I have always prided myself on being open-minded. Yet my own modernity has been severely tested since meeting Édouard. I have pushed myself to bounds I thought certain I was not prepared to tread. Yet, as I stretched, I touched the outer
realms of possibilities and pushed my limits far beyond what I fathomed possible. Doing so, I have become the person I am today: a person far more forward-thinking than even the great Édouard Manet.
As I leave his studio, the two halves of myself—Propriety and Olympia—finally meld into one whole person. For the first time, they both agree I can no more back away from participating in this show than I can cease breathing.
I am in love with you. I have been thus since the first day I called on you.
—Alfred de Musset
“
h ave
received a nasty note from your friend Manet,” says Degas to me at the next meeting of the Independents. “He says it is one thing for me to ruin myself. But says it’s quite another when my self-destruction spills out and taints the careers of others. He seems to believe I am corrupting you. Am
I corrupting you, Mademoiselle?”
I roll my eyes at him. “I can assure you, Monsieur, if you were and I objected, I would see to it that you ceased and desisted.”
Degas’ brows peak into little umbrellas over his eyes. Yet he manages to maintain an expression that borders somewhere between annoyance and boredom. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Manet will likely live to regret his decision. There must be a realist’s alternative to the Salon, and that’s what he does not seem to understand.”
Renoir, Degas, Pissarro, and Monet frown and nod.
“I definitely think him to be more vain than intelligent.
So, what else do we have? Any new business?”
Monet signals the f loor. “I’m talking to Nadar about the use of his space on Boulevard des Capucines for the show. It’s on the second f loor. Large. A nice space. I don’t think we could do better. I know we have time, but try to stop by and see it when you get the chance.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “Once we have secured the space, we will have a better idea how many artists we can recruit for the show.”
“Which brings up a good point,” says Pissarro. “What does a name like the Independents say about us? It says nothing. I suggest that we adopt something less radical and a bit more businesslike. Something more inclusive.”
“Why do I have the feeling you have already come up with a suggestion?” says Degas.
“Now that you mention it, how about the
Societe Anonyme des Artistes
?”
“It’s awfully long,” says Monet.
“But it says exactly what we are,” offers Renoir. I nod.
“Think about it,” says Pissarro. “We have time.” Dear Mademoiselle,
I hope this note finds you well and working.
As your friend, I feel it my duty to express my concerns about your potential alignment with the artist group calling themselves the Societe Anonyme des Artistes
.
You possess such talent. I beg you consider what
involvement with such a radical group will do to your fine reputation and subsequently to your career. I know at times you experience frustration with the official system. We all do, Mademoiselle. Please believe me
when I say, it will be far worse for you should you trod the less traveled road.
You faithful servant, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes
F
EBRUARY
1874
My beloved Papa is dead.
I don’t know how we shall ever be the same. What will become of our family now that he is gone?
Financially, he left us quite well off. It is more a dearth of spirit that concerns me. This loss has shaken the very founda-tion of our lives.
Tiburce is off chasing rainbows. Edma and Yves have families of their own. It is just Maman and me now. Sometimes I believe Papa was the glue that held us together. Now I fear we will come apart at the seams, scattering each in our own direction.
Maman has sold our beloved home on the rue Franklin. All my memories are here. My studio. My f lowers and trees. I cannot fathom someone else living in our home, but she has already found an apartment—on the rue Guichard. There is no turning back.
Poor Papa had such a hard time of it. Three days before Christmas his declining health forced him to retire. Nearly one month to the day later, he was dead.
Now Maman leans on me for strength. Over the years, I have caused her more than her share of heartache. Now I shall stand strong for her, putting forth a countenance resilient enough for the both of us, keeping my woes to myself.
“Berthe, dear,” she says from across the breakfast table. “I have learned the hard way I cannot tell you what to do. You are much too headstrong to listen to me. I respect that you have your own way of doing things. But my Bijou, I fear I am not capable of weathering this storm on my own.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “Maman, please do not worry. I am here for you.”
She squeezes my fingers, releases me, and wipes a tear from her eye.
“I must ask something of you. I know it will not be easy, nonetheless I must prevail upon you.”
“Anything, Maman.”
“The Manets are coming for a visit today.”
This news gives me a jolt. Édouard and I have not spoken in months. My lack of communication with him has spilled over to the rest of the family. I am sure Suzanne is no worse for my absence. She got her way. In fact, I’m sure she is quite happy. However, Eugène and Madame Manet, they did nothing to deserve my silence.
“I beg you to mend your differences with the family. Make peace with them before we lose their friendship forever.”
I think about the ups and downs Édouard and I have experienced over the past six years. It gives me pause to consider where we can go on from here. Where do you go when you’ve tested a relationship to its limits and blown a few holes in it while trying. Do all further attempts simply leak out through the wounds and abrasions never mended? Or is this our chance to heal?
Although a tiny voice inside warns me against hoping for too much.
“Of course, Maman. I should be happy to help you entertain them.”
They arrive less than an hour later. Édouard, Suzanne, Eugène, and Madame Manet.
Édouard carries a small package. He hands it to me and says, “Please open this later.”
He does not smile. His gaze does not linger about my face as it used to. He simply hands me the package, takes Suzanne’s elbow, and helps her to the sofa. I notice now that she is limp-ing and wonder what she has done to herself.
Maman gives the package a curious glance, but does not belabor the matter. I excuse myself and take it to my room.
I set it on the foot of the bed and turn to go, but my curi-osity gets the better of me and I tear off the plain brown paper.
It is the small still life Édouard had presented to me that last day. The fan, the bouquet of blue violets, the note with that inscription. In the air directly above the letters I trace the words to
Mlle.
Berthe from E. Manet.
My heart fills with a hollow longing the likes of which I believe will never be quenched.
All this emotion brewing inside me like a storm rolling in over the sea.
Merci Dieu
, it does not slip past the iron barrier I have erected.
I rejoin our guests in the drawing room. As I enter, I see them all sitting there as they have so often during visits and our weekly soirées. I am overcome by a sense of loss that runs deeper than Papa’s death. I have the feeling that long after Maman and I vacate the house, our laughter and tears will be imprinted on these walls.
I cannot imagine the memories of so many good times just fading away.
“Berthe, dear, the brothers Manet have expressed an interest in visiting your studio. Would you be so kind as to take them?”
Out of courtesy more than genuine interest in her joining us, I cast Suzanne a glance.
“Would you like to come?”
“Merci, non.
I have twisted my ankle and the doctor has advised me to stay off of it as much as possible. But thank you for asking.”
A vibration passes between Suzanne and me. It is hard to explain—she is not completely smug, not entirely warm. It is somewhere in the middle. I might call it a certain understanding.
I don my cloak and lead Eugène and Édouard to the snow-covered garden, with its leaf less trees and frozen ground, toward my sad little studio that sits all alone.
The naked trees stand dark and barren, silhouetted against the gray sky. I have always wondered at winter’s light. The sky looks a seamless quilt of clouds that hang so low it seems possible to reach up and touch them. I’ve been trying my entire life, yet they’ve always managed to remain just beyond my reach.
The men’s footsteps crunch the frozen ground as they walk behind me, and I sink deeper into my cloak. Something in the air reminds me of my childhood, makes me wistful. This garden contains so many memories of our family, when we were whole. The sound of children laughing somewhere on the other side of the garden wall. The smell of hot brioche drifting from a nearby home. The steady puff of gray smoke escaping from the surrounding chimneys. Households so alive, and so unaware that time is a bandit that prowls in the night, stealing lives and beauty and purpose.
I open the studio door to admit the brothers Manet, and snowflakes begin to fall from the sky.
The men shake them off as they enter.
“Please excuse the mess.” I rub my hands together to warm
them. “I have already started packing. Everything is in a bit of disarray.”
“No need to worry, Mademoiselle,” says Eugène.
I am surprised to hear him speak up like this. While Édouard, a bit sullen, hangs back, for once allowing his brother to take the lead.
“If you require assistance with the move,” Eugène says, “I should be more than happy to lend my services.”
“
Merci, Monsieur.
I might accept your generous offer closer to the date of the actual relocation.”
“And when will that be?” Édouard asks. His back is to us as he looks out the window.
“A fortnight yet.”
“And what will you do for a studio?” he asks, still gazing out onto the frost-covered lawn.
“There is an extra bedroom that will work nicely. Not as spacious as what I am used to.” I sigh. “But as I said, it will do.”
Édouard turns around as if I have uttered something that has grabbed his interest.
“How is your collection of work for the Anonymous Cooperative Society shaping up? I should very much like to see it.”
He holds out his hands palms up in an arrogant gesture. A small bolt of ire zags through my veins. He is being proud. Calling me to task because I dared defy him.
“Monsieur, I have recently lost my father. I have not been in the position to produce much work as my mother has required all my devotion.”
Édouard looks as if he has swallowed a frog. He bows his head. “Of course, how thoughtless of me. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle.”
“But will you show?” asks Eugène.
“At this point it is unlikely that I will have a large enough body of work.”
“What a shame,” says Eugène. “From what I hear, the organization sounds like a dynamic outfit.”
Édouard’s glance is a poison dart. Yet it seems to bounce off Eugène without effect. I am intrigued. Surely Eugène was aware of his brother’s stance on the Societe. Yet he was bold enough to have an opinion to the contrary.
“I quite possibly might get involved with them myself,” he says.
Édouard snorts. “What, pray tell, would you show?”
Eugène turns to face his brother square. “I would not
show
anything. You are well aware that I am not the artist of the family. What I can do is offer help on the business end. Promotion, tickets, hanging the show.
“I suppose there is always next time,” Eugène says to me. “Perhaps.”
Hmmmm . . .
perhaps.
Since I had all but decided not to show with the Societe, I submitted two of my finest pieces to the Salon.
Both were rejected. This is the last straw.
Now I have no choice but to forge ahead with my original plan. Maman will be none too thrilled, but I shall break the news to her gently. She is resilient even in her fragile state of mind. She might surprise me as she was as disgusted with the Salon jury’s rejection of my work as I was.
The tricky part will be prevailing upon Édouard to lend me the canvas of Edma at the Lorient Harbor. But it is time he and I settled our differences once and for all.
My queen, my slave, whose love is fear When you awaken shuddering,
Until that awful hour be here, You cannot say at midnight dear: I am your equal.
—Baudelaire,
Les Fleurs du Mal
Le Charivari—by Louis Leroy—April 25, 1874
Exhibition of the Impressionists
Oh, it was indeed a strenuous day, when I ventured into the first exhibition on the boulevard des Capucines in the company of M. Joseph Vincent, landscape painter, pupil of the academic master Bertin, recipient of medals and decorations under several governments! The rash man had come there without suspecting anything; he thought that he would see the kind of painting one sees everywhere, good and bad, rather bad than good, but not hostile to good artistic manners, to devotion to form, and respect for the masters. Oh, form! Oh, the masters! We don’t want them anymore, my poor fellow! We’ve changed all that.
Upon entering the first room, Joseph Vincent received an initial shock in front of the Dancer by M. Renoir. “What a pity,” he said to me, “that the painter, who has a certain understanding of color, doesn’t draw better; his dancer’s legs are as cottony as the gauze of her skirts.”
“I find you hard on him,” I replied. “On the contrary, the drawing is very tight.”
Berlin’s pupil, believing that I was being ironical, contented himself with shrugging his shoulders, not taking the trouble to answer. Then, very quietly, with my most naive air, I led him before the
Ploughed Field
of M. Pissarro. At the sight of this astounding landscape, the good man thought that the lenses of his spectacles were dirty. He wiped them carefully and replaced them on his nose.