“But Sandrine, you are my gift—don’t you know you are the treasure? You don’t have to become something you aren’t to please me.”
But it was not just because the book was about a painter that my father gave me The Picture of Dorian Gray. He’d told me the occult aspects of the tale had stirred his imagination, and he was interested in discussing those with me, too. For a self-proclaimed rationalist, he found arcane and esoteric knowledge surprisingly fascinating and studied it with great interest. He wasn’t alone. From France to Russia to America, the occult was experiencing a major revival.
My father believed it was a reaction to rationalism, materialism, and the exciting but frightening scientific discoveries being reported almost daily. Explorers returning from the Far East with stories of strange lands and mystical customs also fueled everyone’s imagination. My father had funded several of those expeditions, as well as others, to find the fabled Hermetic books based on the ancient pagan prophet’s esoteric teachings. Our library was full of books of ancient lore and magick mysticism and the forbidden. For my father it was also personal; he once told me that he believed his mother was something of a psychic, although she protested vociferously.
At the end of the second week of my stay in Paris, Grand-mère changed the routine. When I came downstairs at ten, she was already dressed in her street clothes and preparing to leave. When I asked where she was going, she told me she was meeting an old friend who needed some advice and added she would be back in time for our lunch.
Indeed she was, and since it was raining, we went to the Louvre.
I had grown up in museums, but even compared to New York’s august Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Louvre was so large as to be almost overwhelming.
“As with all wonderful things in life except jewels, it’s best to avoid gluttony when visiting here,” my grandmother said as we entered the ancient palace.
“When we went to the Metropolitan, Papa and I would always pick one small section, take it in, absorb it, and then leave. He always said moderation makes for finer appreciation.”
She smiled. “He learned that from me, mon ange.” But it was a sad smile, and I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears that had sprung to my eyes. Her grief always triggered my own.
We wandered through the Denon wing, on the first floor, heading to room thirteen. “One of my favorite paintings is here,” my grandmother said as we entered, and she headed to a relatively small-sized, brightly colored painting of a voluptuous nude female and muscular male.
“This is Tiepolo’s marvelous Apollo and Daphne. It’s so lush and imaginative, don’t you think?” she asked.
Before I could inspect it, I was distracted by two men in blue smocks, each standing at easels in front of a dark, muted painting.
I inched closer. They were copying a complicated and disturbing tableau. I strained to see its name.
THE WITCH OF ENDOR
SALVATOR ROSA, 1668(?)
Stepping back, I studied the original, eight-foot tall vision of horror. The central figure, according to the legend beside the painting, was the spirit of Samuel, called forth by the witch to speak to Saul, who had come to her for advice.
Shrouded in a white hooded robe, the spirit was illuminated by a frenzied fire. Behind him his guards look stricken. And no wonder—the scene was filled with terrifying creatures, owls with supernaturally bright eyes, bloody horse heads, and bat-winged skeletons. The witch herself was a wrinkled old crone, repulsive and offensive. My reaction to her was one of anger, though I didn’t know why.
As I turned to step back so I could examine the foreboding work from a greater distance, one of the painters caught my eye and smiled at me.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.
At that moment an older man came into the gallery.
“Are you talking or painting, Gaston?” The man, who appeared to be in his sixties, had piercing brown eyes, and there was something very gentle about him. I watched as he stood behind Gaston’s canvas for a moment, inspecting the work. Then he pointed to the masterpiece on the wall.
“Look at the life in that painting. The way Saul cowers. You can feel his fear of the specter and of the witch. That’s what you need to put into your effort. That fear. Have you ever seen a witch? A ghost? In the dark? At night? Been afraid?”
My grandmother had come up beside me. Taking my arm, she walked me toward the exit of the salon. “I’m suddenly in great need of an espresso. There’s a lovely café here. Let’s go.”
Before we crossed the threshold, I looked back at the painter and his teacher, still talking, the teacher gesturing to the painting on the wall. The student appeared to be listening with all of his soul. I could see how he was trying to soak up every bit of knowledge the teacher was offering. Something about the moment struck me and stayed with me, and as I fell asleep that night, it was the painting teacher’s voice I heard, telling his student to put his fear into his painting.
How easy it would be, I thought as I drifted off to sleep, to be able to take all of my fear and put it into a painting. To rid myself of it like that. I wondered if it worked. If you could paint yourself sane.
The next morning my grandmother left the apartment early again but was back for lunch. The following day, Wednesday, our routine resumed. On Thursday, for the third time that week, she left at ten.
I’m not sure why I did what I did that day. Perhaps the sinister goings-on in The Picture of Dorian Gray were affecting my thinking. But I had become certain Grand-mère was hiding something. When she told me she was going on one of these excursions, she always looked away from me slightly.
Papa had the same affectation whenever he was telling me something not quite true.
That Thursday morning, I grabbed my overcoat and followed her out. I’d never tried to trail anyone before, but I’d read enough of the very popular Sherlock Holmes books—one of Papa’s favorite characters in literature—to know the basics.
Keep a good distance between you and the suspect.
Stay close to the buildings.
Watch for the subject’s sudden movements.
Hang back in the shadows if the suspect turns.
Papa appreciated Holmes’s deductive reasoning, and we often read the stories at the same time so we could try our hand at outguessing the master detective. My father was far better at it than I was.
Sometimes on the street, we’d follow the careful rules of observation Holmes engaged in, and we’d spot something—a curious scuff on someone’s shoes, an umbrella with a strange nick in the handle, a woman with a parcel of unusual proportions—and guess what might be behind these oddities.
By the time I reached the corner of our block, Grand-mère had turned right and was almost to the next corner. I watched her cross the street and turn right again. I followed, but by the time I got to the next corner, she was gone. How had she managed to disappear so quickly? I looked left. There was no one in sight with Grand-mère’s rust-colored coat. I glanced in the opposite direction, but there was no one to the right either—or was there? Did I see a flounce of her dress turning into the rue des Saints-Pères?