Lillies for Delphine
It was 1910 and Delphine had just turned 5 years old. She felt very grown up now that mother let her take a few sous to the boulangerie to buy the days bread, or over to the patisserie for fresh croissant on Friday. The town of Giverny was small, and everyone knew Delphine and her family as is the way in small towns. The bobbing blonde head covered in ringlets was a common site, smiles and waves were exchanged, greetings and head pats given. Everyone loved Delphine…everyone except the recluse of an artist who hid in his home and had not a kind word for anyone.
Everyone in town knew to stay as far away from the artist and his gardens as possible. The miserable man had been married twice, and everyone said his temper and moods had driven both women into early graves. He had sons, the village said, but they rarely visited the now very old man. On occasion he would wander into town to begrudgingly visit the le boucher or sip a café in the square, but he rarely spoke to anyone and never intentionally. But even the old artist couldn’t miss the bobbing yellow curls that danced around the head of the child seen frequently in town. With his ever failing eyesight the hair seemed instead to be a halo, and he thought her a tiny angel. Her giggle tinkled, and she reminded him of the days when his children laughed in his halls.
Delphine knew she could go anywhere in the village: anywhere except near the artist’s home. He was angry, they said, and would yell and rage if his peace was disturbed while he worked. But Delphine had heard that his gardens were beautiful, and that he had magical flowers that grew in glorious color floating in the water. So, as children are wont to do, she went anyway. It wasn’t hard to sneak in, and she was shorter still than most of the flower stalks along the pond. Besides, everyone said the artist couldn’t see well: surely he’d never even notice her if she were very quiet and very still. And what she discovered was that the gardens were the most magical place this side of heaven. Surely even the angels would want to flock here. Once she’d discovered it she couldn’t stay away, and every day she snuck quietly under the back gate, and through the trees and reeds to sit quiet as a mouse at the edge of the pond. Most days she saw the artist. He sat squinting at his canvas, then at the pond, then at his canvas. She longed to see what his brush was creating, but she never dared move even an inch closer than she was. She came so often that her favorite hiding spot on the ponds edge grew brown, but still she came. She came for four more years, and watched as the artist grew older, more frail, and more irascible. On more than one occasion she saw him fling his canvases right into the pond in anger, mutter, and hobble back to his house. One of those times the canvas didn’t sink, but floated right over to her spot, face up and perfect. She grabbed it and rushed home with it, hiding it in under her bed so the paint could dry. It was a glorious thing in cerulean blue, vivid green, and featuring her favorite pink waterlily.
Delphine became a young women, and stopped going to the garden, but never stopped dreaming of its beauty. She didn’t forget about the artist, but she saw him in the village less and less. She married in 1923, and hung the artists painting that he’d flung away in anger right over her mantel. To match, she embroidered a cloth with matching flowers to cover the modest table on which she and her husband ate their nightly meals.
Three years later the artist died. Delphine found she was unexpectedly grieved by the loss. A week after the funeral a letter arrived at her door addressed simply to “L’ange aux boucles d’or”. Opening it, she found a simple handwritten note that said “Thank you for your company for many years. Think of me when you look at our lilies”
It was 1910 and Delphine had just turned 5 years old. She felt very grown up now that mother let her take a few sous to the boulangerie to buy the days bread, or over to the patisserie for fresh croissant on Friday. The town of Giverny was small, and everyone knew Delphine and her family as is the way in small towns. The bobbing blonde head covered in ringlets was a common site, smiles and waves were exchanged, greetings and head pats given. Everyone loved Delphine…everyone except the recluse of an artist who hid in his home and had not a kind word for anyone.
Everyone in town knew to stay as far away from the artist and his gardens as possible. The miserable man had been married twice, and everyone said his temper and moods had driven both women into early graves. He had sons, the village said, but they rarely visited the now very old man. On occasion he would wander into town to begrudgingly visit the le boucher or sip a café in the square, but he rarely spoke to anyone and never intentionally. But even the old artist couldn’t miss the bobbing yellow curls that danced around the head of the child seen frequently in town. With his ever failing eyesight the hair seemed instead to be a halo, and he thought her a tiny angel. Her giggle tinkled, and she reminded him of the days when his children laughed in his halls.
Delphine knew she could go anywhere in the village: anywhere except near the artist’s home. He was angry, they said, and would yell and rage if his peace was disturbed while he worked. But Delphine had heard that his gardens were beautiful, and that he had magical flowers that grew in glorious color floating in the water. So, as children are wont to do, she went anyway. It wasn’t hard to sneak in, and she was shorter still than most of the flower stalks along the pond. Besides, everyone said the artist couldn’t see well: surely he’d never even notice her if she were very quiet and very still. And what she discovered was that the gardens were the most magical place this side of heaven. Surely even the angels would want to flock here. Once she’d discovered it she couldn’t stay away, and every day she snuck quietly under the back gate, and through the trees and reeds to sit quiet as a mouse at the edge of the pond. Most days she saw the artist. He sat squinting at his canvas, then at the pond, then at his canvas. She longed to see what his brush was creating, but she never dared move even an inch closer than she was. She came so often that her favorite hiding spot on the ponds edge grew brown, but still she came. She came for four more years, and watched as the artist grew older, more frail, and more irascible. On more than one occasion she saw him fling his canvases right into the pond in anger, mutter, and hobble back to his house. One of those times the canvas didn’t sink, but floated right over to her spot, face up and perfect. She grabbed it and rushed home with it, hiding it in under her bed so the paint could dry. It was a glorious thing in cerulean blue, vivid green, and featuring her favorite pink waterlily.
Delphine became a young women, and stopped going to the garden, but never stopped dreaming of its beauty. She didn’t forget about the artist, but she saw him in the village less and less. She married in 1923, and hung the artists painting that he’d flung away in anger right over her mantel. To match, she embroidered a cloth with matching flowers to cover the modest table on which she and her husband ate their nightly meals.
Three years later the artist died. Delphine found she was unexpectedly grieved by the loss. A week after the funeral a letter arrived at her door addressed simply to “L’ange aux boucles d’or”. Opening it, she found a simple handwritten note that said “Thank you for your company for many years. Think of me when you look at our lilies”
It was 1910 and Delphine had just turned 5 years old. She felt very grown up now that mother let her take a few sous to the boulangerie to buy the days bread, or over to the patisserie for fresh croissant on Friday. The town of Giverny was small, and everyone knew Delphine and her family as is the way in small towns. The bobbing blonde head covered in ringlets was a common site, smiles and waves were exchanged, greetings and head pats given. Everyone loved Delphine…everyone except the recluse of an artist who hid in his home and had not a kind word for anyone.
Everyone in town knew to stay as far away from the artist and his gardens as possible. The miserable man had been married twice, and everyone said his temper and moods had driven both women into early graves. He had sons, the village said, but they rarely visited the now very old man. On occasion he would wander into town to begrudgingly visit the le boucher or sip a café in the square, but he rarely spoke to anyone and never intentionally. But even the old artist couldn’t miss the bobbing yellow curls that danced around the head of the child seen frequently in town. With his ever failing eyesight the hair seemed instead to be a halo, and he thought her a tiny angel. Her giggle tinkled, and she reminded him of the days when his children laughed in his halls.
Delphine knew she could go anywhere in the village: anywhere except near the artist’s home. He was angry, they said, and would yell and rage if his peace was disturbed while he worked. But Delphine had heard that his gardens were beautiful, and that he had magical flowers that grew in glorious color floating in the water. So, as children are wont to do, she went anyway. It wasn’t hard to sneak in, and she was shorter still than most of the flower stalks along the pond. Besides, everyone said the artist couldn’t see well: surely he’d never even notice her if she were very quiet and very still. And what she discovered was that the gardens were the most magical place this side of heaven. Surely even the angels would want to flock here. Once she’d discovered it she couldn’t stay away, and every day she snuck quietly under the back gate, and through the trees and reeds to sit quiet as a mouse at the edge of the pond. Most days she saw the artist. He sat squinting at his canvas, then at the pond, then at his canvas. She longed to see what his brush was creating, but she never dared move even an inch closer than she was. She came so often that her favorite hiding spot on the ponds edge grew brown, but still she came. She came for four more years, and watched as the artist grew older, more frail, and more irascible. On more than one occasion she saw him fling his canvases right into the pond in anger, mutter, and hobble back to his house. One of those times the canvas didn’t sink, but floated right over to her spot, face up and perfect. She grabbed it and rushed home with it, hiding it in under her bed so the paint could dry. It was a glorious thing in cerulean blue, vivid green, and featuring her favorite pink waterlily.
Delphine became a young women, and stopped going to the garden, but never stopped dreaming of its beauty. She didn’t forget about the artist, but she saw him in the village less and less. She married in 1923, and hung the artists painting that he’d flung away in anger right over her mantel. To match, she embroidered a cloth with matching flowers to cover the modest table on which she and her husband ate their nightly meals.
Three years later the artist died. Delphine found she was unexpectedly grieved by the loss. A week after the funeral a letter arrived at her door addressed simply to “L’ange aux boucles d’or”. Opening it, she found a simple handwritten note that said “Thank you for your company for many years. Think of me when you look at our lilies”
Created from a glorious 1920’s linen tablecover in the height of arts and crafts design. 100% handmade by the artist. Tablecloth sourced from France
Measurements: Bust 32” Waist 32” front length 17” NO STRETCH
Care Instructions and General Information: This one of a kind blouse is fashioned from a linen that is approximately 100 years old. It should be hand washed in warm water and laid flat to dry. Ironing on medium heat with starch will retain crispness. Due to the age there may be minor discolorations or areas of wear commiserate with age. This is normal and to be considered as part of the beauty of the garment
NO refunds or exchanges allowed due to the one of a kind nature of the garment