7 - Meres

       “I simply cannot paint on days such as this!”
       Claude storms about the room in a perfect picture of artistic fury. He pulls at his wild curls, grinds his teeth, and swats at pots filled with brushes, scattering their contents across the room. “I have had every lamp in the house lit all morning, and yet it is too dark. I cannot see any of my colors correctly – any time I set a brush to my canvas to continue on, I find the shade is wrong, and I have to quickly wipe it away before it destroys what I have already done!”
       The lights are indeed blazing in the room – there are half a dozen lamps set in the wall, and the boy has had perhaps another dozen brought in, standing on every possible surface... including a few that I realize, on closer inspection, are really quite dubious. Resting a lamp on a few books is one thing, but to leave one unattended upon an unwieldy stack of pottery, books, and discarded canvases, tilting as the camponile in Pisa... I find myself somewhat concerned for the safety of our young protégé, given the particularly flammable nature of his paints, their various mediums and cleaning solutions.
       His easel has been pulled as close to the window as it might be, still allowing him some access to it. Another lamp is blazing with a flame dangerously high, his delirious palate beside it, brushes scattered across the windowsill. But the sky remains obstinately gray and brooding, allowing little light to filter through, though it is not far from noon. It is more than enough light to see, but given the dingy nature of the external light, and overly golden quality of the lamps, it is quite clear to me how his difficulty has arisen.
       “You poor boy... has no-one yet provided you with an electric light?”
       He pauses in his rampage a moment to stare blankly at me. “A what?”
       I chuckle, and step gingerly across the cluttered studio floor toward him. “A new sort of light, becoming quite the fashion among the Americans. We shall have to set one up for you. The light seems very cold to most, though it is far brighter than our gas lamps. Still, I think it would suit you nicely on days as this, for its color is much closer to sunlight. But here – are there any sketches you might work on today? I will bring you to my greenhouses, that you might find something to ease your frustrations.”
       Claude sighs petulantly, casting about him for a battered bound sketchbook. “I suppose... there are so many flowers to be put into this painting, and I have little reference here. Every flower I have brought into the house has faded within a day, and no plant seems willing to stay alive within my walls.”
       I smile calmly at the boy, and reach out a hand to smooth down some particularly disturbed curls. “We shall find you something, my dear. I have even some plants which require no soil, very little water, and only air on which to live – you might do well with one of these, at the very least.”
       He laughs at this. “Perhaps! Do give me a moment, let me find some pencils...”
       I turn toward the door, to call for a servant, that my carriage might be brought round – though it has been scarcely quarter of an hour since I arrived in it. “Anything you cannot find, do not trouble yourself over – I have quite a number of materials myself, and you are more than welcome to them.”

       Though our exposure to it is brief, the weather is nonetheless unpleasant. The rain is steady, beating unceasingly on everything it touches. The wind has risen, and gusts in foul temper through the narrow channels between tall brick edifices. The carriage is warm, at least – the servants must have brought fresh hot coals in from Claude's residence, for the iron boxes at our feet are hot to the touch. Yet by the time we have reached my estate, a chill has settled within me. Indoors it is quite warm, and the greenhouses are still warmer, but I have a fresh pot of tea brought to a table in the orchid room, that I might enjoy it at my leisure.
       I give Claude a brief tour of the several glass-walled rooms, and he looks about in pure admiration. This pleases me – for I see that it is not only wonder at the variety of plants kept in perfect health, but appreciation of the arrangement of the myriad colors and textures. He can hardly recognize the intricate combinations of meanings as well, but the visual aspect is sufficient for him to know.
       I seat myself among the orchids, and pour tea into a china cup, the porcelain thin as an eggshell. I hold the cup up to the light passing through the glass panes above, and admire the red-gold liquid within. I breathe in the warm scent, and am pleased to recognize the exotic blend so recently acquired. Redbush tea, rooibos from the farthest reaches of Africa. This one is blended with cranberry for warmth and orange for brightness, the tea itself mild and spiced, tasting just as it ought to given its coloring.
       I let my gaze fall idly around, eyes soaking in the rich colors and strange forms of the orchids in blossom, hanging in their strange way from branches and trunks of other trees. Large white moths with fuchsia lips, small yellow bees with vermilion freckles, spindly dragonflies of unreal chartreuse, motionless hummingbirds of rich claret purples that are nearly black...
       Claude has brought a stool over to a trellis of tumbling jasmine flowers in the next room, and he rests the sketchbook upon his knees, resting the handful of pencils on a marble pedestal, which also holds a delicate urn overflowing with coral tea rose blossoms. He leans close to the jasmine, and I see his brow furrow as he tries to capture the sensual curve of the deceptively simple flowers. There are several plants twined together on the arching trellis, and the small stars are both white and yellow, tumbled together. I never tire of their warm, spiced fragrance – I often have some brought into other rooms, for their fragrance is as potent, yet gentler to the senses, than any incense. Veri often finds them soothing---
       Veri.
       I have not seen him in some days. I fear he is still cross with me, for he has not visited, nor sent me any word, since we stayed at Luce's some weeks ago. I suppose he feels he suffered some neglect at my hand – but I left him well-attended, and saw to him on my return from the gardens that night. He can hardly have expected me to remain at his side the entire time.
       My cup is empty. I refill it, and drink without tasting.
       Jasmine, meaning sensuality, ecstasy. Tea rose... always lovely. Heliotrope, on a shelf nearby, infatuation. Fuchsia, in a hanging planter, the heavy blossoms of white and cerise kissing the violet clusters of the heliotrope – the ambition of my love thus plagues itself. A complex meaning for a simple flower to hold, though the blossoms fold in on themselves, flowers within flowers, a claustrophobic existence, one thing wrapped so tightly around the other, binding the two so closely together...
       “Meres? Have you any water colors? I should like to get the shade of this rose...”
       Startled, the cup slips from my fingers, and shatters on the floor. The thin china is almost lost against the delicate grays of the marble tiles, and I stare thoughtlessly at the contrast of the sharp, angular pieces, and the round form of their displacement.
       “Oh! I am sorry... I didn't mean to startle you...” The boy sounds nervous, almost frightened. I only sigh, and stand, trying to bring my head above the surface of the heavy thoughts which had threatened to suffocate me.
       “It is no trouble. One cup is hardly of importance.” A servant has already appeared from invisibility, and is picking up the pieces. “I have a few paints in another room – I shall bring them to you.”
       Near the koi pond in another room, there is a small sitting area, with an intricately carved box of rosewood for a side table. Inside, I keep a small supply of art materials, that they will be near if the mood strikes me. I retrieve a set of water colors and a few brushes. On another table stands a vase of cut crystal, and I dip it below the surface of the pond, letting it fill with cool water. The koi twirl lazily in the depths of the water, out from beneath the lily pads, seeking what little sunlight falls between them.
       I have not painted in some time... The last came to such an upsetting result, that I can hardly think on it yet. Such a lovely composition of ivory and scarlet, such fine details... and all destroyed, by small minds and loud voices and hysterical hands. I should have---
       I should have not allowed myself to think of it. I am still entirely irrational about the matter. I will bring the boy paints, and he will create something lovely for me to admire. I need not bother to do so myself, when I have him to do so for me.
       I bring him the paints, and seat myself near him. His fingers move in such minute motion, the lead of the pencil seeming to wrap itself around invisible curves, tracing out the forms of the thousand-fold ruffles of rose petals. The pencil rasps almost silently across the paper, and it whispers of secret things: The transmutation of three dimensions into two, the mystic properties which deceive the eye, the displaced mirror which, through the motions of a hand, relocates that flower from its place on the bush to the artist's page.
       Dabbing bits of scarlet and saffron into the stained lid of the paint set, he thins them with more water, making small tests along the bottom of his page, until he is satisfied with the shade. The coral of the blossom is both warm and cool, flushed pink as a maiden's blush at the throat, cooling with faint pale frost at the edges.