Just to get me back into a KoC mood! Look out for a post or two...
Friday, December 21, 2007
Egyptian Music by Loreena McKennit
Just to get me back into a KoC mood! Look out for a post or two...
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
L'Affaire: A Guest for Madame
I was sweeping the grate in the Madame’s drawing-room. Sweeping the grate was horrid work—to be done properly, it took an inordinate amount of time—and it also made a ridiculous mess of one’s clothes. After collecting the build-up of ash with a brush, the tiles on the hearth had to be scrubbed with a dampened sponge. Then, the new firewood must be laid in place. All this while on one’s hands and knees; the task was not one I eagerly anticipated.
Madame Gagnon had specified that the pleasure of sweeping the grate was to be mine that afternoon, however, and without perceptible complaint I proceeded to the drawing-room. The drawing-room was the pride of the house, and all to Madame’s personal credit. It was a rectangular room with more or less equal sides. Each tall wall was covered in a delicately patterned silk of a muted blue, chosen to complement the gilded mirror and furniture. The settees were covered in a plaid fabric of feminine colours. The fireplace was white, and a good quantity of light came in through the two large bay windows. Yet, though impeccably tasteful, the drawing-room could not conceal the symmetry of its parts and the formality of its air. It was an intimidating space, so perfectly faultless that it felt cold despite the inviting arrangement of chaises and lounges. Madame certainly intended it to be her peaceful retreat (Monsieur would never have allowed gold gilding and plaid anywhere else in the house), but her own dauntless propriety and the uptightness of her character prevented her from achieving this object in any of her endeavours, and the design of her drawing-room reflected this shortcoming.
Kneeling by the hearth, I reflected on the curious nature of the room while Madame reclined on the chaise-longue, concentrating on her migraine. Little Fifi sat on the carpet near her mama’s feet, undressing her newest doll, Madeleine, to bring her into a similar state of dilapidation as her older dolls. Fifi was the darling of the family, born some three years ago. Madame had sworn she would be the last child, at the time of her birth, and since then I had been watching her tightly-corseted abdomen for any sign that she had reneged on her vow. As I rolled my sleeves further up my arms, leaving dark ash smudges on my white chemise, I began to ponder Madame’s curious relationship with Monsieur.
Monsieur Bisset was a solicitor of the successful variety. The nature of his work, I was led to believe, was so that he could spend only the barest minimal time of the night in the home, and on many days of the year, not at all. My only experience of his presence was late, on an occasional night, when he would walk from the library to his study, or from his study to his bedroom. As such, I could barely remember what he looked like. His wife, however, I could confidently say was a very attractive woman, in her mid-thirties, who cared very much about her face and figure. She had given me one of her old gowns the previous year, a morning gown of pink taffeta, and the alarmingly narrow waist made me more conscious of watching my own.
I was thus engaged in reflections about the Bissets, when the door was opened by Madame Gagnon. In her usual gruff tone, she heralded that “Madame Hébert has arrived to see you, Madame.”
I turned to see Madame pull herself up, a frown marring her well-formed mouth. “Allow her in please.”
At this point, Fifi too realized that their comfort and privacy was to be invaded, and she immediately took cover underneath a nearby lounge. Her retreat was ignored by Madame, who pursed her lips, awaiting the arrival of her husband’s elderly aunt.
The guest was ushered in by Madame Gagnon promptly. My presence, as it had been before the unplanned arrival, went on disregarded.
Madame Hébert ambled forward with some difficulty. I ascertained the reason for her trouble. While her left hand grasped the handle of her walking stick, her right hand struggled with a flat, rectangular parcel, which dragged along the floor.
“Tante Augustine! To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” said Madame in greeting, with her delightful voice.
The elderly aunt held up her load, as though that would at once clarify the situation. Her effort was in vain, however, as Madame’s face remained perplexed, mine remained curious, and even Fifi under the lounge looked confused.
“I took the liberty of embarking on this visit because I have your opinion to ask upon a matter which has deeply distressed me.”
The three of us who received her words were no better enlightened. “Please make yourself at ease, Tante Augustine, and tell me what has you troubled,” she said courteously.
The old woman deposited herself on the lounge under which Fifi was hidden, and began her tale.
“I made an imprudent decision two weeks ago, to have my portrait done by an artist who a friend recommended to me, on the merit of his affordability. I received the result yesterday, and I must say that I have reasonable cause to think that I wasted my time and money!”
With this, she shook the parcel at her side. Madame’s reply was devoid of any true sentiment. “Let us see it then.”
The offending artwork was revealed. I craned my head to see it for myself. My position was such that I had to study it from an ungainly angle, but luckily the matte pastel surface repelled the glare of the two bay windows. I was able to establish that Madame Hébert’s distress was unfounded: the artist had produced a faithful likeness of her unpleasant features (I inwardly commended the bravery he must have possessed to make any study of that horrid face), and though somewhat lacking in spirit, it made up in artistic finesse.
I studied Madame’s features to perceive her reaction. Her face remained expressionless as she assessed the evidence her aunt presented. It was clear from the occasional movement in her brow that she was conflicted as to how to state the obvious truth without offending the deluded old woman. In the end, she decided not to tell the truth at all.
“Quite poor indeed, Tante Augustine, it looks nothing like you.”
“I knew it! Dearest Esmé, what do you suggest I do?”
Presented with another difficult request, Madame’s face once again became inhumanly still. “There is not much which can be done, I am afraid. Who is the artist?”
“Fantin-Latour.”
“You’re quite sure? I thought you said he was affordable?”
“Ah, you’re thinking of Monsieur Henri Fantin-Latour. It was Monsieur Frédéric who I commissioned, his younger brother.”
“Oh,” said Madame, and the conversation had reached an impasse, with neither side in any way motivated to continue it.
I continued my work, thinking about Madame Hébert’s portrait. I acknowledged to myself that I knew almost nothing about art—no, not almost nothing, plainly nothing—but Madame had observably agreed with my notion that the portrait was quite satisfactory. Soon enough, however, I became engrossed with my task, and I gave up thinking entirely.
Madame Gagnon had specified that the pleasure of sweeping the grate was to be mine that afternoon, however, and without perceptible complaint I proceeded to the drawing-room. The drawing-room was the pride of the house, and all to Madame’s personal credit. It was a rectangular room with more or less equal sides. Each tall wall was covered in a delicately patterned silk of a muted blue, chosen to complement the gilded mirror and furniture. The settees were covered in a plaid fabric of feminine colours. The fireplace was white, and a good quantity of light came in through the two large bay windows. Yet, though impeccably tasteful, the drawing-room could not conceal the symmetry of its parts and the formality of its air. It was an intimidating space, so perfectly faultless that it felt cold despite the inviting arrangement of chaises and lounges. Madame certainly intended it to be her peaceful retreat (Monsieur would never have allowed gold gilding and plaid anywhere else in the house), but her own dauntless propriety and the uptightness of her character prevented her from achieving this object in any of her endeavours, and the design of her drawing-room reflected this shortcoming.
Kneeling by the hearth, I reflected on the curious nature of the room while Madame reclined on the chaise-longue, concentrating on her migraine. Little Fifi sat on the carpet near her mama’s feet, undressing her newest doll, Madeleine, to bring her into a similar state of dilapidation as her older dolls. Fifi was the darling of the family, born some three years ago. Madame had sworn she would be the last child, at the time of her birth, and since then I had been watching her tightly-corseted abdomen for any sign that she had reneged on her vow. As I rolled my sleeves further up my arms, leaving dark ash smudges on my white chemise, I began to ponder Madame’s curious relationship with Monsieur.
Monsieur Bisset was a solicitor of the successful variety. The nature of his work, I was led to believe, was so that he could spend only the barest minimal time of the night in the home, and on many days of the year, not at all. My only experience of his presence was late, on an occasional night, when he would walk from the library to his study, or from his study to his bedroom. As such, I could barely remember what he looked like. His wife, however, I could confidently say was a very attractive woman, in her mid-thirties, who cared very much about her face and figure. She had given me one of her old gowns the previous year, a morning gown of pink taffeta, and the alarmingly narrow waist made me more conscious of watching my own.
I was thus engaged in reflections about the Bissets, when the door was opened by Madame Gagnon. In her usual gruff tone, she heralded that “Madame Hébert has arrived to see you, Madame.”
I turned to see Madame pull herself up, a frown marring her well-formed mouth. “Allow her in please.”
At this point, Fifi too realized that their comfort and privacy was to be invaded, and she immediately took cover underneath a nearby lounge. Her retreat was ignored by Madame, who pursed her lips, awaiting the arrival of her husband’s elderly aunt.
The guest was ushered in by Madame Gagnon promptly. My presence, as it had been before the unplanned arrival, went on disregarded.
Madame Hébert ambled forward with some difficulty. I ascertained the reason for her trouble. While her left hand grasped the handle of her walking stick, her right hand struggled with a flat, rectangular parcel, which dragged along the floor.
“Tante Augustine! To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” said Madame in greeting, with her delightful voice.
The elderly aunt held up her load, as though that would at once clarify the situation. Her effort was in vain, however, as Madame’s face remained perplexed, mine remained curious, and even Fifi under the lounge looked confused.
“I took the liberty of embarking on this visit because I have your opinion to ask upon a matter which has deeply distressed me.”
The three of us who received her words were no better enlightened. “Please make yourself at ease, Tante Augustine, and tell me what has you troubled,” she said courteously.
The old woman deposited herself on the lounge under which Fifi was hidden, and began her tale.
“I made an imprudent decision two weeks ago, to have my portrait done by an artist who a friend recommended to me, on the merit of his affordability. I received the result yesterday, and I must say that I have reasonable cause to think that I wasted my time and money!”
With this, she shook the parcel at her side. Madame’s reply was devoid of any true sentiment. “Let us see it then.”
The offending artwork was revealed. I craned my head to see it for myself. My position was such that I had to study it from an ungainly angle, but luckily the matte pastel surface repelled the glare of the two bay windows. I was able to establish that Madame Hébert’s distress was unfounded: the artist had produced a faithful likeness of her unpleasant features (I inwardly commended the bravery he must have possessed to make any study of that horrid face), and though somewhat lacking in spirit, it made up in artistic finesse.
I studied Madame’s features to perceive her reaction. Her face remained expressionless as she assessed the evidence her aunt presented. It was clear from the occasional movement in her brow that she was conflicted as to how to state the obvious truth without offending the deluded old woman. In the end, she decided not to tell the truth at all.
“Quite poor indeed, Tante Augustine, it looks nothing like you.”
“I knew it! Dearest Esmé, what do you suggest I do?”
Presented with another difficult request, Madame’s face once again became inhumanly still. “There is not much which can be done, I am afraid. Who is the artist?”
“Fantin-Latour.”
“You’re quite sure? I thought you said he was affordable?”
“Ah, you’re thinking of Monsieur Henri Fantin-Latour. It was Monsieur Frédéric who I commissioned, his younger brother.”
“Oh,” said Madame, and the conversation had reached an impasse, with neither side in any way motivated to continue it.
I continued my work, thinking about Madame Hébert’s portrait. I acknowledged to myself that I knew almost nothing about art—no, not almost nothing, plainly nothing—but Madame had observably agreed with my notion that the portrait was quite satisfactory. Soon enough, however, I became engrossed with my task, and I gave up thinking entirely.
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