Authors: Brenda Joyce
Sofie had come to love Rachelle and had no intention of severing their relationship. She had explained to her mother that Mrs. Crandal had exaggerated, but in truth, she had not. For there was no question that the residents of the small Parisian neighborhood were somewhat wild and quite unorthodox. But everyone shared a genuine enthusiasm for art in all its forms. There were very few pretenders in Montmartre. Sofie was not about to leave. She was happy—or as happy as it was possible for her to be.
They paused on the next street, waiting for an aggressive driver of a mule and cart full of sacks of meal and flour to go by. Paul held her arm. “Is she coming? You should not be alone now.”
Sofie said, “I am not alone. I have you, and I have Rachelle.” She and Paul crossed the street, arm in arm. “It is better if she doesn’t come, anyway. She would be very upset if she saw where I live—and how Montmartre really is.”
Paul only said, firmly, “You should not be alone.”
Sofie refused to think about Edward, not now, not today.
They entered the small bar Zut on the Place Pigalle. It was early in the afternoon, but the single wood-paneled room was crowded and noisy; many patrons sat at small tables or stood at the long bar, and almost all turned to greet them jovially when they saw them. Paul enjoyed the camaraderie of the clientele there, and although at first Sofie had thought it quite daring for a proper woman like herself to join him in the evening for a glass of wine, she had quickly grown used to it. Zut was patronized by many young, fervent artists like herself, by poets as well as painters. Sofie had been immediately and warmly welcomed into their ranks.
“
Ah, c’est la bohème
,” someone cried, and several other men took up the cry, good-natured and teasing.
Sofie’s smile was rueful in response. Georges had coined the nickname soon after they had met. She carefully avoided his eyes, but knew he watched her from where he sat beside Rachelle. It was a joke, and a funny one at that. She was hardly bohemian, and that had quickly become clear to everyone who knew her. Although her art was bold and unique and broke all of the Salon’s rules, Sofie clung to the standards of propriety she had been raised with, regardless of her current situation.
Sometimes Sofie felt like a fraud. Sometimes she wished she could live as Rachelle and the others did, day by day, with great zest and intensity, without a real care, with that particularly French trait of
joie de vivre.
But she could not. No matter how she might try.
“You will join us,
non?
” Georges asked, unsmiling. With everyone else he was a charming rogue, but not with her. Still, Sofie admired him even though the tenor of their relationship had changed. He was a fine if not radical writer, often using his verse to defend the modern style of art.
Sofie allowed herself to be seated with him and Rachelle and his two closest friends, Picasso and Braque. Paul pulled up another chair. Charles Mauricier, David St. Jean, and Victoire Armande were also present.
Sofie had barely been seated when the men at her table began to sing at the top of their voices, even Braque, who tended to be aloof and melancholy. She went red as she
realized that theywere singing “Happy Birthday” and that the entire bar had just joined in. It was her birthday, but purposefully she had not mentioned it. However, Paul had taught her for too many years in New York not to have known the date. He squeezed her hand, singing with a foolish smile on his weathered face. Sofie saw the proprietor, Frede, bringing a small frosted cake with candles to their table, his rosy cheeks redder than usual. When the song was done, the cake deposited in front of her, everyone cheered. Rachelle came up behind her to hug her and kiss her, her eyes shining with affection.
Sofie told herself not to cry. This was so thoroughly thoughtful and kind and she had no right being sad, not anymore. She had a new life, new friends, she had her art, and soon she would have her beloved baby. Did she not have everything a woman could want? She blinked back her tears and smiled at everyone.
“Merci beaucoup, mes amis. Mes chers amis.”
Someone began to play the old beaten piano near the front window of the bar, a very tired instrument that was in use every single night of the week. Sofie saw that the player was Rachelle, and she was hammering out a lively tune, beating her booted feet to the rhythm. Some of the men stood up and began to dance, with each other or with the other women present in the bar. Georges leaned across the table, gripping Sofie’s wrist.
She froze. His eyes were blue, like Edward’s, but with an intensity she had never seen in them before.
“Dance with me.”
Sofie’s gaze widened; she did not move. Georges waited for her to respond. His regard was burning. Sofie shook her head, her pulse racing, shocked. What was happening? She did not understand! Georges was in love with Rachelle. “Thank you, but no, Georges.” She had to wet her lips.
He was standing, leaning over her. “Why not?”
Sofie felt the heat of tears in her eyes. She shook her head. She could not use the excuse of being lame, because he would not care, no one in Montmartre cared about her limp. She could not tell him that she did not know how to dance, because he might offer to teach her—the way
Edward had offered to teach her once, a lifetime ago. But he was not Edward, he would never be Edward.
“I will not hurt the child.”
Sofie jerked her gaze to his. Around them, young men and women were dancing with increasing abandon and fervor. Rachelle had started to sing in her clear alto. Sofie turned to watch, to avoid his probing gaze. She was shaking now.
But Georges took her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “Do you want to take a walk, then?”
Sofie was beginning to comprehend what could not be. Surely Georges did not like her! Surely not! He was only being kind, because this was her birthday. But she did not see even a hint of kindness in his gaze. She saw anger, and it was utterly male. “I don’t think so,” Sofie said, a little desperately.
His eyes grew darker. “Why not?”
Sofie responded with a question of her own. “What are you doing?”
He pulled her to her feet. Sofie was as stiff as a board, but even so, he was a young man, not much older than she was, and there was something good about the feeling of his hard palms on her arms. “You pine for him, do you not? You pine for the famous model in your paintings! I am not stupid, nor am I naive. When I saw
Delmonico’s
I understood exactly. He left you, did he not?” Georges asked furiously. “What promises did he make to you—what promises did he break?” Georges’s eyes sparked. “He seduced you, got you pregnant, and left you. He is not a man. He is less than a man!”
Sofie stared, horrified. Did the whole world know that she and Edward had been lovers? Had they all seen
Delmonico’s
and comprehended the truth instantly, as Georges had? Had she no secrets at all?
“Walk with me,” he said again, low and insistent. “I will make you forget he ever existed.”
Shocked by his words, his tone, and what he must be feeling for her, Sofie felt tears stinging her lids as she shook her head. “I cannot forget.”
“Yes, you can. Let me help,
chérie.”
The timbre of his voice released her tears. He was so like Edward. “I do not want to forget.”
He stared, his eyes softening with sadness. “When you change your mind,” he said, “come to me then. I will never hurt you,
mon amour.”
He turned and walked to the bar.
André Vollard’s gallery was on the Rue St. Fauberg, in one of Paris’s most exclusive and chic districts. He was about to leave, well aware that there was a small party in Montmartre at Frede’s establishment for the talented American painter Sofie O’Neil. Vollard had no intention of missing the small
fête d’anniversaire.
He also hoped to acquire exclusive rights to her work.
But as he was about to leave, his assistant rushed into his office in the back. “André! Come quickly! Mademoiselle Cassatt is out front—she is asking about the new artist,
la belle américaine.”
Vollard actually knocked over his chair as he stood. While he had never handled Mary Cassatt himself, only discovering her work after it was too late, he knew her well. They moved in the same exclusive artistic circles, had the same friends, admired many of the same artists, and fought over those they did not. Mary Cassatt had become quite influential in the international art world, only partly because her own art had finally become renowned, admired, and much sought after—and therefore quite expensive as well. She also acted as a private agent for one of the greatest collectors in the world, H. O. Havemeyer and his wife, Louisine, which gave her an unusual amount of power. When Mary Cassatt convinced the Havemeyers to buy, not only did they do so, they usually pursued that artist with a vengeance, acquiring numerous works of his art and single-handedly creating a demand where previously there had been none. Less than a decade ago a Degas could be had for a few hundred dollars, but just the other day Durand-Ruel, Vollard’s greatest rival, had purchased from a private collection Degas’s
Dancers in the Rehearsal Room, with a Double Bass
for the Havemeyers for more than six thousand dollars.
Now Vollard rushed into the front of his gallery to find
the middle-aged Cassatt studying the painting he had bought from Sofie O’Neil last January.
“
Bonsoir,
André,” she said, smiling but only briefly. She was a distinguished, well-dressed woman in her middle years. Her gaze flew back to the work hanging on the wall. “Who is Sofie O’Neil? She is Irish?”
“She is American, Mary, but she is living in Paris right now. She is rather good, do you not think so?”
“Is she young?”
“Very. She is just twenty-one.”
“Her talent is raw, but powerful. Her use of shading is formidable but untutored. She needs to study lighting intensively for a few years. The composition is bold and original. Her attention to detail in the young fellow’s face is fantastic. If she wished, she could be a commercial success—if she returned to classicism.”
Vollard’s heart was pumping wildly. “Mary, she has studied since she was thirteen and has no desire to paint in the old tradition. She is desperate to study with someone like yourself.”
Mary swiveled her head sharply to stare at Vollard. “Indeed?”
“So Paul Verault says.”
“I wish to meet her,” Cassatt said abruptly.
“I will arrange it. She will be thrilled.”
Cassatt smiled. “She will be even more thrilled when you tell her I am buying this canvas of the handsome young fellow sitting in Delmonico’s,” Cassatt said.
DEAR LOUISINE,
Today I saw a work which moved me far more than anything has in a long while. The artist is a young American named Sofie O’Neil. I bought the work, titled
Delmonico’s.
The painting is in oil, of an extraordinary gent filled with masculine grace, superbly nonchalant, lounging in his chair. Her use of color is bold, her shading is very interesting, and her attention to detail as far as the model’s portrait goes is fabulous. I am quite certain that this artist will go far once she decides upon her style, and as such, her
early works will one day be quite the collector’s item. I know I have never recommended any of today’s young artists before, but you must consider Sofie ONeil.
YOUR DEAR FRIEND, MARY CASSATT
Sofie hugged her pillow, knowing she wept like a child. She could tell herself time and again that it was because the baby was due in six weeks, but she was a poor liar, even to herself. She was becoming frightened. She did not want to be alone, not now, and not six weeks from now when she delivered the baby, and not for the rest of her life.
Georges’s handsome, unsmiling face came to mind. So did Edward’s. Sofie wished she could forget Edward, God, how she wished she could forget him. Because then she would be free to find love with another man. With Georges, or with someone like him.
It was somehow ironic. She had never wanted love. At an early age she had buried any foolish romantic dreams she might have entertained. She had only wanted to be a professional artist. But Edward had entered her life with his dazzling charm, his perfect gallantry, his hot kisses, his manliness. Breathing life into those schoolgirl dreams.
As her tears slowly ceased, Sofie slipped from her bed and found a pen and sheet of paper. She sat down in her bedroom’s single chair, an overstuffed, somewhat shabby affair, and found a book to write upon. She wondered how she would find the words to tell Edward that he would soon become a father. She could delay no longer. He must know. And she must keep the letter light and breezy. At all costs, she must not let him see into her heart. Sofie began to write.
May 5, 1902
DEAR EDWARD,
Many months have gone by since last we conversed, and undoubtedly I am at fault for the lack thereof. I apologize. But moving to Paris was a big
step for me. I have had to rent a flat, a studio, find a master and a lady’s companion. All is going very well. I have many friends, including a wonderful companion, Rachelle. and my old art instructor is also my mentor now, Paul Verault. I am studying with the great Gerard Leon, and he appears satisfied with my work. Even more wonderful. I am being courted by two rival dealers. Paul Durand-Ruel, you know. He has hinted that he might hold a solo exhibition for me
—
which is every artist’s dream. André Vollard has handled such great artists as Van Gogh and Gauguin when no one else would. They are both enthused about my work. And in case you have not heard, your portrait sold in New York some time ago. as did the portraits of my father and Lisa.
Now I must arrive at the real reason for my letter. I hope you will not be too shocked. I am expecting a child towards the end of June. I thought you might want to know.
Hoping that all is well with you. Sincerely,
SOFIE O’NEIL
Quickly, before she might lose her courage, she signed the letter, folded the sheet, and slid it into an envelope. She sealed it with wax, and was relieved to see that no teardrops marred the thick white vellum.