Iain Pears - The Dream of Scipio

And she had; she went alone and was confronted with the baleful glances of her family, none of whom offered her any consolation or understanding. It was her first and last brush with her religion, and from then on, she associated it with the disapproval that suffocated her in the synagogue that cold March afternoon.

In bringing her up, Claude Bronsen knew that Julia should learn to be more polite and refined than he was, cultivated in a way he could never be; his own appetites created in him a sort of disdain that he hoped Julia would share but learn to control better. He knew exactly what sort of child he wanted, could see her growing up in his mind, and the results of his labors bore their first fruit that day in the boulevard Haussmann. The nanny was completely perplexed by the outburst and smacked the child to make her hurry up. Julia screamed even more, and kept on screaming until her face was red with a mixture of outrage and despair. She was dragged back, still screaming, to the apartment, and sent to her room until she learned to behave. She never knew how much this frightened her father, how many nights he stayed awake, unable to sleep lest the affliction that had destroyed his wife had also been visited on his beloved daughter. Out of this terror came the overwhelming, stifling concern for her that too often turned into a swamping solicitude that allowed her little room to breathe.

Her performance that day, however, was mere petulance and rebellion, not a sign of incipient insanity. Julia did not behave; indeed it might be argued she never really behaved again; a moment transformed a polite, amenable girl into the paint-stained outcast she described (with some pride) to Julien much later. The outburst was triggered by a picture just visible through the window of a not particularly respectable art dealer; she wanted to stop and look, but the nanny was in a hurry and wanted to make tea. She made tea every afternoon, and Julia was expected to change her clothes, sit politely, and make proper conversation for thirty-five minutes about her day.

She had always done so; after that afternoon she never did again. The nanny left to go to a more civilized family a few months later. She refused Julia’s request to go into the little gallery and look at the picture that was not even in the window, but partially glimpsed on the wall on the left-hand side. Julia pointed to it. The nanny laughed. “Look at that thing; why, a monkey could do better.”

The incident opened the floodgates in Julia’s developing personality. Here was something around which she could organize all those confusing, confused thoughts and feelings that swirled through her mind. Here was a reason not to make polite conversations, not to change her clothes and sit with her knees touching. Here was a reason to disobey.

The next day she slipped out of the apartment when she should have been reading quietly in her room, tripping out of the maid’s entrance, then down the stairs, past the concierge and into the street. It was the first time she had ever been outside on her own, and she was frightened by her daring for the first dozen steps, and exhilarated thereafter. She walked brazenly into the gallery, affecting the manner of those grand women she had witnessed buying cosmetics in the faubourg Saint-Honoré, and went to look at her picture.

It was a pencil and wash of a woman with a firm mouth and chin, a streak of hair falling down the right side of her face from where it had been bundled up on top of her head. She looked tired, mournful even; Julia felt a pang of recognition.

In the background two men were talking, and their voices got louder and louder, so Julia could not help hearing as she stood entranced before the picture.

“You goddamned crook,” one was saying in heavily accented French. “You cheat. Why should I have anything to do with you?”

The unsuppressed rage was frightening; he was small, undistinguished-looking but with dark eyes and an air of compelling power.

“I do what I can. What do you expect? I keep this gallery, pay an assistant, pay the rent, give parties to try and drum up clients and get little in return for it. It is not as if these paintings are snapped up the moment I hang them on the wall, you know.”

“You don’t even try.”

The older man spoke softly, trying to conciliate. “I’m sorry. I do my best. And if you know a better dealer I will be happy to let you go. And wish you all the success you feel you deserve. But I speak the truth. And, if I may say so, your own attitude to the people who do think of buying your pictures does not help.”

“My attitude? My attitude? I am charm personified.”

“When you want to be. Which is not often. For the most part you are gratuitously offensive and overbearing. You talk about yourself without a break, and the first thing you ever do is inform your clients that you are a genius and you will first have to determine whether they are good enough to own one of your works.”

There was a long silence, then the little man burst out laughing and embraced the other. “And why not? It is all true.” Julia was thoroughly perplexed. She thought a punch on the nose might have been more appropriate. Then she noticed that both men were looking at her; she blushed and started to retreat.

“Stop, little one,” cried the painter. “You see, someone likes my paintings. She came in just to look at it. Did you see? Did you see the look on her face? I know that look. Ha!”

He walked over and knelt down beside her. “You do like it.”

She nodded, cautiously. The little painter put his arms around her and kissed her chastely, but full, on the lips; it was the first time anyone had ever done such a thing. She wished she could stop blushing.

“So? Tell me what you think.”

Julia panicked, then forced herself to respond, trying to think of something sophisticated and worldly to say. She could think of nothing at all.

“I think you must love her very much,” she said eventually, and felt ashamed of her reply.

But it delighted the painter, whose dark eyes bored into her in a way she found disturbing. She did not want him to take those eyes off her, ever.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

Julia looked sad. “Did she die?”

“In my heart, she did.” He cocked his head to one side and smiled impishly. “She was my mistress, some years ago. I gave her to someone else. She began to tire me.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said the dealer, appalled, “don’t talk so to a young girl. What a shocking thing to say.”

The painter laughed, but Julia looked at him very seriously. “I think she was unhappy already, when you painted this. You made her unhappy, then painted her sadness. That was cruel of you. You can love someone and make them unhappy, I know.”

“Do you now?” he replied uncomfortably. “Then maybe you know too much for someone of your age.”

The owner of the shop looked satisfied. He had never seen his most difficult client made uncomfortable, never heard him challenged so effectively. He would retell this story often.

“She was looking for something I could never give her.” Again his dark eyes bored into Julia’s mind. “You have something of the same about you, young woman. Take my advice: Don’t think you will find it in another person. You won’t. It’s not there. You must find it in yourself.” Then he stood up.

“So that’s me unmasked,” he said. “But at least you like it. Eh? Don’t you?”

“I think it’s the best thing I have ever seen,” she said.

He bowed. “And that’s the best compliment I have ever received. Are you going to complete my happiness and buy it?”

Julia gasped. “I couldn’t possibly. Why, it must cost at least a hundred francs!”

“A hundred francs! Oh, dear me! It is worth millions of francs, my child. But my—dealer—here tells me that in fact a picture is worth only what someone will give for it. How much money do you have?”