiles.

  ‘For now, nothing. You’re free to go. I need to get my things ready and I like doing that myself. I will expect you tomorrow morning at seven, at the door to the garden.’

  Minna looks at her, disappointed.

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Go downstairs now. I’m sure they will have something for you to do in the kitchen.’

  Minna mumbles something then turns and walks away, no further bows or farewells – insulted.

  Bianca’s meeting couldn’t have gone any better. He ushered her into his study; a room of modest size, lined with books. There was no pale green, antique-rose or peacock-blue wallpaper here, as in the rest of the house. Instead, there were several ox-blood leather straight-backed chairs. A sombre pattern of brown rhombuses lined the walls and a black crucifix hung above the empty fireplace. He sat behind a large desk. She took a seat in front of him. They talked. They talked about botany, classifications, colours and chemistry. Bianca noticed right away that he was knowledgeable, passionate and precise. He only spoke of things of which he was certain. She could tell he was progressive on account of his ideas and the way he spoke about implementing them.

  ‘Some people here think I’m crazy. I’m the stereotype of a city gentleman obsessed with foreign ideas and with domesticating nature. But we mustn’t ever stop. We mustn’t rest. The countryside hasn’t changed for centuries, and yet progress affects it just as much as it affects all of us. And it is precisely for this reason that I feel it is my duty to experiment.’ Then, as though he had been too solemn, he added with a furtive smile, ‘It’s also a lot of fun. It helps keep my mind on something. Otherwise, things get too stirred up in here.’ He motioned towards his temple before brushing back a strand of hair from his forehead. His hands were elegant, she noticed: he had long fingers, delicate wrists, and manicured nails. ‘I’m no theoretician, don’t be fooled,’ he said, trying to read Bianca’s stare. ‘But I know what soap and water are for, I know it is proper to wash and be clean.’

  They shared a brief laugh, and then, somewhat more seriously, they passed on to more concrete topics of discussion: numbers, deadlines and her fee. They discussed everything that had been previously written out in black ink on white paper. There were still some wrinkles that needed smoothing out. He addressed each clause of their agreement carefully, as if he was worried he might offend her. She thought it might be disagreeable for him to discuss such topics with a woman. But she proceeded calmly and agreed a deal which, at least in premise, would be profitable for both parties. Except for one, rather important, detail.

  ‘Sir, it’s almost summer. This year the season is
extraordinarily hot and it seems that the heat will last. You have called me here now yet you are hiring me for a task that will only be completed next spring. This means that I will need to be here for an entire year and possibly longer. Am I correct in my understanding?’

  He gave a quick smile.

  ‘Everything has been taken into consideration. The winter will offer you the perfect time to reflect and draw. When the family returns to Milan you can enjoy a bit of the city with us, if you like, as I hope you will, while we wait for the pleasant weather to return. I am keen for you to be able to experience these subjects in all their states: life, dying, death and resurrection. It’s quite crucial to really understand what you will be portraying. Time is secondary. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I see,’ she said, nodding. She had never before been so far from the house she had grown up in for such a long period of time. But the place she had once called home no longer belonged to her.

  He jotted down a sum on a piece of paper and handed it to her. The figure was so incredibly high that she could not refuse it. A year it would be.

  And so she stood up and shook his hand. It was the right moment, before either of them was at a loss for words, before the silence between the two strangers became as deep as a well. Bianca didn’t want to find herself in any complicated situations. All she wanted was to be at ease in the house. If she encountered Don Titta in the garden again, with his long beard and dirty shirt, she would once more pretend not to see him. She would imagine it was his restless twin, a harmless creature, a village madman. This estate was almost a village, was it not? She would ignore him, like everyone else did, either out of respect or because he was the lord of the house and a poet. And, Bianca thought as she left his study, everyone knows that poets are unlike ordinary men.