In 1919, Lucien and his wife Charlotte (Sharlie) Monod bought a villa, Clos St Jacques, outside of Cannes in the South of France. The villa subsequently became a base for Wilfrid and Jane de Glehn on their annual trips in the Post-War period. As their usual painting partner, John Singer Sargent, had been spending longer periods in America, the Monods made excellent companions on their excursions in the region between Cannes, Biôt and Vence. In later years, once in a state of retirement, their immediate surroundings became their muse. For Wilfrid and Jane, it was their home at Stratford Tony and the countryside of Wiltshire, and for Lucien it was the coast of Cannes and the roses in the gardens of Clos St Jacques.
Lucien and Charlotte Monod in the garden of the villa Le Clos St Jacques, Cannes, with their son Jacques, and grandsons Olivier and Philippe, 1945.
‘“Find a villa.” That was the plan as we drifted around Cannes looking.’
My mother in particular saw a number while my father was either not very interested or made to feel any opinions he might have would get him nowhere….I think we had been there a good ten days when there began to be maternal fussing about the cost. As a result my mother came up with a scheme I suspect had been ripening to hatch in her brain all along. “It may mean a flat,” she announced and my father shrugged, declining to feel responsible and probably utterly bored by useless villa-hunting. She continued, “Wilfrid said we should call on the Monods, so let’s do that. You children will have to stay in the car and behave yourselves. No shouting or running about which might upset them. I hope that is understood.”
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The Villa Clos St Jaques belonged to Sharlie who was American by birth and her husband Lucien Monod, a genuine Frenchman. Lucien was an artist cousin of Uncle Wilfrid’s and the couple were near Uncle Wilfrid and Aunt Jane in age. They had four children, all grown-up, but only spinster Juliette and bachelor Robert were living at home. Juliette was a kindly, earnest woman who taught English in some school but refused to speak it, and dear, gentle Robert who had a fine collection of empty bottles he endlessly found fascinating, was a bit simple. The absent sons, Philipe and Jacques, were to end up as an Ambassador and a Nobel prizewinner, so it was probably a thoroughly odd and amazing family even in those days. I can’t say I thought it at the time but I now suspect that thanks to the de Glehn connection an apartment here in this rather seedy villa had suddenly seemed the perfect answer to my mother.
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So it came about that we abandoned the friendly hotel for a rather tatty flat with an outdoor concrete staircase blotched here and there with some sort of greeny-grey mould, a cowbell to clang at the only entrance, and incredible views towards everything around Cannes worth looking at, the Esterel hills and Mediterranean with islands included because this elderly villa had been built fairly high on a hill in a fine location before Cannes became fashionable. We also had those most delightful, slightly dippy landlords living directly below us.
It was Autumn and I suppose that roses everywhere were in the same final state of bloom that Mark, Ellen and I had seen the year before in Battersea Park. Clos St Jaques as I might have guessed had a distinctly odd old rose garden with ancient hedges and a wall around it. It was about the size of a badminton court spread out on the right side of the house and the hedge bushes were covered in masses of dark and extremely buggy ivy which seemed fully intent on throttling the host plants. I know about the bugs because Marcus and I when banished to play outdoors every morning set ourselves to den-making in it. It was excellent for that but oh dear, did we get grubby. White socks didn’t stand a chance after the first five minutes.
Standing high up on the little landing outside our outer door, I could look out over the whole area as might poor Madame Malbrouk for signs of her soldier husband in that sad old French song. However I was far more lucky and soon got into the habit of hailing the garden’s owner who was almost sure to appear after breakfast while the Riviera weather remained agreeable for his roses.
“Uncle Lucien, may I come down and join you?” I had spotted his white wispy hair sticking out beyond the rim of his old linen hat and, although I had strict instructions from my mother that he was not to be bothered, I soon dared do just that because he was always welcoming.
“But certainly, my little one, I need you to help me find the perfect rose!” Marcus may have been welcomed too at first but preferred to run about, so that became my very own solo daily mission and I would rush down the steps from our flat to join him. Uncle Lucien had most likely planted his rose garden himself and the odd thing about it was he only grew one variety. This was a pale pink beauty I think known as ‘Madame Alfred Carrière.’ She obsessed Uncle Lucien in spite of thorns in her serene scented way. Slowly we two would scan the beds, Uncle Lucien in his faded dungarees trampling carefully over soil carpeted in blue pimpernel weed that thrived from absence of hoeing, his secateurs going snip, snip, snip and a rose stem or two getting grasped in the free leather-gloved paw. I followed very much in the manner of Good King Wenceslas’s page, all ready to capture lurking beetles and squish them between right finger and thumb. How dared they eat Uncle Lucien’s roses, the rotten stinkeroos! I’d finish them off!
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Clos St Jaques had been built some meters out from an ivy-clad bit of fairly precipitous hill which I suspect had been cut back in the hill purposely, like a riser in a staircase, to provide flat land and kitchen yard for the property. At the back between hill and house there were dustbins, bursting cartons of wine bottle empties and sometimes feral cats in search of scraps or mice. A bit of a mess, really. I would pass through it in order to find Robert, ignoring the voices most likely coming from Madam Monod and her ‘ bonne’ coming clearly out of the pleasantly odoriferous kitchen doorway and windows. I would be hoping to find him in his lair, the rather spidery old summerhouse. This had been placed to the left of the villa much closer to the hill in order to leave space for outdoor meals under a big, shady tree and there were those fine views straight ahead towards the sea and islands while to the west over the sprawl of Cannes the distant hills of the Esterels made the backdrop. This was the chic end of the Monod property.
Close to noon [each day] Uncle Lucien might appear to clean painting gear under an outside tap in the kitchen yard and I might desert Robert to speak to his father. “Did you do a good painting this morning, Uncle Lucien?” “Come, my dear little one, there is time and we will look at it together, but I fear not. You will tell me what you think. I have the intention of doing much better tomorrow.”
Tomorrow’s watercolour was always reckoned likely to be better than today’s, and there must have been hundreds of efforts that had accumulated in the large, airy salon-cum-studio of Clos St Jaques. However he expressed this belief, Uncle Lucien always managed a sweet smile and as I was his disciple I was utterly convinced every effort was a masterpiece. I would do my best to praise him, make him feel good, while Madame Monod would also show pleasure and look at the morning’s work benignly. I remember him as a wonderful artist, and I think he may well have become my very dearest, most elderly friend.
So passed many hours towards the end of 1935 and for years I would long for the day when I might own one of those exquisite watercolours, which were often exposed for general criticism in oval mounts, but not often framed for sale. Uncle Lucien did give me a small drawing of a girl singing along with some magical bird which was a little masterpiece in my mind, and still is a most unexpected treasure that I have always kept close to me.
Adapted and reproduced with the the kind permission from Briar Cottage Publications from ‘Breaking the Chains, An Unusual Childhood between World Wars’ (2019), by Anne Syfret.
A fully illustrated catalogue for our exhibition, In Search of a Golden Age: The French Connection, is available to buy online and from our gallery in St. James's
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