Luncheon of the Boating Party by Susan Vreeland Page A

writer.”
    “It’s called ‘Mademoiselle Zélia.’ ”
    Auguste sat down. “La belle Zélia. Une Montmartroise?”
    Paul nodded, dipping his pointed nose down to his paper and writing.
    “She’s got to be beautiful, right? And pale, though capable of feverish gaiety. Just the way we like them. Is she someone I know?”
    “No.”
    “How about this?” Auguste breathed in loudly, pulling together his nostrils, and gazed up at the ceiling, water-stained in familiar shapes—
    a cumulus cloud, a violin, a breast. “She was waltzing in a delicious yellow gown, in the arms of a dark-haired stranger with the air of an oarsman.”
    “You dunce. It’s about you. But the character’s name is Resmer, a painter who paints in the overgrown garden of a run-down house on the Butte.”
    “Ah, the rue Cortot, my old street.”
    “And he’s feeding her wine-soaked galettes and trying to convince her to model for him.”
    “Nude, I hope. There’s nothing as delectable as a dimpled buttock, unless it’s a dimpled breast.”
    “It takes place at Le Moulin de la Galette.”
    “What I have in mind takes place at La Maison Fournaise. Sunday.
    How many sentences do I have to contribute to equal you posing for a painting?”
    Paul scratched something out. “Don’t talk. I’m trying to write.”
    “Trying, that’s what we do in Montmartre. We try to write, like Duret, or we try to compose, like Cabaner, or we try to paint, like Cordey.
    To be a Montmartrois is to be a trier. And if we fail, we mope in a café or rage or drown ourselves in absinthe, and then we try again. We’re a village of triers.”
    Paul took a long draught of his amber bock. Auguste rolled a cigarette, lit it, and doodled on the marble table with the burnt-out match.
    “Give me two pieces of paper, will you?” Auguste asked. He leaned forward and wrote to a rich collector who had become a friend.
    • 38 •
    L u n c h e o n o f t h e B o a t i n g P a r t y
    Cher Monsieur Bérard,
    I trust that you are in the best of health in those fresh sea breezes of Normandy. As for me, I have taken upon myself the task to answer Zola’s criticism of the latest Impressionist show, particularly the charge that no masterpiece of complexity and thoughtful preparation has been painted in the Impressionist vein. I’m going to paint
    boaters on the terrace of La Maison Fournaise in Chatou, which
    I’ve been itching to do for years. I’m getting on, and I don’t want to postpone this little celebration of la vie moderne for which I might not be able to meet the expenses later. Even if the cost prevents me from finishing, it will teach me something.
    You know that I’m grateful for the commissions you have given
    me in the past, but I may find myself in need of money for this new, uncommissioned endeavor. I thought it best to alert you ahead of any prospective point of desperation. From time to time, a man has to attempt things that are beyond his capacities.
    Please give my regards to Madame Bérard and the children.
    Ever yours,
    A. Renoir
    He wrote a similar note to Charles Deudon. He hated this kind
    of letter-writing, laying the groundwork to hit them up for money later. He had some misgivings. Bérard had bought seventeen paintings from him last year and only three this year. If he had said yes to the Beloirs at Madame Charpentier’s salon, he wouldn’t have to write such letters.
    “Have you read Zola’s review of the last Impressionist show?” Auguste asked. “He blasts us for not producing a masterpiece. He who championed us from the start.”
    “You’ve got it in your head that he approves of the Impressionist style. He doesn’t give a flap about style. He supported you just because you’re insurrectionists, and because your subject matter is proletariat.”
    “I swear, this painting will make his head spin. Will you be there or not? Every Sunday for a while. No wild doings to interfere. No stowing
    • 39 •
    S u s a n V r e e l a n d
    away to