Mad Enchantment by Ross King

BY T HE SA M E AU T H O R n on f i ct i on

Brunelleschi’s Dome: How a Renaissance Genius Reinvented Architecture Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling The Judgment of Paris: The Revolutionary Decade That Gave the World Impressionism Machiavelli: Philosopher of Power Leonardo and The Last Supper Defiant Spirits: The Modernist Revolution of the Group of Seven Florence: The Paintings & Frescoes, 1250–1743 fi ct i on

Ex-Libris Domino

MAD ENCHANTMENT Y

CLAUDE MONET and the PAINTING of the WATER LILIES

Ross King

Bloomsbury USA An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

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BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2016 © Ross King, 2016 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

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In loving memory of Claire King

CONTENTS

Y

Maps Monet Family Tree

C HA PTER O NE

The Tiger and the Hedgehog

Du Côté de Chez Monet

17

Landscapes of Water

35

A Great Project

49

Into the Unknown

69

A Grande Décoration

85

C HA PTER TWO

C HA PTER THREE

C HA PTER FOU R

C HA PTER F IVE

C HA PTER S IX

ix xii

1

C HA PTER S EVEN

A Grand Atelier

99

C HA PTER EI G H T

Under Fire

117

A State of Impossible Anxiety

133

The Smile of Reims

151

The Weeping Willow

171

This Terrible, Grand, and Beautiful Hour

185

C HA PTER THIRTEEN

An Old Man Mad About Painting

199

C HA PTER FOU RTEEN

Men of Impeccable Taste

213

C HA PTER NI NE

C HA PTER TEN

C HA PTER EL EVEN

C HA PTER TWELVE

C HA PTER F IFTEEN

A Grand Donation

225

C HA PTER S IXTEEN

A Most Ardent Admirer

243

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contents

C HA PTER S EV ENTEEN

The Luminous Abyss

261

C HA PTER EI GHTEEN

The Fatal Protuberance

271

C HA PTER NI NETEEN

The Soul’s Dark Cottage

293

C HA PTER TWENTY

EPIL O GUE

“Send Your Slipper to the Stars”

309

The Prince of Light

327

Acknowledgments Image Credits Selected Bibliography Notes Appendix Index

345 348 349 353 393 395

C HAPTER ONE

THE TIGER AND THE HEDGEHOG

Y

where was georges clemenceau? The day of the French election had arrived—Sunday, April 26, 1914—and the newspaper Gil Blas announced in astonishment that the seventy-two-year-old former prime minister had disappeared from Paris. “His departure does not fail to cause surprise,” reported the paper. “Is this vigorous polemicist no longer interested in the political battle?”1 Gil Blas was always remarkably well informed about the comings and goings of Clemenceau, whose fearsome personality had earned him the nickname the Tiger. Two years earlier the paper had reported how firefighters came to Clemenceau’s rescue when his bathroom caught fire as he took a hot soak; another time it informed readers how, despite the fact that he was France’s most notorious anti-Catholic, he had recuperated from an operation at a convalescent home run by nuns.2 And indeed, on this occasion, the paper quickly managed to track him down, reporting that he had gone to enjoy springtime in the countryside. “It is whispered that he wants rest at all costs, and that, little concerned with electoral results, he will sleep late, in rustic silence.”

Clemenceau’s rustic retreat was fifty miles northwest of Paris, in the Normandy village of Bernouville. Six years earlier, while still prime minister, he had bought a half-timbered hunting lodge whose garden he planted with white poplars and Spanish broom, and whose ponds he stocked with trout and sturgeon. A few weeks after he left office in the summer of 1909, Gil Blas ran an admiring poem describing how, “spry as a stripling,” he was hard at work in his garden.3 It was no doubt this love of gardening that, as the election loomed, drew him to Bernouville and that, so he could talk flowers instead of politics, then took him to Giverny to see his friend, the painter Claude Monet.

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* giverny was twenty miles from Bernouville, but the chauffeur would have covered the distance quickly: Clemenceau, who loved speed, always urged his drivers to go faster, racing along bone-shaking country roads at speeds in excess of 100 kilometers (62 miles) per hour.4 He often unhooked the speedometer to allay the alarm of his passengers.5 The car would have entered the tiny village of Vernonnet and then, as it reached the right bank of the Seine, turned left for Giverny along a road bordered on the right by meadows and, on the left, by the steep flank of a hill. The hill was gouged with whitish streaks from sandstone quarries and sown here and there with vines that produced the local vintage. To the right was the river Ru, a thin rivulet in which, not long ago, a visiting journalist had marveled at the sight of washerwomen.6 Beyond, a line of tall poplars snaked across meadows that in May were stippled by poppies and that in autumn were populated by towering stacks of wheat.

A couple of miles from Vernonnet, a cluster of houses suddenly appeared. Clemenceau’s driver would have swung left at the fork, heading toward a small church with a squat, octagonal tower and a black witch’s hat of a steeple. Giverny was a village of some 250 inhabitants, with one hundred or so rustic cottages interspersed with more imposing homes set in orchards behind moss-covered walls.7 The effect, especially for someone coming from Paris, was magical. Visitors unfailingly described Giverny as charming, quaint, picturesque, and an “earthly paradise.”8 One of Monet’s visitors later enthused in her journal: “This is the land of dreams, the realization of a fairyland.”9 Monet had first arrived in Giverny three decades earlier, at the age of forty-two. The village was forty miles as the crow flies northwest of Paris, in the valley of the Seine. In 1869 a set of railway tracks had appeared beside the Ru, and a railway station sprouted in the shadow of the two windmills on Giverny’s eastern outskirts, where the willows lazily arranged themselves over the riverbank. Soon four trains were puffing through the village every day except Sunday. Early in the spring of 1883, one of them carried a house-hunting Monet. He was then a widower with two boys to think about, along with a middle-aged mistress

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Postcard of Giverny in Monet’s time

and her own brood of six children. From his seat he watched, entranced, as the steam train hissed to an unscheduled halt beside a wedding party waiting by the side of the road. Led by a violinist, the newlyweds and their guests happily embarked, oblivious that their festivities decided the painter on his domestic surroundings.10 A short time later, Monet and his blended family took possession of one of the largest homes in the village, an old farmhouse known as Le Pressoir (the Cider Press). For the next seven years he rented the property from Louis-Joseph Singeot, a trader with dealings in Guadeloupe.

Pink with grey shutters, it overlooked on its north side the rue de Haut (High Street), and on its south side a walled garden planted with vegetables and an apple orchard. Monet soon painted the shutters green, a color that quickly became known in the village as “Monet green.�11 For a studio he took over a dirt-floored barn connected to the house. In 1890, a few days after his fiftieth birthday, he purchased Le Pressoir from Singeot, adding an adjoining plot of land a few years later. He began

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Postcard of Monet’s second studio with the greenhouses in the foreground

uprooting the vegetables and apple trees, replacing them with irises, tulips, and Japanese peonies. On the northwest corner of the property he constructed a two-story building—described by one visitor as a “rustic pavilion”12—on whose top floor he arranged a high-ceilinged, skylit studio. On the ground floor was an aviary stocked with parrots, turtles, and peacocks, as well as a photographer’s darkroom and a garage for his collection of motorcars.

The large house, the light-filled studio, the fleet of automobiles— such luxuries had come late. Monet’s early years as a painter occasionally featured irate landlords and shopkeepers, out-of-pocket friends and enforced economies. “For the past eight days,” he lamented in 1869, aged twenty-nine, “I’ve had no bread, no wine, no fire for the kitchen, no light.”13 That same year he claimed to have no money to buy paints, and bailiffs seized four of his paintings from the walls of an exhibition to settle his numerous debts. Over the next decade his canvases sometimes went for as little as 20 francs each—at a time when a blank canvas cost 4 francs. He was once forced to give paintings to a baker in return for

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bread. A draper proved “impossible to appease.” His laundress sequestered his bedsheets when he failed to pay her bill. “If I don’t come up with 600 francs by tomorrow night,” he wrote to a friend in 1877, “my furniture and all I own will be sold and we’ll be thrown into the street.”14 When a butcher sent round the bailiffs to impound his possessions, Monet vengefully slashed two hundred of his canvases. He once, so the legend went, spent a winter living on potatoes.15 Monet often exaggerated his plight. Even in the early days, his paintings had sometimes attracted astute collectors and fetched respectable prices. In 1868 the esteemed critic Arsène Houssaye paid 800 francs for one of his paintings—enough to pay the rent on a house for an entire year. Moreover, his privations were offset by generous friends: the painter Frédéric Bazille; the novelist Émile Zola; a pastry chef and novelist named Eugène Murer; and Dr. Paul Gachet, who would later have on his hands another frustrated and even more impecunious artist, Vincent van Gogh. All of them, over the years, received begging letters detailing Monet’s allegedly precarious financial state and his miserable prospects. In 1878, aged thirty-eight, he lamented to another benefactor, Georges de Bellio, a homeopath: “It’s sad to be in such a situation at my age, always obliged to ask for favours.” Then, a few months later: “I’m absolutely disgusted and demoralized by this existence that I’ve led for such a long time .. . Each day brings new sorrows and new difficulties from which I’ll never extricate myself.”16 Monet’s career had actually begun with great promise. In 1865 his two views of the Normandy coast caused a sensation at the Paris Salon: one critic called them “the finest seascapes seen in recent years,” while another declared them the best in the entire exhibition.17 However, the following years proved difficult as subsequent works—whose blurry images and seemingly casual brushwork violated prevailing conventions—were regularly spurned by Salon juries. His critical notoriety seemed to be sealed when, in 1874, he showed work in Paris with a group of artistic rebels who included Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, and Paul Cézanne. They were pejoratively dubbed “Impressionists,” with one of Monet’s seascapes mockingly denounced as “less skilful than

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crude wallpaper.”18 Conservative critics condemned his paintings as “incoherent,” as “false, unhealthy and comical” and as “studies in decadence.” “When children amuse themselves with paper and crayons,” sniffed one of his critics in 1877, “they do a better job.”19 Monet kept a scrapbook of these reviews—a veritable catalogue, a friend observed, of “shortsightedness, ignorance and indifference.”20 An 1880 interview called him “one of those wild beasts of art.”21 A collector who bought one of his canvases was so ridiculed by his friends that, according to Monet, he removed the work from his wall.22 monet’s arrival in Giverny had not been particularly auspicious.

In April 1883, the very month that he moved into the village, a reviewer claimed that his work was simply beyond the comprehension of the general public. Monet enjoyed the esteem of a small band of admirers, the critic admitted, but the public at large still held out stubbornly against him. “Monet paints in a strange language,” he claimed, “whose secrets, together with a few initiates, he alone possesses.”23 Besides this unintelligible style, Monet had brought a whiff of scandal to Giverny. Following the death of his wife Camille in 1879— and possibly before—he had taken up with a married woman named Alice Hoschedé. She was the estranged wife of a bankrupt businessman, Ernest Hoschedé. Among Hoschedé’s ruinous investments had been sixteen Monet paintings, including Impression, Sunrise, the work whose title, according to a myth as persistent as it is erroneous, gave the Impressionists their name.24 Hoschedé purchased the work for 800 francs in 1874, only to sell it at a loss, four years later, for 210 francs.25 Monet had moved into Le Pressoir with Alice, his own two boys, and Alice’s children: four girls and two boys. The large clan was notable in Giverny because all of them dressed, as one of them later recalled, “rather haphazardly in loud colors, wearing hats...We were, in the eyes of the villagers, newcomers who were observed with distrust.”26 Yet by 1914, three decades later, matters had changed. Monet was no longer a notorious “wild beast.” He was seventy-three years old.

Forty years had passed since the controversial 1874 group exhibition

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The Monet-Hoschedé families at Giverny ca. 1892. Clockwise from lower left: Michel Monet, Alice Hoschedé, Claude Monet (standing), Jean-Pierre Hoschedé, Marthe Hoschedé, Jean Monet, Jacques Hoschedé, Blanche Hoschedé (foreground ), Germaine Hoschedé, Suzanne Hoschedé.

at which his work had been mocked by the critics. Success and acclaim had come slowly enough, but after Monet arrived in Giverny his quintessentially French scenes—rows of poplars beside the river, the vaporous morning light breaking over the Seine—eventually began attracting the enthusiastic attention of critics and collectors alike. Complaints about his sketchiness and incompetence with a paintbrush disappeared as critics suddenly became sensitive not only to the prototypical Frenchness of his scenes but also to the mysteriously beautiful qualities of his canvases. He was praised as a “powerful poet of nature” whose works “resonate with the mysterious sounds of the universe.”27 In 1889 a reviewer noted that critics who once had nothing but sarcasm and jokes for Monet now “glorify him as one of the most illustrious of men.” In 1909 a critic called him “the greatest painter we possess today,” while the novelist Remy de Gourmont declared: “We stand here in the presence of perhaps the greatest painter who has ever lived.”28 Monet’s old comrade Paul Cézanne had put it more succinctly: “Fuck, he’s simply the best.”29 Monet had exchanged notoriety for celebrity. His fame brought journalists flocking to Giverny, which a newspaper dubbed “the Mecca of Impressionism.”30 Even more plentiful were painters, many of them young American students hoping (as a journalist reported) “to catch a glimpse of this god” and to perfect what became known as the “Giverny trick”: painting in bright colors with a prevalence of purple and green.31 Monet condescended to interviews with select journalists but held himself disdainfully aloof from the invasion of young painters. He curtly

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rebuffed the attentions of inquisitive Americans and earned himself what a newspaper called “a reputation for savagery.”32 Relations with the American painters were not improved when, in the early 1890s, several of them proposed to Alice’s daughters. “Sacrebleu!” he exclaimed after learning that one young American, Theodore Earl Butler, had asked for the hand of Suzanne Hoschedé. “To marry a painter,” he wailed to Alice, “how annoying.”33 He even threatened to move from Giverny to scupper the nuptials, which took place when, bowing to the inevitable, he finally relented. His reputation for unsociability did little to deter the curious. An American woman, daring to approach him, once asked for a paintbrush as a souvenir. “Really,” Monet complained to a friend, “people have the most idiotic ideas.”34 Along with the acclaim came great wealth. Few wealthy and status-conscious Americans could resist finishing their buying trips to Europe without adding a new Monet to their collections. In New York, Louisine Havemeyer, widow of a sugar baron and one of the first Americans to buy a Monet, adorned the Tiffany-designed rooms of her mansion on East Sixty-Sixth Street with twenty-five Monet canvases. A Chicago collector, Bertha Palmer, wife of a department store and real estate tycoon, once bought twenty-five Monets in a single year. But even their collections were dwarfed by that of the art dealer James F. Sutton, founder of the American Art Association, who owned fifty Monet paintings.

In 1912 alone Monet earned 369,000 francs from sales of his works—a vast sum, considering that the average laborer in Paris earned 1,000 francs a year, and that, a few years earlier, the Hope Diamond changed hands for 400,000 francs.35 As a result he was, as a visitor enviously noted, “surrounded by every comfort.”36 By 1905 his fleet of vehicles had been worth 32,000 francs. A year later he added to his collection both a Peugeot and a brand-new four-cylinder Mendelssohn costing 6,600 francs.37 Such was Monet’s passion for speed that the mayor of Giverny was obliged to publish a notice stating that automobiles passing through the village should go no faster than “the speed of a horse at a regular trot.”38 Monet received his first speeding ticket in 1904.39

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Claude Monet in his Panhard et Levassor.

Besides a chauffeur, the domestic staff at Giverny included a butler and a cook, as well as a six-strong team of gardeners to look after his flowers, trees and pond. Along with the automobiles, he owned four riverboats. Visitors were struck by his “lordly bearing.”40 Alice, whom he had finally married in 1892, and whom he dressed in Worth gowns, called him, because of his grand airs, le marquis.41 yet all was not well on that April day in 1914 when Clemenceau arrived in Giverny. According to one of his closest friends, Monet had suffered “the terrible grief that breaks the heart and ravages the mind.”42 Tragedies had indeed befallen Monet: what he called “an endless succession of troubles and anxieties.”43 Worst of all had been Alice’s death from leukemia in 1911. “I am annihilated,” he wrote to a friend in what became a constant refrain.44 A quarter century earlier, in 1886, when it looked as if Alice might return to her husband, he had been distraught: “The painter in me is dead . ..Work would be impossible

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now.”45 But now she truly was gone, and work did indeed become impossible. Two months after her death he wrote to his friend, the sculptor Auguste Rodin: “I ought to be able to work to conquer my grief, but I cannot.”46 A year after her death he wrote to his stepdaughter Germaine: “The painter is dead and what remains is an inconsolable husband.” To another stepdaughter, Blanche, he wrote that his paintings were a “horrible joke.” He declared that he was going to stop painting altogether.47 Work became even more impossible a year after Alice’s death when, in the summer of 1912, he suddenly began losing his eyesight. “Three days ago,” he wrote to a friend, “when I was getting down to work, I made the dreadful discovery that I was no longer able to see anything out of my right eye.”48 It was a terrible blow for someone whose almost preternaturally acute eyesight—what an admiring poet called his “fabulously sensitive retina”49 —was held to be one of the great secrets of his genius. In 1883 a reviewer had claimed that Monet “sees differently from the rest of humanity,” speculating that he was acutely sensitive to colors at the ultraviolet end of the spectrum.50 Cézanne had famously declared: “Monet is only an eye, but, good Lord, what an eye!” To another friend he said that Monet possessed “the most prodigious eye in the history of painting.”51 But now—such was the malice of fate—this phenomenal vision was muddy, bland, indistinct. A cataract was diagnosed soon afterward. His doctors and friends tried in vain to reassure him that he was in no danger of going blind, but Monet’s deep pessimism and sullen depression remained. Shortly after his diagnosis, a violent thunderstorm pummeled the village. “In Giverny,” a newspaper solemnly reported, “the property of the famous painter Claude Monet was destroyed.”52 Repairs were duly made, but a year later, in the summer of 1913, Gil Blas reported that “the great Monet” had decided, once and for all, to retire his paintbrushes.53 Then yet more sorrow. In February 1914 his son Jean died at the age of forty-six. Jean Monet had been the child of his impecunious, struggling youth, born to his model (later his first wife) Camille Doncieux.

The infant Jean appeared in many of Monet’s early paintings: asleep with a doll in his cradle, sitting at the table during a family luncheon, riding a “horse tricycle,” or sprawled on the grass with his mother in the garden.

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In the summer of 1912 he suffered a stroke, possibly the result of syphilis. A year later, increasingly incapacitated, Jean was forced to move from Beaumont-le-Roger, where he had been operating a trout farm, and into the Villa des Pinsons, a house in Giverny that Monet purchased for him.

“What torture for me to witness his decline,” Monet wrote to a friend a few days before, when after much suffering, Jean finally died.54 In 1905 a visitor wrote of Monet, then at the height of his powers: “He constantly seeks new worlds to conquer and nothing seems too difficult.”55 But a decade later it appeared that his conquests had reached an end. This was the Claude Monet—wealthy and celebrated yet listless, despondent and idle—that Georges Clemenceau, in late April 1914, came to Giverny to visit. clemenceau and monet had known each other since they were young men in Paris in the 1860s.56 Theirs was, in some respects, an unlikely friendship. Monet claimed his only two interests in life were painting and gardening. He certainly had little interest in politics, never even bothering to cast his vote.57 Clemenceau, on the other hand, had many interests and many talents, chief among them politics. In 1914 he was both a member of the Senate and the editor of a daily newspaper, L’Homme Libre, for which he wrote lengthy and forthright editorials. He was absolutely irrepressible, a bustling and seemingly unconquerable force of nature. Monet, by contrast, was volatile, insecure, and prone to petulance, frustration, and despair. There were, nonetheless, strong similarities: pride, stubbornness, passion, a vigorous youthfulness that belied their years, and what a mutual friend, referring to Monet, called “an invincible force that was not merely physical.”58 Clemenceau called Monet by an assortment of nicknames: “old lunatic,” “poor old crustacean” and “frightful old hedgehog.”59 He had come by his own nickname, the Tiger, quite honestly. As a newspaper reported the previous January, he was “a man before whom the whole world trembles.”60 His political enemies liked to refer to him by the full title that he never actually used: Georges Clemenceau de la Clemencière.

He had been born in the Vendée, along France’s Atlantic coast, and raised

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in the massive Château de l’Aubraie, a moated manor house with a ring of walls and four towers. This grim castle and the ornate title could be traced back to a certain Jehan Clemenceau who, sometime after 1500, was ennobled by King Louis XII for having served as the “beloved and trusty bookseller”of the bishop of Luçon.61 Later generations of the family loved books but were, as far as both church and state were concerned, much less beloved and trusty. Georges’s father, Benjamin, was a rabid republican and anti-Catholic. “The natural state of my father was indignation,” Georges once observed.62 Master of all he surveyed, squire of many acres of farmland tilled by peasants, Benjamin seethed with revolutionary fervor in his gloomy castle, which he decorated with portraits of Robespierre and other heroes of 1789. He was an outspoken opponent of the Emperor Napoleon III, who once had him arrested on suspicion of participating in an assassination plot. “I will avenge you,” vowed the seventeen-year-old Georges as his father was marched away to prison.63 Much of the rest of Clemenceau’s life had been spent exacting revenge on his and his father’s enemies. “I feel very sorry for those people who want to make friends with everyone,” he once said. “Life is a combat.”64 He had indeed made many enemies and experienced much combat, sometimes literally: he had fought a total of twenty-two duels with swords and pistols. A journalist once claimed there were only three things to fear about Clemenceau: his tongue, his pen, and his sword.65 He was a master of the witty put-down. About the young journalist Georges Mandel he quipped: “Mandel has no ideas, but he will defend them until death.”66 Clemenceau studied medicine in Paris in the early 1860s, writing a dissertation on the soon-to-be-disproved theory of spontaneous generation. His true vocation, however, was radical politics. For many years he was leader of the Radical Party, whose members saw themselves as latter-day Jacobins fighting to preserve the French Republic established in 1789. Like his father, he was a fierce enemy of the Church and an ardent republican, and for several months in 1862 he had likewise been a political prisoner thanks to having distributed pamphlets critical of the emperor. In 1865 the emperor’s crackdown on dissidents drove him into voluntary exile in the United States, where for several years

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Georges Clemenceau

he supported himself by teaching French, fencing, and horseback riding at the Catharine Aiken School for girls in Stamford, Connecticut. Here he found a wife, Mary, the daughter of a New Hampshire dentist. The marriage would not be a happy one, not least because of Clemenceau’s numerous dalliances with beautiful actresses. “What a tragedy that she ever married me,” he later reflected in a rare moment of regret.67 Clemenceau had returned to France in the summer of 1869 to work as a country doctor in the Vendée. His political career began in earnest with the fall of Napoleon III during the Franco-Prussian War. In September 1870 an old friend of his father, Étienne Arago, who had just become mayor of Paris, appointed him mayor of the working-class hilltop suburb of Montmartre. we are children of the revolu tion , Clemenceau’s posters on the steep streets proudly declared.68 He doubled as a doctor, opening a clinic through which filed, he sorrowfully observed, a “procession of human miseries” from the slums.69 After six years, he got himself elected as Montmartre’s representative in the Chamber of Deputies, where his reputation for bringing down

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governments (thirteen collapsed in the 1880s alone) brought him the nickname tombeur de ministères (toppler of ministries). He had little respect for his fellow politicians, later telling Rudyard Kipling that he obtained his eminence in politics not through any excellent qualities of his own “but through the inferiority of my colleagues.”70 Active in journalism since his student days, in 1880 he launched a radical newspaper, La Justice, whose first issue declared his intention to “destroy the old dogmas.”71 However, the newspaper folded and his political career imploded in the wake of the liquidation in 1892 of the Panama Canal Company amid charges of swindling and bribery in which he was implicated. That same year his marriage likewise collapsed. “I have nothing, nothing, nothing,” he wrote in a fleeting moment of despair.72 But scandal, disgrace, poverty, and divorce were no match for Clemenceau. He returned to prominence through his support in a series of articles in his new newspaper, L’Aurore, for Alfred Dreyfus, the Jewish artillery officer unjustly convicted of spying for the Germans. After a decade in the political wilderness he was elected to the Senate in 1902, then appointed minister of the interior in 1906. Later that year, at the age of sixty-five, he became prime minister, serving until the summer of 1909. He pushed through social reforms, including holidays for workers and the creation of a ministry of labor. But the campaigning journalist who had been a champion of the poor and the suffering took a brutal approach with dissenters who threatened revolution. His ruthless suppression of striking miners and winegrowers earned him yet another nickname, briseur de grèves (strikebreaker) and even Clemenceau le Tueur (Clemenceau the Murderer). And it was in these years that he was given the sobriquet by which all France came to know him—the Tiger—a comment on the terror that he inspired in virtually everyone. As a friend wrote, “People were unfailingly petrified of him.”73 Yet Clemenceau also had immense charm and culture. The wife of a British statesman found him “swifter in thought, wittier in talk, more unexpected in what he said, than anyone I ever knew...No one was ever such fun as he was. We hung upon his every word.”74 If he was anathema to most politicians, who hated and feared him, he was a great friend to

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artists and writers. Clemenceau patiently sat for two portraits by Édouard Manet, reporting that he had “great times” talking with the infamous painter.75 He had artistic pretensions of his own, writing novels and short stories (one collection was illustrated by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec).

In 1901 his play Le Voile de Bonheur was performed at the Théâtre de la Renaissance in Paris. He was also a connoisseur, amassing a huge collection of Japanese art and artifacts: swords, statuettes, incense boxes, tea bowls, woodblock prints by Utamaro and Hiroshige, all of which he lovingly crammed into his small apartment across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower. Japanese art was yet another passion that he shared with Monet, whose house displayed his collection of 231 woodblock prints.

Most of all, Clemenceau was a connoisseur and admirer of Monet’s works. The series of paintings of Rouen Cathedral, painted in 1892 and 1893 and exhibited in Paris in 1895, compelled him to write a long and ecstatic review in La Justice. The subject of these canvases was an ironic one to appeal to a notorious priest-gobbler and republican like Clemenceau: the façade of the ancient cathedral in which during the Middle Ages the dukes of Normandy were crowned. But Clemenceau was intoxicated. “It haunts me,” he wrote on the front page of the newspaper. “I must talk about it.” He regarded Monet—who possessed, he said, “the perfect eye”—as the herald of nothing less than a revolution in human vision, “a new way of looking, feeling and expressing.” Who could doubt, looking at Monet’s canvases, “that today the eye sees in another way than before?” He ended his article by imploring France’s president, Félix Faure, to buy all twenty of the paintings in the show for the nation in order to mark a “moment in the history of mankind, a revolution without gunshots.”76 Faure declined to purchase any works, but the idea of having a cycle of Monet’s paintings serve as a national monument became a mounting obsession among Clemenceau and his artistic friends.* * Clemenceau would exact revenge on Faure, an anti-Dreyfusard, with a famous pun. After Faure died in 1899 while being fellated by his mistress, Marguerite Steinheil, Clemenceau quipped: “Il voulait être César, il ne fut que Pompée.” The literal meaning is: “He wanted to be Caesar, but only ended up as Pompey.” However, the phrase is a double entendre, since the French verb pomper (to pump) was slang for oral sex.

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mad enchantment

As Clemenceau and Monet transformed from enfants terribles to grand old men, becoming two of the most famous men in France, the affection between them grew. There was a steady stream of letters, lunches together in Paris, and regular visits by Clemenceau to Giverny.

Clemenceau’s dedication to Monet became even greater after the death of Alice. He provided endless encouragement, issuing invitations to Bernouville, escorting Monet around gardens, and persuading him to take holidays. Most of all, he urged him to keep painting. “Remember the old Rembrandt in the Louvre,” he wrote two months after Alice’s death. “He clings to his palette, determined to hold out until the end through terrible adversities.”77