Marthe could hardly believe her eyes. The man did not look like anything she had imagined. He was short and balding, with a long mustache and goatee. His eyes were framed by thin wire glasses, and above their rims emerged a pair of thick and pointed brows.
Marthe rose from her chair and extended her hand. She was nearly a half foot taller than the artist.
“What a relief to discover I’ll have such a beautiful subject to paint,” he said as he kissed her hand. “You will make my job here a pleasure.”
She smiled, pleased that the artist made up in charm what he lacked in good looks and height.
“And I am grateful to be painted by such a talent. Charles has spoken incredibly highly of you.”
He was still standing in the center of the parlor. Against his waist, he held a large sketch pad tied closed with black cord.
“Please, Monsieur Boldini, make yourself at home...” She made a small gesture, encouraging him to sit down.
He nodded, taking a seat across from her. She noticed how his eyes were scanning the objects around the room.
“I see you like Oriental ceramics.”
Marthe smiled, delighted that the artist had taken note of her collection. Her porcelains had become a source of great pride for her. “Yes, very much. They were the first precious objects I began collecting... and once I started, I couldn’t get enough.”
“How interesting...” His expression suggested he was genuinely surprised that Marthe had chosen something so exotic as her first collection, for Asian porcelains were appreciated by a rarefied few.
“I must confess, I’m a bit of a collector myself.” Again, his eyes scanned the room. “I admire what you’ve managed to get your hands on.”
Marthe beamed. She was happy to have impressed him with something she had cultivated by herself, something beyond her own beauty.
Boldini pointed to one of the gourd-shaped vases on the shelves. “Moonlight glaze. One of my favorites.” He closed his eyes briefly, as though the pale blue glaze had triggered something in his mind.
“The Asians have such a delicacy of palette,” he continued. “It’s as if they can pinpoint the exact shade of breath, of water, of ice... Elements we think of as being clear, they find in that perfect shade of blue.”
She felt a slight flutter inside her as he spoke, a feeling wholly unexpected. She wanted him to keep talking, for she was immensely curious about what else he had to say.
“And that one...” He pointed to another one of her porcelains,one of the famille rose variety. “How easy it would be to imagine one of the blooms in my hand... the velvet petals between my fingers.” His voice lowered in pitch as though he wanted to intensify the almost erotic nature of his words.
Marthe’s skin grew warm underneath her dress.
“The lines of the artist’s brush fired to a perfect high relief. The contrast of the hard against the soft.” He turned from the porcelain and then focused his eyes on her. “There’s something quite sensual to it... don’t you think?”
She smiled back at him, pleased that they had something in common. She could feel herself becoming entranced by him, despite his impish appearance. Marthe studied him again. The small face, the pinched features. The balding head. Nothing was handsome about him at all. He lacked what had first attracted her to Charles: the height, the head full of thick black hair, the sharp, straight nose and cupid-bow lips. But when her eyes fell upon Boldini’s hands, she saw the one physical feature in which nature had been kind.
The fingers were long and tapered. The skin white and smooth, not a blemish or hair to be seen.
How beautiful his fingers were indeed. She could easily imagine him holding a paintbrush and palette.
“Yes,” she said, trying to reignite the conversation after her momentary distraction. “It’s not only the lines of the enamels that are so remarkable... it’s the shape of the porcelains as well... There’s something so feminine about the hourglass ones... even the melon gourds have a certain female robustness to them...”
“You have an extremely good eye.” He smiled. “I am impressed.”
“There is no need to be impressed,” she answered. “It’s refreshing to discover someone else who speaks the same language...”
“This is a rare thing, madame. To be able to speak to a woman so freely about beauty and art...” He opened his hands above hislap as though he were releasing an imaginary bird into the air. Marthe watched him intently, listening to every word. She could feel herself becoming almost hypnotized by his movements and speech.
“The glazes inspire my own work... You can’t imagine how many times I’ve tried to replicate those shades. Yet it’s impossible to achieve that kind of transparency with oil paint...”
“Yes, Icanimagine.” Her body rushed with adrenaline. Their conversation was a form of flattery that thrilled her. The artist spoke to her as though she were an equal, a woman who understood the unique language between artists.
“But I do have other talents,” he said, again gesturing with his hands. “So don’t fret. I can promise you, your portrait will be beautiful.”
“I have little doubt,” Marthe answered with a beguiling, feminine smile. “I’ve been told that if one is to have her portrait done, you’re the top choice of those in the best circles.”
