Charlotte in London Read online

  Charlotte in London

  BY JOAN MACPHAIL KNIGHT

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY MELISSA SWEET

  April 1, 1895

  Rue de l’Amiscourt

  Giverny

  I knew Monsieur Monet was back from Norway when I walked Toby past his garden this morning and smelled turpentine. I opened the gate and there he was with twenty canvases lined up in a row, all of the same snowy mountain in different light.

  When I told him we’re going to London, he put his paintbrush down and said, “J’adore Londres”—I love London. “Parfois, après la brume”—sometimes, after a fog—“the river turns to gold. C’est étonnant,”—it’s remarkable—he added, and went back to his painting.

  I can’t wait to see that!

  The Fosters are coming with us. Lizzy Foster is my best friend and we do everything together. Her father came to Giverny from Boston for the same reason mine did: to learn to paint “en plein air”—outdoors—the way the French Impressionists do. Everyone wants to study where the great master, Monsieur Monet, lives.

  In London, Mama wants to have her portrait painted by the famous artist Mr. John Singer Sargent. Papa says there are so many people ahead of her, she’ll be lucky to get her foot in the door. Mama says she’ll find out if she can get her foot in the door when she gets there. Now she’s in Paris with Mrs. Foster, shopping for shoes to wear for her London sitting.

  This afternoon our cook, Raymonde, sent me to the store for bleach, “eau de javel,” to whiten the tablecloths. Along the way, Toby ran into the “pâtisserie,” just like always. Only this time he didn’t come out with a “croissant”—he came out with my friend Hippolyte! Hippolyte told me he had come here from Paris with a friend and that I could never guess how—not if I had a hundred guesses! Then he said:

  “We came without a stop . . .

  Without a sound . . .

  Without a footstep on the ground.”

  “Lots of people come here by boat from Paris,” I laughed.

  “Pas moi!”—Not me! “Meet me at eight in the morning in Duboc’s field,” he said, “the one where the Americans go to try to copy Monsieur Monet’s haystack paintings. Ne retarde pas!”—Don’t be late!

  What could it be? I wonder. I’m going straight to Lizzy’s to tell her!

  April 2, 1895

  Rue de l’Amiscourt

  Giverny

  Raymonde made us a picnic lunch. I ran with the basket to Lizzy’s house. When I got there, Lizzy was practicing the violin. While I waited for her to finish, I peeked into the picnic basket to see what Raymonde had made for us:

  Our favorites!

  The second Lizzy finished practicing, she put her violin away and we raced to the hayfield at the edge of town. In the distance was a giant red and white balloon, decorated with flags of every color. As we got closer, we saw a basket underneath. Out stepped Hippolyte with his friend Monsieur Alberto Santos-Dumont. He’s from Brazil and speaks English, French and Portuguese. He told us the balloon is named Voyageur—“Wanderer.” Then he asked if we wanted to ride in it.

  And we did! Up over trees and rooftops. I’ll never forget what it was like to fly. It didn’t feel as if we were moving at all—instead, the village seemed to slip away from us. A soft wind carried us over Lizzy’s house and over our garden, where Raymonde was hanging laundry to dry. When she saw the balloon, her mouth made an O. She didn’t see us—I put my hand over Toby’s muzzle so he wouldn’t bark and Lizzy and I hid at the bottom of the basket.

  We floated above the church tower and out across fields of painters with easels and parasols (I think I saw Papa!) to the river Epte. I even saw the river Seine as far as the sea. Lizzy swore she could see the coast of England.

  Monsieur Santos-Dumont said you never know where your balloon will land, and weren’t we lucky to come down at the “château” of his good friend the Comte de Champfleury?

  Then he let the air out of the balloon and the servants folded it up and put it inside the basket. A carriage with eight dancing black horses pulled up to take Monsieur Santos-Dumont, Hippolyte and the balloon to Vernon to catch the train to Paris. On the way they dropped us in Giverny. We waved at them until the carriage was out of sight.

  At dinner, Papa told me about the balloon he had seen and how balloons are the latest thing in London. “I hear the sky is filled with them,” he said, “and that you can take a pleasure flight from any public garden.” I hope that’s true! In three days we’ll be there!

  April 8, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  Lizzy and I love this hotel—we get to have breakfast in our room! This morning a waiter set a table with a pink cloth and napkins at our window above the river Thames. Every dish was covered with a big silver lid—even Toby’s little lamb chop! We had “oeufs brouillés”—scrambled eggs—with fat croissants and strawberry jam and pitchers of hot chocolate with whipped cream. No wonder the chef is called the “King of Chefs.” He’s French and his name is Monsieur Auguste Escoffier. As we ate, the sun burned through the fog and the dark river turned to gold, just as Monsieur Monet said it would.

  After breakfast, Lizzy went shopping with Mrs. Foster, and Papa and I went to the river—“for inspiration,” Papa said, picking up his paint box. I brought my little watercolor kit. On the way we saw a giant pointy stone with carvings. Papa told me it’s an obelisk and that it’s called Cleopatra’s Needle. Then he said it was brought here from Egypt, where it had stood for thousands of years. Buried underneath is a time capsule with photographs of the twelve most beautiful women of Great Britain. One of them is Queen Victoria. She became queen when she was only eighteen. Now she’s seventy-six.

  Papa found his inspiration on Westminster Bridge and rushed to set up his easel. “Look at the Houses of Parliament!” he exclaimed. I turned, and instead of buildings, factories and smokestacks on the riverbank, I saw a magical kingdom bathed in gold. Papa squeezed colors onto his palette and quickly began to paint.

  I made a watercolor.

  There’s as much traffic on the river as there is on the streets: steamboats, coal barges, sailboats, tugs, skiffs, crowded ferries and pleasure boats with striped awnings. We heard a bell ring twelve times and I wondered where it was. “In that clock tower,” said Papa, pointing to the riverbank. “The bell is called Big Ben and it weighs more than thirteen tons. It just told us it’s time for lunch.” Everywhere were people selling meat pies, muffins, bread and butter, tea and pickled eels. We didn’t want any of that! We went to a restaurant and had crispy fish and chips.

  After we ate we went into Westminster Abbey, a giant church where England’s kings and queens go to be crowned. Lots of people are buried there—more than 3,000 of them—and not just kings and queens. I saw the gravestone of a farmer named Thomas Parr. He lived to be 152!

  On the way back to the hotel it started to rain. London is the city of fog, mist, smoke, rain and the river. And we saw all of that today.

  May 2, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  Poor Mama! Every day she stops at the hotel desk, hoping for a letter from Mr. Sargent. She wrote him from Giverny to say she’d like her portrait painted and that she could be reached at the Savoy Hotel, but she hasn’t heard back. Tonight we’re having dinner with Mr. Whistler, a friend of Papa’s from art school in Paris. He’s American but he lives in London and knows Mr. Sargent. Mama hopes he’ll have news of him.

  We met Mr. Whistler at a restaurant called Simpson’s next door to the hotel. Even though Papa had told Lizzy and me that Mr. Whistler loves all things Japanese, we were surprised to see he was wearing a kimono. It was very warm in the restaurant—“due,” Mr. Whistler sa
id, “to the steam of thirty thousand puddings.” Lizzy and I didn’t know what he meant until our dinners came: a thick slice of roast beef with a giant popover in the shape of a chef’s hat, called Yorkshire Pudding. When we stuck our puddings with our forks, out came a warm puff of steam!

  During dinner, Mr. Whistler told Lizzy and me that London is filled with ghosts. “I’ve seen the ghost of Queen Anne Boleyn,” he said. “She lived more than three hundred years ago and had eleven fingers and a very long neck. Her ghost wanders the streets in a crimson gown.”

  After dinner, Mr. Whistler said, “Follow me,” and led us to the river. On the way, Lizzy and I looked for ghosts but didn’t see any. Mr. Whistler and Papa talked about how London’s waste used to pour into the river until one hot summer there was a smell so terrible, everybody called it “the Great Stink.” When the Great Stink reached the Houses of Parliament, Queen Victoria did something about it. She hired an engineer named Joseph Bazalgette to build 13,500 miles of sewers and drains. He hid them under embankments like the one we stood on. When he finished, she called Bazalgette a genius and made him a knight.

  All at once we heard the sound of rockets going off and fireworks filled the dark sky!

  Back in our room we shut the window tight. Good night, London ghosts, good night!

  May 14, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  When Mama sat down to write another letter to Mr. Sargent, I told her she should go to his studio instead and see for herself if he’s there. If he’s away, maybe he left a note on the door saying when he’ll be back.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself,” she said. First we went to Covent Garden Market, where all of London gets its fruits, vegetables and flowers. It was so crowded, I had to carry Toby so he wouldn’t get stepped on. While we were there, it started to rain but that didn’t matter—the market has a glass roof. Mama bought a bouquet to take to Mr. Sargent and asked the woman how to get to Tite Street. “Want directions? Ask a bobby,” the woman said, pointing to a policeman. Mama told me policemen here are called “bobbies,” after Sir Bobby Peel, the man who started the police force.

  When we left Covent Garden, the sun was out. We got on the biggest omnibus we had ever seen—two stories high. No wonder there were four big horses to pull it. We sat way up top, so we could see all of London.

  When we got to 31 Tite Street, we saw a tall, thin man in a long black overcoat with a fuzzy poodle. The man said his name was W. Graham Robertson and that his dog was called Mouton, French for “sheep.” “Are you here to see Mr. Sargent?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting over an hour for him to come finish my portrait. It’s hot in this coat, but Mr. Sargent insists I wear it. ‘The coat is the picture,’ he likes to say, ‘the coat and the dog.’ ”

  Just then Mouton growled at Toby but W. Graham Robertson said not to worry—“Mouton is old and nearly toothless. Mr. Sargent allows him one bite a sitting. Then he says, ‘He has bitten me now, so we can go ahead,’ and I know it’s time for me to stand stiff as a lamppost until he says I can relax.”

  “Do you have any idea where Mr. Sargent might be?” wondered Mama.

  “He could be on a painting holiday in Spain. Or Italy perhaps. For that matter, he could be in Egypt. He likes Egypt. We may as well go home.”

  Mama was quiet on the way back to the hotel. I could tell this was not what she had expected from our trip to Tite Street.

  June 1, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  Yesterday Mama and I went to call on Mrs. Cyprian Williams. She and her husband are art collectors and very rich. She’s one of those mothers who think children should be seen and not heard. Her daughters played with their Japanese dolls and didn’t say a word the whole time we were there. I walked around and looked at paintings. I saw lots of portraits of Mrs. Williams but not one signed by Mr. Sargent.

  I heard her tell Mama that she had gotten Mr. Sargent to agree to paint her portrait, but when he insisted she wear a dress that was two sizes too big she changed her mind. Then she said she was planning a dinner party at the Savoy Hotel and would we like to come? “Of course, you and the Fosters will receive proper invitations,” she told Mama. I was glad when the visit was over. But I can’t wait for the dinner party!

  Back at the hotel we found Papa pacing the floor. “It’s too foggy to paint,” he said. “How would you like to see some paintings at the National Gallery?”

  We stepped outside and Papa put a whistle to his lips. Two blasts and a gray horse came trotting out of the fog pulling a small black cab with two wheels. “One blast of the whistle would get us a four-wheeler, called a ‘growler,’ ” said Papa, “but the hansom cab is just right for two—and by far the quickest way to get around town.”

  When we got to Trafalgar Square, we could barely see the museum through the fog. And we couldn’t see any pigeons but we heard the flutter of their wings as we stepped down from the carriage.

  We stood a long time in front of a painting by J. M. W. Turner called Rain, Steam, and Speed. Papa says Mr. Turner was called “the painter of light” and that when he died and left this painting to the museum, the world had never seen a picture like it. I can see why—it looks so real, I thought I should jump out of the way of the speeding train.

  June 12, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  Tonight was Mrs. Cyprian Williams’s dinner party. Lizzy and I had so much fun—we danced ourselves dizzy!

  Two long tables were set with pink tablecloths and pink and white lilies. Everything sparkled: the crystal, the silver, the champagne—and the guests!

  I could tell that Mama was happy to be seated next to the famous writer Mr. Henry James. He’s the person who brought Mr. Sargent to London and gave a big party to introduce him to what Mama calls “le beau monde”—high society. Mr. James told a favorite story of Mr. Sargent’s: A friend of the Duke of Portland’s happened to look through the window of the duke’s house and tap on the glass to get the duchess’s attention. Later, when he saw the duchess, he asked her why she had so rudely ignored him. “Of course,” Mr. James went on, “what he had seen was not the duchess but Sargent’s portrait of the duchess!”

  The famous French actress Miss Sarah Bernhardt excused herself early from the table—she had a play to star in. When she walked by, we saw that she had three little live chameleons on tiny gold leashes pinned to her dress. I wonder what they like to eat!

  When Mr. Whistler saw the chameleons, he said, “I hear she has a pet snake and a lion, too. Not only that—people say she sleeps in a coffin.”

  I love lobster, so I ordered “Homard Thermidor” and Lizzy had her favorite, “Suprêmes de Volaille”—chicken with cream sauce. And since we both like potatoes, we shared “Pommes Anna,” a yummy French potato cake.

  Then out came dessert—“crêpes Suzette”—thin pancakes with orange sauce. Monsieur Escoffier served it himself. “Bon appétit!” he said. Enjoy your dessert! And we did!

  Even though we’re in our beds . . .

  We still hear waltzes in our heads.

  June 15, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  Mama and Mrs. Foster took us to the Tower of London today to see the Crown Jewels. The tower is a fortress with a drawbridge and a moat to keep people out, and when it was built, 800 years ago, it was the tallest building in London. There are guards, called “Yeoman Warders,” who wear suits of red, black and gold. No wonder kings and queens keep their jewels in the tower—they must be very safe there.

  When Lizzy and I had seen enough jewels, we went outside to explore. We found a Yeoman Warder feeding some ravens. They eat raw meat and eggs, including the shells. He told us he was the raven master and that every night he whistles the ravens up to bed in their nests in the tower, where they’re safe from foxes. “There have always been ravens here,” he said, “and there always wi
ll be. Legend has it that if the ravens leave, the tower will crumble and the kingdom with it.”

  We looked down at boats on the river Thames and he pointed to a big ship. “Watch what happens when that ship reaches the bridge,” he said. We did and saw the bridge open to let the ship sail through. Then it closed back up again. “Tower Bridge,” he said. “She’s brand-new and the pride of London.” I had never seen a bridge move before!

  Back at the hotel there was a letter for Mama:

  We’ll take a train there—the Great Western. Lizzy and I can’t wait!

  June 27, 1895

  The Savoy Hotel

  Savoy Court, London

  First thing this morning, Mama and I went to Fortnum and Mason, grocers to the Queen, to pick up a picnic lunch to take to the boat races. It’s on a street with a funny name—Piccadilly! I’ve never seen a grocery store with chandeliers and fountains before. They have everything a queen could want—I counted fifty different kinds of marmalade. We left with a picnic basket filled with chicken pies, cheeses and biscuits, chocolate truffles and two fruit tarts: strawberry and apricot. No wonder that’s one of Queen Victoria’s favorite shops!

  June 28, 1895

  Henley-on-Thames

  We sat on the mossy riverbank to watch the races and have our picnic. The Thames is clear and narrow here. And the air smells so sweet, you would never know it’s the same river that flows through London.