Ocean Sea Read online

  Description:

  Eighteen sails, of diverse dimensions, scattered about without any precise order. In the lower left-hand corner, a small sketch of a three-master, clearly the work of another hand, probably that of a child (Dol?).

  17. Portrait of Madame Ann Deverià, oil on canvas, 52.8 x 30 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  A woman’s hand of the palest color, the fingers marvelously tapering. White background.

  18, 19, 20, 21. Ocean sea, pencil on paper, 12 x 12 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  A series of four sketches, all apparently absolutely identical. A simple horizontal line crosses them from left to right (but also from right to left, if you will) more or less midway up the canvas. In reality, Plasson maintained that these were four profoundly different images. He said, and I quote, “They are four profoundly different images.” My own highly personal impression is that they represent the same view at four successive different times of the day. When I expressed this opinion of mine to the artist, he occasioned to reply, and I quote verbatim, “Do you think so?”

  22. Untitled, pencil on paper, 20.8 x 13.5 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  A young man, on the shore, draws near the sea, carrying in his arms the abandoned body of an unclothed woman. Moon in the sky and reflections on the water. In consideration of the time that has now passed since the dramatic events with which it is connected, I am now making public this sketch, long kept secret by the artist’s express wish.

  23. Ocean sea, oil on canvas, 71.6 x 38.4 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  A deep dark red slash cuts the canvas from left to right. The rest, white.

  24. Ocean sea, oil on canvas, 127 x 108.6 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  Completely white. This is the last work executed during the stay at the Almayer Inn, by Quartel. The artist presented it to the inn, expressing the wish that it might be shown on a wall facing the sea. Subsequently, and through channels that I have never quite managed to determine, it came into my possession. I am looking after it, keeping it at the disposal of anyone able to claim ownership.

  25. 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32. Untitled, oil on canvas, various dimensions

  The Museum of St. Jacques de Granee

  Description:

  Eight portraits of sailors, stylistically traceable to Plasson in his early manner. Abbot Ferrand, who was kind enough to inform me of their existence, affirms that the artist executed them gratis, as a token of his affection for some people with whom he had struck up a sincere friendship during his stay at St. Jacques. With engaging candor, the abbot confessed to me that he had asked the painter if he might have his portrait painted by him, but had met with a firm yet courteous refusal. It seems that the exact words pronounced by Plasson in the circumstances were, “Unfortunately you are not a sailor, and therefore your face has no sea in it. You see, these days I only know how to paint the sea.”

  33. Ocean sea, oil on canvas (dimensions uncertain)

  (Lost)

  Description:

  Completely white. Here, too, Abbot Ferrand provided extremely valuable testimony. He had the frankness to admit that, owing to an inexplicable misunderstanding, the canvas, found in the painter’s lodgings the day following his departure, had been considered a simple blank canvas and not a completed work of considerable value. As such, it was carried off by persons unknown and has not been found to this day.

  34, 35, 36. Untitled, oil on canvas, 68.8 x 82 cm

  The Gallen-Martendorf Museum, Helleborg

  Description:

  These are three very accurate, almost identical, copies of a painting by Hans van Dyke, The Harbor at Skalen. The Gallen-Martendorf Museum has cataloged them as works by van Dyke himself, thus perpetrating a deplorable misunderstanding. As I have many times pointed out to the curator of the abovementioned museum, Prof. Broderfons, the three canvases not only bear on the back the clear annotation “van Plasson,” but also display a detail that makes Plasson’s authorship evident: in all three the painter depicted at work on the harbor mole, at the bottom left, has an easel in front of him bearing a completely white canvas. In the original by van Dyke, the canvas is painted normally. Professor Broderfons, while admitting the correctness of my observation, accounts it of no particular significance. Professor Broderfons is, besides, an incompetent scholar and an absolutely unbearable man.

  37. Lake Constance, watercolor, 27 x 31.9 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  A painting of accurate and very elegant execution, portraying the celebrated Lake Constance at sunset. The colors are warm and smoky. No human figures appear. But the water and the shores are rendered with great poetry and intensity. Plasson sent me this canvas accompanied by a brief note, the text of which I report here verbatim: “It’s weariness, my friend, Beautiful weariness. Adieu.”

  38. Ocean sea, pencil on paper, 26 x 13.4 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  The drawing depicts, with accuracy and precision, Plasson’s left hand. Plasson, I am obliged to add, was left-handed.

  39. Ocean sea, pencil on paper, 26 x 13.4 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  Plasson’s left hand. Without shading.

  40. Ocean sea, pencil on paper, 26 x 13.4 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  Plasson’s left hand. Few lines, barely sketched in.

  41. Ocean sea, pencil on paper, 26 x 13.4 cm

  The Bartleboom Collection

  Description:

  Plasson’s left hand. Three lines and some light shading. Note: This drawing was presented to me, along with the three preceding works, by Dr. Monnier, the doctor who looked after Plasson during the brief and painful course of his last illness (pneumonia). According to his testimony, which I have no reason to doubt, these were the last four works by Plasson, bedridden by that time and getting weaker every day. Still, according to the same witness, Plasson died in serene solitude and with his soul in peace. A few minutes before expiring, he uttered the following phrase: “It’s not a question of colors, it’s a question of music, do you understand? It took me such a long time, but now” (stop)

  He was a generous man and certainly one gifted with an enormous artistic talent. He was my friend. And I loved him.

  Now he is at rest, by his express wish, in the cemetery of Quartel. The tombstone, over his grave, is in simple stone. Completely white.

  CHAPTER 5

  Bartleboom

  IT WENT LIKE THIS. He had gone to take the waters, Bartleboom, at the spa of Bad Hollen, a frightful place, if you see what I mean. He used to go there for certain complaints that bothered him, to do with his prostate, an annoying business, a nuisance. When it gets you down there it’s a real nuisance, always, nothing serious, mind, but you have to take care, you have to do loads of ridiculous, humiliating things. As for him, Bartleboom always used to go to the spa at Bad Hollen, for example. A frightful place, among other things.

  But anyway.

  Bartleboom was there with his fiancée, a certain Maria Luigia Severina Hohenheith, a beautiful woman, there was no doubt, but of the opera-house variety, if you see what I mean. All front. You felt like turning her around to see if there was anything behind the makeup and the gush and all the rest. You didn’t do it of course, but you felt like it. Bartleboom, to tell the truth, had not pledged his troth with much enthusiasm; on the contrary. This should be said. One of his aunts, Aunt Matilda, had done everything. You have to understand that at that time he was virtually surrounded by aunts, and to tell the whole story, he depended on them, economically I mean, he didn’t have two pennies to rub together. It was the aunts who paid up. Which was the exact consequence
of that impassioned and total dedication to science that had bound Bartleboom’s life to that ambitious Encyclopedia of the Limits etcetera, a great and meritorious work, which, however, prevented him, obviously, from attending to his professional duties, persuading him every year to leave his position as professor and his corresponding salary to a temporary substitute, who in this case—that is, throughout the entire seventeen-year period in which this state of affairs continued—was me. From this, as you will understand, springs my gratitude to him, and my admiration for his work. It goes without saying. These are things that a man of honor does not forget.

  But anyway.

  Aunt Matilda had done everything, and Bartleboom hadn’t been able to put up much in the way of resistance. He was betrothed. But he hadn’t taken it particularly well. He had lost some of that sparkle . . . his soul had clouded over, if you see what I mean. It was as if he had expected something different, something quite different. He wasn’t prepared for all that normality. He soldiered on, no more than that. Then one day, there in Bad Hollen, he and his fiancée and his prostate went to a reception, an elegant affair, all champagne and gay popular music. Waltzes. And there he met Anna Ancher. She was special, that woman. She painted. And well, too, they said. Another type altogether, compared to Maria Luigia Severina, you understand. It was she who stopped him, amid the hubbub of the party.

  “Excuse me . . . you are Professor Bartleboom, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am a friend of Michel Plasson’s.”

  It emerged that the painter had written to her thousands of times, telling her about Bartleboom and other things, and in particular about that Encyclopedia of the Limits etcetera, an account that, according to her, had made quite an impression on her.

  “I would be charmed to see your work one day.”

  That’s exactly what she said: charmed. She said it tilting her little head slightly to one side and pushing back a lock of raven hair from her eyes. Masterly stuff. For Bartleboom it was as if those words had been injected directly into his bloodstream. They reverberated all the way down to his trousers, so to speak. He mumbled something and from then on he did nothing but sweat. He sweated brilliantly, he did, when he needed to. The temperature had nothing to do with it. He did it all by himself.

  Perhaps it might have all ended there, that story, but the next day, when he was out walking, alone, turning those words and all the rest over and over in his head, Bartleboom saw a carriage going past, one of those handsome ones, with luggage and hatboxes on the top. It was heading out of town. And inside, he could see her perfectly, was Anna Ancher. It was really her. Raven hair. Little head. The lot. Even the reverberations in the trousers were the same as the day before. Bartleboom understood. Despite what they say around town, he was a man who, when it was necessary, was capable of taking his decisions and no mistake, when it was necessary he didn’t hang back. And so he went back home, packed his bags, and, all ready to leave, presented himself before his fiancée, Maria Luigia Severina. She was busy amid a muddle of brushes, ribbons, and necklaces.

  “Maria Luigia . . .”

  “Please, Ismael, I am already late . . .”

  “Maria Luigia, I wish to inform you that you are no longer betrothed.”

  “Very well, Ismael, we shall discuss it later.”

  “And as a consequence, I am no longer betrothed either.”

  “That’s obvious, Ismael.”

  “Good-bye, then.”

  What was amazing about that woman was the slowness of her reactions. We talked about the matter more than once with Bartleboom. He was absolutely fascinated by that phenomenon, he had also studied it, so to speak, and had ended up by acquiring a virtually scientific and complete competence in the subject. In the circumstances, he was therefore perfectly aware that the time at his disposal to get away from that house scot-free was between twenty-two and twenty-six seconds. He had calculated that this would have been enough for him to reach the coach. And in fact it was in the precise moment that he was lowering his bottom onto the seat of the conveyance that the clear morning air of Bad Hollen was shattered by an inhuman scream:

  “BAAAAAAARTLEBOOM!”

  What a voice she had, that woman. Even years afterwards, in Bad Hollen, they said that it was as if someone had dropped a piano straight onto a warehouse full of crystal chandeliers.

  Bartleboom had made his inquiries: the Anchers stayed at Hollenberg, fifty-four miles north of Bad Hollen. He set off. He was wearing his Sunday best. Even his hat was his Sunday hat. He was sweating, true, but within the limits of common decency. The coach bowled along the road between the hills. Everything seemed to be going in the best way possible.

  Bartleboom was quite clear about the words he would say to Anna Ancher, when he appeared before her:

  “Miss Ancher, I have been waiting for you. I have been waiting for you for years.”

  And, bingo, he would hand her the mahogany box with all the letters, hundreds of letters, a sight that would leave her dumbfounded with amazement and tenderness. It was a good plan, no mistake. Bartleboom ran through it over and over again during the journey, and this provides food for thought on the complexity of the minds of certain great scholars and thinkers—as was Professor Bartleboom, beyond any shadow of a doubt—to whom the sublime faculty of concentrating on an idea with abnormal perspicacity and profundity has the questionable corollary of removing instantly, and in a singularly complete fashion, all other neighboring, related, and associated ideas. Mad as hatters, in short. So, for example, Bartleboom spent the whole journey verifying the unassailable logic of his plan, but only seven miles outside Hollenberg, and specifically between the villages of Alzen and Balzen, he remembered, to be precise, that that mahogany box, and therefore all the letters, hundreds of letters, was no longer in his possession.

  Things like that come as a real blow. If you see what I mean.

  As a matter of fact, Bartleboom had given the box with the letters to Maria Luigia Severina, on the day of their betrothal. Without much conviction, he had nonetheless brought her the lot, with a certain solemnity, saying, “I have been waiting for you. I have been waiting for you for years.”

  After those ten, twelve seconds of the customary hiatus, Maria Luigia had rolled her eyes, arched her neck, and, incredulous, had proffered a single elementary word:

  “Me?”

  “Me?” was not exactly the response that Bartleboom had been dreaming of for years, while he was writing those letters and living on his own, getting by the best he could. And so it goes without saying that he was left a little disappointed in the circumstances, as you can understand. This also explains why, later, he never brought up the matter of the letters again, limiting himself to checking that the mahogany box was still there, at Maria Luigia’s, and God only knew if anyone had ever opened it. It happens. You have your dreams, personal stuff, intimate, and then life decides it doesn’t want to play along, and it dismantles them, a moment, a few words, and everything falls apart. It happens. That’s why life is such a wretched business. You have to resign yourself. Life has no gratitude, if you see what I mean.

  Gratitude.

  But anyway.

  Now the problem was that he needed the box, but it was in one of the worst possible places, that is to say somewhere in Maria Luigia’s house. Bartleboom got off the coach at Balzen, five miles outside Hollenberg, spent the night at the inn, and the next morning took the coach going in the other direction, back to Bad Hollen. His odyssey had begun, if you can believe me.

  He adopted the usual technique with Maria Luigia; it could not fail. He presented himself unannounced in the room where she was languishing in bed, getting over her nervous prostration, and without preamble said, “I have come to take the letters, dear.”

  “They are on the desk, my treasure,” she replied with a certain tenderness. Then, after exactly twenty-six seconds, she emitted a strangulated groan and fainted. Bartleboom, it goes without saying, was already long gone
.

  He took the coach again, this time in the direction of Hollenberg, and on the evening of the next day he presented himself at the Ancher residence. They accompanied him into the drawing-room, where he very nearly dropped dead, stone dead in his tracks. The young lady was at the piano, and she was playing—with her little head, the raven hair, and all the rest—playing like an angel. Alone there, she and the piano and that was all. Unbelievable. Bartleboom stood as if turned to stone, with his mahogany box in his hand, on the threshold of the drawing room, completely besotted. He couldn’t even manage to sweat. All he could do was stare.

  When the music finished, the young lady looked toward him. Definitively ravished, he crossed the drawing room, stood before her, placed the mahogany box on the piano, and said, “Miss Anna, I have been waiting for you. I have been waiting for you for years.”

  Once again the response was a singular one:

  “I’m not Anna.”

  “Begging your pardon?”

  “My name is Elisabetta. Anna is my sister.”

  Twins, if you see what I mean.

  Like two peas in a pod.

  “My sister is at Bad Hollen, at the spa. About fifty miles from here.”

  “Yes, I know the road, thank you.”

  Things like that come as a blow. And no mistake. A real blow. Fortunately Bartleboom had resources, he had real spiritual staying power, in that carcass of his. He took to the road again, destination Bad Hollen. If that was where Anna Ancher was, that was where he had to go. Simple. He was more or less halfway there when things began to strike him as being a little less simple. The fact is, he couldn’t manage to get that music out of his head. Or the piano, the hands on the keyboard, the little head with the raven hair, the whole vision, in other words. Stuff so perfect that it seemed the devil’s work. Or the work of fate, said Bartleboom to himself. The Professor began to suffer over this story of the twins, both the pianist and the painter, he couldn’t make head or tail of anything anymore, it was understandable. The more time passed, the less he understood. You might say that for every mile of road, he understood a mile less. He got off at Pozel, six miles out of Bad Hollen. And there he spent the night. The next day he took the coach for Hollenberg: he had opted for the pianist. More attractive, he thought. He changed his mind on the twenty-second mile: at Bazel, to be precise, where he got off and spent the night. He left again early the next morning with the coach for Bad Hollen—already intimately betrothed to Anna Ancher, the painter—only to stop at Suzer, a little town two miles from Pozel, where he definitively established that, as far as character was concerned, he was cut out more for Elisabetta, the pianist. In the days that followed, his oscillatory movements took him once more to Alzen, then to Tozer, from there to Balzen, and then back again as far as Fazel, and thence, in order, to Palzen, Rulzen, Alzen (for the third time), and Colzen. By that time the local folk were convinced that he was an inspector from some ministry. Everybody treated him very well. At Alzen, the third time he passed through, he even found a reception committee waiting for him. He took but little account of this. He wasn’t a formal type. He was a simple man, was Bartleboom, one hell of a simple man. And a fair one. Really.