Could there be a more heady time in Chinon but the summer? As summer passed into the first of autumn, the answer became an emphatic Oui. Blossoming flowers and gardens, honeyed limestone, and the crush of tourists have transformed into an explosion of autumn colors from high and low, to cooling stone, and the daily (and nightly) crushing of seasonal fruit to create the liquors of years to come.
September's festival, at the head of autumn, was a bacchanal in both literal and allegorical ways. Augustino and Felipe sang nightly in the vineyards and in the castle gardens, cheering on the young men who ceremoniously crushed grapes with their feet. And this year, as the previous few years, the lord of the castle, the prince himself, was conjured into Bacchus, carried in a procession from the vineyards to a large vat and dumped as a naked offering into a pool of cabernet franc.
The festival this year was more private than in years past, with no great throng of immortal politicians about. It was a family affair, gloriously heathen, with a naked Olympian god dunked to round out, and start off, another year.
As it symbolizes the coming, and the beginning, of another year, so too does it mark the time when households are moved, when seasonal servants begin to take their leave until next summer, and when William and Ian begin to pack their bags for colder and more intimate climes. In the nights that followed the ceremony, the prince has been seldom seen. He has left notes for continued instruction, suggested reading for the winter, and other moments from his mind to let the student know that he is still present and still thinking. But his time has been given once more to one -- and not just a little of his flesh as well.
They were seen, no doubt, in the vineyards from time to time, walking their land as servants prepared to move men and dogs. The intimacy between the men beyond definition at this point, and defying description. Sweatered arms interlinked, they passed in smiling silence, saving their conversation for their pillows.
It is October now, and the masters will soon be on their way. So well orchestrated, these moves, that they are anything but chaotic. It is more like a dance of boxes and dogs going to and fro. The dogs are now on their way to Scotland. Tomorrow night, William and Ian will be following them.
It is perhaps the hallmark of his spirit that there is no jealousy, no resentment at the lack of presence, the notes replacing direct interaction, the evidence of attention and energy directed elsewhere. He has been busy; he has been more than busy. He has been painting.
There has been an increased intensity about him as the days have gotten shorter, the nights longer. The body of completed works has increased considerably; the view from the train, the women in the village, a marching column of gaunt soldiers in shrouds escorting an ox-cart down a country road.
The portrait he had been doing has been completed as well. It sits on its easel, face turned to hide its blue eyes and confident smile, a cloth draped over it where it sits in a corner gathering dust. By now, others have been placed in front of it. Boys swim in a pool, naked and shouting; a girl walks alone down a cobblestone street, looking over her shoulder as if in suspicion at the painter or the viewer, a basket balanced on her hip. There is the painting of Marco and his lover, still, finally completed, set neatly to the side with the others.
Right now, Hansl is in the studio. It has been tidied up; works finished, dried, stacked neatly for removal or storage. He is not in front of the easel, not working with brush and paint but seated on the dais' edge, leaning forward over his lap with a sketchpad braced against his thigh. He is drawing - pen and ink, with rapid strokes, pale gold falling in front of his eyes.
There shall be no surprises tonight. At the archway from the study into the studio, there is a knock of knuckles on limestone. It is merely an announcement, the quietest way possible to interrupt you. He does not say 'Good evening' or 'hello', not while your hand is in motion, and certainly not before taking a survey of the gathered soldiers, the army of your finished paintings. He looks to all the coverings as he enters, and then to you.
"Still working... mein gott," comes the roll of his voice, that warm and effluent sound that conveys both his affection and his amusement. "You are going to exhaust yourself before the rains and the chill come, and then what will you do?"
He stands before you, dressed in deepest charcoal grey (a soft black), the suit's jacket containing the stray fleck or two of violet, just enough to bring out that color in his eyes. The jacket is layered, single-buttoned over a soft cream-colored sweater, the cable knit thin, certainly constructed for a French autumn rather than a Scottish one. His hair, that natural black, holds enough wave to thickly stand where he wants it to stand, and sit where he wants it to sit, as obedient as anything else in his presence.
He appears as new as the pagan year, remade after shrugging off the mantle of the god of wine. It took several nights to wash all of the cabernet out of his hair and skin, but the smell of wine has been replaced with something else, subtle and rarified. Some touch of Scotland, some fingerprint of his other home.
"It has been a good summer, non?" comes the languid baritone, its Occitan drawl elongated in his thoughts and in his study of you. "Have you pilfered the library?" Those lips begin a smile.
He looks up, pen halted on the forest sketch he'd been doing. It is a life sketch; in a clearing in a forest, young men hurl themselves around a fire, bodies arched halfway between light and shadow that paints them with tiger's stripes. It is almost finished; he has been working on it for some time already. Slowly, he rises to his feet.
"I am not exhausted yet." He is dressed in an open-necked white shirt, the collar unbuttoned and the hem tucked loosely into a pair of black serge trousers. His feet are bare and he seems unaffected by the cold - unaware of it save for an occasional shiver which he ignores. He watches you alertly, gaze straying occasionally to the drawing under his hand.
"It has been a good summer," Hansl agrees cautiously. He is not paranoid, but - where is this going? Pilfer? His cheeks redden, and he stammers. "I - mein herr? I have been reading as you have recommended, but I would not steal..."
Your earnestness still delights. "It was a joke. A reference to the long reading list for the winter," his voice is there to assuage your concern, warm and quiet and amused. "I know we discussed your staying here for the winter. Certainement, the castle will not be empty. Eros," Eros Foury, who manages the estate whether William is here or not, is here throughout the year, "...will be here. But I have made arrangements for you to have studio space of your own, not far. In Poitiers. And a place to stay."
He withdraws an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit's jacket and offers it to you, his smile still curling at the edges of his mouth, "I do not wish my autumn and winter sabbatical to interrupt your studies. You have made great progress, Hansl, and momentum is in the right direction. You have much to be proud for, oui? There are the necessary papers, the keys, and contacts in Poitiers. The prince, Alire, is a good man, and he is looking forward to meeting with you when you arrive in my old city."
His smile spreads in the warmth of those dark eyes, the blue and violet. "I have also arranged for a mentor for you, someone to work with you in my stead until the spring. His name is Christophe de la Fayette. He is of your extended familie," he explains, relinquishing the envelope, "a former guildmaster of Poitiers who now is among the best of its resident artists. His work is very modern. I think he will provide you with one, a good base in your own familie, and two, a very smart instructor, with an eye for developing talent and careers. He is expecting your call when you arrive."
And still the gifts keep coming. "It is... an early Noel," William notes in an aside. "I do not think I will be getting out much once I get to Scotland." No, likely not says the look, and no further explanation is needed, certainly.
Self-consciously, he rubs at one cheek, as if to wipe the color from it. Studio space. A place to stay. He listens, tries to absorb it, to consider the various ramifications, and gives up for the moment; his mind is too much on artistic patterns to easily switch to other patterns and their recognition. Instead, he nods to you obediently, his empty hand reaching to take the envelope.
"You are kind," Hansl murmurs. There is a helpless note to his voice again, as helpless as ever in the face of kindness. He does not expect kindness; does not expect generosity. "Thank you," he adds, honest in the sentiment, even paired with bewilderment. "I do not deserve such gifts. But I do appreciate them."
Christophe de la Fayette. The name is committed to memory; the memory is tweaked and wracked to try and find any correlations, any references, anything of which he knows in association with the name. Alire he has met, albeit once, and the ghost of a smile lights his eyes and is doused as he recalls in whose company he made that acquaintance. "His Highness is a good man." I hope there will be no awkwardness. "I will call when I arrive," Hansl promises. He does not need to say that it is a promise for you to know that that is exactly what it is.
"In the spring, when I return to France," William explains quietly, "I will come to see how you are doing in Poitiers. And we will resume our work. You are always welcome in Chinon, Hansl. And you will be welcome to move back from Poitiers to the lovely Tour de Boissy whenever you wish. And you will hear from me, ne c'est pas?"
He is not sending you away into yet another exile. Poitiers is not to be a repeat of Paris. He wonders if you understand that.
"You are welcome," William says at last. He does not correct your deservingness or not. He would not give it if you did not deserve it. That is a simple fact that he expects you to know. You will understand it one night.
"I am certain His Highness will want to hear all about your studies. Art ... I do not know that it fascinates him, but studying is a passion of his. I am certain it shall come up. As for de la Fayette, he is also a good man. I have known him since the French Revolution. His teaching style is not quite as military as my own," he grins at that. He does rather make you paint like you are in a Norman boot camp. "But he is another one who has traded in the gun and the sword for the brush. He has a real gift for portraiture. He has a command of models and an eye for talent that is to be envied. I think you will learn much from him. There is that opportunity," he emphasizes quietly, "...for you to learn a great deal."
Make the most of it is the implied ending to that sentence.
"Ian and I leave tomorrow night. Would you care to join us for a drink tonight? We like to drink brandy while our servants pack for us. It makes us feel useful."
He bows to you, and straightens. There is no sign of hurt, or betrayal, no sign that he views this as an exile or bewildering and wounding exit. "Merci," Hansl answers you in his letter-perfect French. "I do appreciate your gifts, mein herr. I accept your invitation, if you are certain that I will not intrude."
He will do as he always does - throw himself into the experience with all his earnestness, the desire to learn and to prove himself wrapped around him until he is tense as a drum. But you know this; better than he himself does. He absorbs what you tell him, and internalizes it all. He shows no wonder : who is this de la Fayette, what sort of man is he, but accepts him at your evaluation. You speak of him highly, and therefore it much be so, ja?
Hansl caps the pen neatly, tucking it into his shirt pocket. The sketch is put under his arm, his fringe dangling in his eyes. He will need another trim. "I ... should put on some shoes."
Posted by rowan at July 29, 2007 10:19 PM
