Lorient is a wisp of a town. One might easily overlook it if not for the harbor. Compared to Paris, it seems a lifeless place. Adolphe’s naval duties have brought him there. The giddy newlywed, Edma followed without a second thought.
I step off the train—the lone passenger to disembark—and sense the monster driving Edma’s torment. All browns and grays, it is a pitiful place. Few trees and even fewer f lowers. As I stand alone on the platform inhaling the sharp, briny air, I wonder for a moment if I am the only person awake—or even breathing—in this awful place.
Finally, Edma bounds around the corner of the depot, a blur of yellow dress and dark hair, her skirts kicking up in her haste.
“Berthe, you’re here! Oh, you’re here!” Breathless, she embraces me as if the harder she holds me, the more she’ll regain of the life force that has drained from her over the two months she has languished here. “Your train is early. I wanted to be here when you arrived.”
“I have only just turned up.” I pull back to look at her. “Oh, how I have missed you.”
“And I you.”
My eyes well. I blink fast to keep tears from spilling onto my cheeks. As the train chugs away, it seemed to blow a tedious sigh at the sheer dullness of the place.
It is unseasonably dry and warm for April. The sun has baked the dirt street into a pattern of desiccated cracks. The carriage rattles along the naked, dusty path through the center of town. The harbor’s gray water sits as f lat as a sheet of glass, languidly ref lecting the Lorient’s dull palette of noncolors from the anchored boats and the short, sandstone wall that snakes along the waterfront like a dead serpent. In the distance, the sea roars low and discontent.
Edma’s house is but a short walk from the station, but she has hired a hack to collect my trunks and valise. When I left Paris, I was not sure how long I would stay, so I packed for the long term. The length of my visit will depend on how long Adolphe is away and how much work I can accomplish. But the sight of my dear sister pleases me so, once the carriage arrives at the modest white two-story house Edma calls home, leaving is the farthest thing from my mind.
“Here we are.” A hint of humility whitewashes her words. She hesitates at the front door and plucks a dead bloom off a riot of red geraniums planted in the window boxes and lets the withering petals fall to the ground.
“I hope you will be comfortable here.”
“Edma, with you, I could be comfortable in the wild. Anywhere, as long as we are together.”
Her mouth curves, but the smile does not extend to her eyes. She opens the front door, and we step inside.
Pausing in the entryway, I blink, coaxing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, eager for a f irst glimpse of my sister’s new life—the faded light blue paint adorning the vestibule; the scuffed wooden f loor; and most curious of all, “Edma, there is not a single painting on your walls. Why not?”
She frowns and looks about as if noticing the discrepancy for the first time.
“I will send for some of my canvases in due time, but I
need to figure out what will best suit this place.” She takes my hat and gloves and sets them on the wooden table in the entryway. “You might say the house and I are still getting acquainted.”
She looks down as she speaks. Not only has she quit painting, it seems she has divorced herself from art altogether.
The driver stands behind us with one of my trunks hoisted up on his shoulder.
“Where shall I deposit this, Madame?”
“Please take it upstairs,” Edma says. “The first bedroom on the right.”
“Edma, why didn’t you tell me? I could have brought your canvases.”
She throws her arms around my shoulders and sobs. “Oh, Berthe, I am so unhappy. Adolphe is always away. If this is married life, I—”
She buries her face in my shoulder and weeps.
I pat her back, “Hush now,” take her by the shoulders and hold her out so I can see her. “I am here now. You suffer from too much solitude, that’s all. Everything will be f ine now.”
She wipes her eyes, but the tears still well and spill. “I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m sorry. You are here, and all I can do is cry like a baby.”
“I do not want to hear another word of it.”
I put an arm around my sister’s shoulder and walk her into the sitting room. The driver’s footsteps descend the stairs and stop at the front door. He clears his throat before calling a hearty,
“Bonjour, Madame, Mademoiselle.”
Edma holds both hands to her face and swipes at her eyes. I
grab my handbag and settle with the man while she pulls herself together.
By the time I finish, Edma has recovered.
“I suppose you are hungry,” she says. “I’ll ask Dominique to fix you some lunch.”
“No, Edma. You know how travel always upsets my system. I’ll just take a cup of tea and that will be fine.”
She smiles, seems relieved. “I have had no appetite. The sight of food nauseates me. So if you are hungry, do not hesitate to ask Dominique to prepare you something.”
“Edma, do not make a fuss. I will be all right now that I am here with you. Everything will be all right. What I would like more than anything is for us to sit down and catch up.”
The waterfront is the only place remotely interesting enough to even think about painting. I arrange Edma on the short sandstone wall. Her pink scarf and blue-green umbrella add color and soften the hard lines of the harbor, bringing a spark of life to the dreary scene.
“Put your right hand on the wall,” I say. She complies, even smiles. In the past twenty-four hours, her mood has lightened considerably. Although she still refuses to pick up a paintbrush.
“That is no longer my life. There is no sense in adding to my frustrations,” she says.
I start to argue with her, but Edma cuts me off.
“All too soon I will have much more to keep me busy.” “I thought Adolphe was not returning for three months?”
“That is right, and he will ship out again less than a fortnight later. My future occupation is a bit farther coming. Still, I have much to prepare.”
She pats her belly and a weary smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“Do you mean—” She nods.
I drop my charcoal and run to her. No wonder she was so melancholy about being alone.
“You’re pregnant?”
I hug her again and again.
“I am not certain, but all indications point that way.” “Why did you not tell me last night?”
“I had made up my mind not to say anything until I was absolutely sure. I have not even told Adolphe or Maman, for that matter. I should probably not have told you until I know for sure.” She puts a hand on her belly. “But I know in my heart I am.”
“And I should have been furious if you had not told me.” We laugh. “Please do not speak of it until after I have told
Maman. You know how she gets. It would be a disaster.” I hug her again.
“I am going to be an aunt. Oh, I cannot believe it. Tante Berthe. I love the sound of it.”
I pick up my charcoal and Edma resumes her pose. As I watch her sitting there, a beautiful pink rose amidst the lifeless gray backdrop of still water and empty boats, a bittersweet pang pulls at me. I glance at Edma’s belly. A child is growing inside my sister, just as Édouard’s son had grown inside Suzanne.
A seed planted by love.
Tangled in the myriad of emotions that have surfaced since I met Édouard, part of me aches for the child I never knew I wanted until he came into my life.
Looking at my sister, so full of life, it is quite clear that she has moved on with her life.
This is how I decide to paint her: with her back to the cold, ugly harshness of the world. A rose that has blossomed and is thriving in the prime of her life.
My Dear Bijou,
Your father seemed to be deeply touched by the letter you wrote to him. He appears to have discovered in you unsuspected treasures of the heart, and unusual tenderness toward him.
In consequence, he often says he misses you. But I wonder why. You hardly ever talk to each other. You are never together. Does he miss you then, as one misses a piece of furniture or a pet bird? I am trying to convince him to the contrary, that it is much better not to see your poor little face bewildered and dissatisfied over a fate about which we can do nothing. It is a relief. This is what we have come to think, and we conclude that it is much better for you to be with Edma. That you two should remain together for a while.
I visited Manet, whom I found in greater ecstasies than ever in front of his model Gonzalés. He did not move from his stool. He asked how you were, but I suspect he has forgotten all about you for the time being. Mademoiselle Gonzalés has won all of Manet’s attention. She has all the virtues, all the talent, all the charms. She is an accomplished woman.
Last Wednesday there was nobody at the Stevens’s except Monsieur Degas, who sends his regards.
That is all for now, Maman
I crumple Maman’s letter. Why isn’t she content with four hundred kilometers separating Édouard and me? Why is she still so afraid of what might happen that she f inds it necessary to rub my nose in the news that he has forgotten
me in my absence? That Eva Gonzalés holds him captive in her spell?
I stand at the window and gaze out at the harbor, at the lonely boats and the still, glassy water. I once read that water was a symbol for life. But here it seems dead. Is it an omen? The death of dreams and lives.
In Paris, the city breathes for you when you wish to give up. It gives you no choice but to live.
Perhaps I shall give into the death of Lorient and say here with Edma forever.
After four full days of work on the canvas, the painting is beginning to come to life. Edma, too, seems excited by it. I enjoy her company. The weather is exquisite, and she insists on accompanying me every day to the harbor to pose.
“Berthe, this is almost as good as being in the company of our friends. I have missed the Salon so much.”
“Did I tell you I spoke to Puvis on opening night?” Edma shakes her head.
“I had spent most of the evening with Édouard. He was in such high spirits, very excited about how the public had received
Le Balcon
. For about an hour he was leading his mother and me all over the place when I ran headlong into Puvis, who seemed very happy to see me.
“He was trying to persuade me to meet him at the Salon again the next day because he couldn’t stay that night—had just dropped by and was getting ready to leave. While I was talking to Puvis, I completely lost sight of Édouard. I was mortified. Puvis left. Édouard had wandered off. Suddenly I was alone in the midst of the crowd. I was so embarrassed to be walking around the place on my own. When I finally found Édouard, I reproached him for leaving me.”
“You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.” “What did he say?”
“I believe he was a bit put out. He told me I could count on all his devotion, but nevertheless he would never risk playing the part of my nursemaid.”
“You’re joking?” Edma laughs, a great big guffaw of a laugh, which tickles me, too. Oh how I love the sound of my sister’s happiness. It warms me like nothing else can.
“Sounds to me as if Monsieur Manet was none too pleased to see Puvis,” she says. “Did they speak?”
Her insinuation makes me smile, and I look up from the canvas.
“They were cordial—just barely, though—exchanged polite words, but the next thing I realize, Édouard is gone.”
“He left on purpose.” Edma twirls her umbrella. “My, my, what a temper if he is not the center of attention.”
“Oh, I do not know if it is like that.”
The conversation trails off. Edma wears a wistful expression. “I love hearing all these stories. Consider me crazy if you like, but when I think of all those artists, I tell myself that a quarter-hour of their conversation is easily the equal of solid
quantities.”
“I suppose.” I blend some blue in with the green to create a shadow in the foreground of the scene. “They usually have something interesting to say. It’s usually laced with a bit of scandal.” I tell her what Degas said about Léon. Edma’s eyes grow wide and she sits up straight.
“I can only guess that he married her to give the child a home,” I say.
“But not his name?” Edma asks.
I shrug. “He is an honorable man.” I want to add that their marriage does not mean he loves her as a husband loves a wife, but I refrain.
Edma sits thoughtfully for a while, tipping her face up to the warm breeze. “What does not make sense is that he married her so long after the boy’s birth. What do you make of that? Didn’t Madame Manet say they had been married f ive years? And the boy is in his mid-teens.”
I nod as I blend white and red to the shade of her scarf and touch it to the canvas.
“Then that means he was nearly ten or eleven years old when they married. And why pass him off as his godson? Something does not make sense, Berthe.”
I chew the handle of my brush for a moment, weighing my words. A cool breeze blows in off the harbor. I have pondered the same puzzle myself almost daily since that evening at the Salon. Alas, I have found no logical explanation save Édouard being a man of honor. Since answers will not annul the marriage contract, I have decided to leave it at that. Never mind the way he looks at me or worse yet, the way he kisses me into a stammering state of confusion. No, those are not traits of honor. Not when a man has pledged his life to another.
Yes, it is much easier to stop at honor and just leave it alone.
I gaze at the results of my four days labor. Never have I been so pleased with my work. It’s as if the energy pent up during my months of paralyzing idleness has been stored, cul-minating in this piece.
“It feels sublime to be back on track,” I say. “I would so much rather produce one good work than an entire Salon full of mediocre scribbling.”
“Good, then shall we call it a day?” She stretches. “My back hurts from sitting on this hard wall.”
“Yes, let’s go. We’ve been here a long time.”
I feel guilty talking about my triumph in the face of Edma’s artistic purgatory.