Renoir's Dancer

  Renoir’s

  Dancer

  The Secret Life of Suzanne Valadon

  CATHERINE

  HEWITT

  St. Martin’s Press

  New York

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Photos

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  List of illustrations

  FIGURES IN THE TEXT

  Here The Place and Saint-Léger church in Bessines.

  Here The former Auberge Guimbaud in Bessines.

  Here Le Moulin de la Galette.

  Here Young women in the Rue Cortot, c. 1900.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, Paris, c. 1880.

  Here Pierre-Auguste Renoir, c. 1875.

  Here Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, c. 1894.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, Paris, 1885.

  Here Edgar Degas in his library, 1895.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, c. 1890.

  Here Suzanne Valadon and Maurice Utrillo, c. 1890.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, Paul Mousis and His Dog, 1891.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, Nude Girl Sitting, 1894.

  Here Suzanne Valadon and Maurice Utrillo, c. 1894.

  Here André Utter.

  Here Maurice Utrillo as a young man.

  Here André Utter and Suzanne Valadon at her easel in the studio, c. 1919.

  Here Suzanne Valadon painting.

  Here Suzanne Valadon in 1925, her 60th year.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, Maurice Utrillo and André Utter sharing a drink in the studio of the Avenue Junot, c. 1926.

  Here Suzanne Valadon, Maurice Utrillo and André Utter, c. 1930.

  Here Suzanne Valadon with her dogs at the property in the Avenue Junot, c. 1930–1.

  Here Maurice Utrillo with his wife Lucie Valore.

  COLOUR PLATES

  Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Dance at Bougival, 1883.

  Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Dance in the City, 1883.

  Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Dance in the Country, 1883.

  Suzanne Valadon, Self Portrait, 1883.

  Suzanne Valadon, The Grandmother, 1883.

  Marcelin Gilbert Desboutins, Portrait of Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, 1895.

  Pierre C. Puvis de Chavannes, The Sacred Grove of the Arts and Muses, 1884.

  Pierre-Auguste Renoir, The Large Bathers, 1884–1887.

  Pierre-Auguste Renoir, La Natte (The Plait), 1886–1887.

  Santiago Rusiñol, Portrait of Miguel Utrillo, 1890–1891.

  Suzanne Valadon, Maurice Utrillo, 1886.

  Suzanne Valadon, Portrait of Erik Satie, 1892–1893.

  Santiago Ruisiñol, Una Romanza, 1894.

  Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, The Hangover, 1887–1889.

  Suzanne Valadon, Adam and Eve, 1909.

  Suzanne Valadon, Maurice Utrillo, his Grandmother and his Dog, 1910.

  Suzanne Valadon, Joy of Life, 1911.

  Suzanne Valadon, Family Portrait, 1912.

  Suzanne Valadon, The Future Unveiled, 1912.

  Suzanne Valadon, Portrait of the Artist’s Mother, 1912.

  Suzanne Valadon, Marie Coca and her Daughter Gilberte, 1913.

  Suzanne Valadon, The Casting of the Nets, 1914.

  Suzanne Valadon, The Sacré-Coeur seen from the Garden of the Rue Cortot, 1916.

  Suzanne Valadon, The Abandoned Doll, 1921.

  Maurice Utrillo, Bessines Church in the Snow, 1927.

  Suzanne Valadon, Bouquet of Flowers, 1930.

  Suzanne Valadon, André Utter and his Dogs, 1932.

  Prologue

  When dawn broke on 2 October 1949, a thick mist had descended over the wooded valleys of the Limousin countryside, obscuring the little town of Bessines-sur-Gartempe and its 4,000 hectares of fields and hamlets.1 In the pastures, the warm russet of Limousin cattle appeared muted; from street level, chimneys and steeples were all but lost. Yet from the peaks of the surrounding granite hills, a milky autumn sun could be seen rising slowly against a cloudless sky. It promised to be a fine day.

  The cobbled place at the heart of the town was still deserted. Not one of the surrounding buildings showed signs of life. The doors of the mairie were firmly bolted and not a soul entered the medieval church. Silence reigned.

  But behind painted shutters, the people of Bessines were stirring. Already in the stillness, the sense of expectation was almost palpable.

  Coloured bunting had been stretched across the streets, cheering the grey and beige stonework of the buildings as it flapped and fluttered in the gentle breeze. A short walk from the place, at a house especially brave in banderols, a section of 17th-century wall was concealed by a curtain. Nearby, a kind of platform had been erected, and several chairs covered in red velvet upholstery had been arranged on top. And right in the middle of this makeshift stage, there was a marvel to behold. The trickle of spectators who had now started arriving stopped to gaze in awe at the quintessence of modern innovations: there stood a microphone in dazzling metallic white paint. Many houses in Bessines still did not have running water.2

  The annual festival of Saint Léger, the town’s patron saint, was always a great event. It was celebrated with all the enthusiasm generated by a year spent awaiting its arrival. When it came round, music, dancing and gaiety became the residents’ guiding principles for one glorious day. But this year, the people of Bessines were expecting a very important guest – a famous guest. The whole town was poised in anticipation. The main road had been closed, the press had been alerted and someone even said that they had heard an American accent among the crowd. Bessines was a rural community which took altruism as its unspoken ethos and where hard work earned respect. The cult of celebrity was at once bewildering, wonderful and entirely out of the ordinary.

  Before long, the men of the local band were arranging themselves in a corner by an arched doorway. With their top hats, trumpets and polished shoes, the group lent a sense of pomp and ceremony to the occasion. The testing of brass and the impromptu rehearsal of the drum signalled that it would not be long now. They were a jolly group, known as ‘Les Gueules Sèches’ or ‘Dry Mouths’ – an ironic choice, locals could not help observing, considering the guest they were about to receive.

  The people of Bessines were now filling the streets in droves, and the band struck up a cheerful number to set the mood for the day. The crowd looked quite the part. Best shirts had been pressed, women had curled their hair; young boys had been made to scrub their knees and little girls permitted to wear frocks reserved for special occasions.

  The school term had only just resumed, so the event was a welcome sweetener to a bitter pill. Young necks were craned in curiosity as children edged their way to the front of the crowd.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ one little girl solemnly informed the boy standing next to her, ‘the plaque is under that curtain. You’ll see soon enough. I know what it says by heart. My father fixed it in place.’

  Older spectators looked on with battle-weary eyes. The war was still chillingly fresh. Just a few miles away, the similar-sized town of Oradour-
sur-Glane had found unsought fame when Nazi troops stormed in one Saturday afternoon and locked the town’s women and children in the church and its men in the barns and outbuildings. Grenades and machine guns were turned on the men and the church set on fire. 642 people were massacred. That was just five years ago. For the townsfolk of Bessines, celebration still felt a surreal concept. They participated apologetically.

  All at once, the church bell struck half past eleven. The ceremony commenced.

  The light-hearted melodies ceased, and as the band shifted register, the crowd recognised the triumphant opening bars of La Marseillaise as a stirring call to patriotism. Older residents liked to boast that, at halfway between Paris and Toulouse, Bessines was at the centre of the world. Today, it really felt true.

  Emotions ran high as an official-looking group stepped forward en masse. More cultured spectators could recognise notable personalities among them, including the local poet Jean Rebier and the painters M. Edmond Heuzé and M. Rosier. There was the secretary of the ‘Friends of the Municipal Museum of the Limoges’, Robert Daudet, as well as some more familiar local faces such as M. Donquiert, the newly appointed sous-préfet of the nearby town of Bellac, and M. Duditlieu, Bessines’ own mayor. They made an impressive group. But one figure in particular held the people’s attention. All eyes were fixed on the man in the centre of the group, right at the front.

  He was slim, in his mid-60s and visibly uneasy in his smart suit and tie. As the group advanced, he tottered slightly as he walked. An attempt had been made to tame his dark hair, but some unruly strands had escaped, giving him a wild appearance. A whole lifetime of suffering and experience was etched on his weathered face, while the creases of skin around his eyes told of a thousand dramas lived and emotions endured. His dark eyes darted about him rapidly, like those of a startled quarry. And when for a moment they came to settle on another person, his penetrating stare seemed to read their very soul. Never had a man looked so ill at ease before a crowd. And this was the celebrity everyone had come to see.

  He had not come to Bessines for the attention. These days, his life was structured around a strict routine; this trip upset it. But he had had no choice. A woman had drawn him here.

  By his side marched a formidable female. Matronly in appearance, her robust frame had been squeezed into a tailored dress and jacket, while a matching beret had been carefully positioned on her head. Two strings of pearls around her neck brought a touch of glamour, and her jewelled brooch bespoke wealth as it glinted in the mid-morning sunlight. She moved with confidence, supremely self-aware, as comfortable in the limelight as the man next to her appeared out of place. It was a curious contrast; they were husband and wife.

  But it was not for the woman next to him that the man had made this trip. He was haunted by another, a woman not even his wife could rival. ‘A Goddess,’ he had once called her, ‘a sublime creature full of goodness, integrity, charity, selflessness, intelligence, courage and devotion.’3

  There was indeed something rather mythical about this woman.

  His ‘Goddess’ had come from nothing. Born into poverty, the illegitimate daughter of a humble linen maid, her very birth was clouded with disgrace. Nothing in her genealogy had predestined her for greatness. But determination causes the most stalwart of obstacles to crumble. Refusing to accept that the opportunities she most desired were those least open to her, she surmounted the constraints of class and gender. At a time when ‘respectable’ women did not even work, she entered one of the most precarious professions possible, attempting to live by her creative gifts alone. This poor countrywoman’s daughter found fame and unimaginable fortune. With her golden hair, dramatic eyebrows and intense, blue-eyed stare, her beauty bewitched the Impressionists. She was courted by famous painters, she befriended a prime minister, she became mistress of her very own château and her private life caused a scandal. She even danced for Renoir. But most importantly, she revolutionised the art world and irreversibly altered the place of women within that world.

  Her dramatic tale begins here in the rural backwater of Bessines 100 years earlier. It starts with another woman and a seemingly insignificant decision which was to alter the course of history.

  CHAPTER 1

  Life-cycles

  Ne pura pu, bravo novio, rizio dounc!

  Faras pa maû sechâ to grimaço, rizio dounc!1

  (Do not cry, sweet young bride, laugh;

  You would not be unwise to dry your eyes, laugh!)

  COUPLET FROM A TRADITIONAL LIMOUSIN WEDDING SONG2

  When eighteen-year-old Madeleine Valadon awoke on 13 February 1849, she knew to expect a thick morning fog to have enveloped the town of Bessines, while the frosty air would sting and redden her bare hands once she stepped outside.3 It was a Tuesday; soon, the deserted place in the town centre would spring to life, as labourers, shopkeepers, artisans, seamstresses and laundresses hurried across the cobbles in all directions to take up their posts. The tap of wooden clogs on stone was a familiar sound as men in blue smocks made their way through the streets. White bonnets bobbed in time with female footsteps, subtle variations in each cap silently declaring its wearer’s social standing and origin. The skirts and capes beneath them were sombre, often being worn for mourning.4

  The festivities of Christmas had now long passed; calls of Boun Anado in the local patois which resounded through the streets on 1 January were just a memory; Easter was late that year and the colour of Mardi Gras would pass all too quickly.5 February days were short and the nights could be bitter. And in just a few weeks, the truly hard work would begin. The following month, the whole town would be absorbed as the task of preparing the fields and then planting the year’s turnip crop commenced.

  In one way or another, everyone in Bessines was affected by agriculture and the rearing of livestock. Most households were self-sufficient, and those individuals who did not work the land themselves had a husband, brother or son who surely did.6 All would need meals prepared and clothing mended. Then there were the associated trades, so vital in the struggle to turn out bountiful yields of crops and herds. Born as she was to the local cartwright, Madeleine belonged to one of the many families whose livelihoods were dependent on the town’s dominant commercial activity.

  Moneyed, upper-class families were in a minority in the Limousin and countryfolk led a rude existence.7 Poor soil and a variable climate made it difficult to obtain good crops. Spring frosts could bring tragedy to farms and winters were glacial; hamlets were frequently cut off by snow, and heating the stone-walled cottages was a relentless task. Better off families might boast a home of two or three rooms with adjoining outbuildings, such as a barn, stable and bread oven (for most households had to be able to bake their own; often they would take turns with neighbours to bake for the whole hamlet for the week). There might also be a dryer for chestnuts, that important Limousin staple. Even the poorest peasants owned a shelter for the pig kept in readiness for sacrifice at Christmas. However, the less fortunate among them could be reduced to just one room. For many families, the chief objective was simply to survive.8

  In such circumstances, the spectre of death cast a shadow over everyday life. The Limousin was a region steeped in folklore and ruled by superstition. All manner of rituals and customs were employed to anticipate and forestall death’s arrival. Placing a jar of honey in the stable was reputed to be a good way of protecting a cow, while a nut shell containing a live spider worn round the owner’s neck was said to safeguard the wearer from the fever. Rural superstition held that a creaking piece of furniture presaged an imminent death, while a hen that crowed like a cockerel was an equally sinister omen; the creature should be dispatched without further delay and served at table.9

  But such methods did not always prove reliable deterrents. Indeed, death was an uninvited visitor Madeleine knew only too well. That winter, it had plunged the Valadon household into despair. In early October, just days before his 44th birthday, the young girl’s father had died.10
/>
  Aside from the emotional distress, Mathieu-Alexandre’s death had sobering practical implications for Madeleine, her mother and her brother Clément, who at fifteen was still a minor. That Valadon owned several parcels of land gave a deceptive impression of affluence. He was proprietor of some ten plots besides the family’s house and garden, which included heathland, grazing and even a small chestnut wood. Yet with some fields located several miles away from the family home, Valadon’s property betrayed a patchwork estate of land acquired and reapportioned through inheritance. Such plots were often financially inconsequential; the Valadons were not a wealthy family.

  Madeleine had already been put out to work as a linen maid by the time her father died. It was a low-paid, physically gruelling profession, liable to attract sniggers and disdainful looks from the daughters of better-off families. Every channel of income available to the Valadon family was already being exploited, and Madeleine was still unmarried. The loss of the household’s head and main breadwinner would have terrifying repercussions.

  Even for Limousin girls who had not lost a father, finding a husband was a primary goal from adolescence. Whereas a single man could work and make a living, a woman, with her sphere accepted as the domestic environment and wages meagre even when they were earned, was dependent on male income. Women enjoyed little status outside marriage. The daughters of artisans and peasants alike felt the same sense of urgency when it came to the question of matrimony. Much was at stake, and for many more people than the young couple directly concerned. The family remained the basic social unit in the 19th century, and the marriages of its younger members was its principal means of shaping its identity. The fortunes and future of the entire family rested on the kind of marriage made by its teenagers. This was because marriage determined the distribution of that scarce resource: land. In selecting (or, as was increasingly common in the 19th century, approving) a partner for their offspring, parents needed to feel confident that the match ensured that their own needs in old age would be met. Then there was the question of status; opportunities for social advancement were limited, so it was vital that a youngster did not marry below his or her station. A mésalliance could shatter reputations and squander resources where they could never be reciprocated. The burden of duty and expectation weighed heavily on young shoulders. Personal pride naturally came into the equation, too. And living in small, isolated communities, the range of marital options was painfully restricted.11