With Violets (34 page)
Maman pauses to glance at me, to make sure the dart landed squarely where intended. Yet what baff les me is how Monsieur Guichard learned of Édouard’s feelings toward my participation. I certainly did not tell Maman.
To be sure, contemplating and consciously analyzing these paintings, one finds here and there some excellent things, but all of these people are more or less touched in the head. If Mademoiselle Berthe must do something violent, she should, rather than burn everything she has done so far, pour some petrol on the new tendencies. How could she exhibit a work of art as exquisitely delicate as hers side by side with
Le Rêve du Celibataire
? The two canvases actually touch each other!
That a young girl should destroy letters reminding her of a painful disappointment, I can understand; such ashes are justifiable. But to negate all the efforts, all the aspirations, all the past dreams that have filled one’s life is a madness. Worse, it is a sacrilege.
As painter, friend, and physician, this is my prescription: she is to go to the Louvre twice a week, stand before Correggio for three hours, and ask for forgiveness for having attempted on oil what can only be said in watercolor. To be the first watercolorist of one’s time is a pretty enviable position.
Maman glances up at me to see if I am still listening. I am not so happy at his deeming the members of the Societe
—
the Impressionists madmen. It does not sit well with me. But the moniker Impressionism is starting to grow on me. The more I consider it the more I like it. His letter surprises me in that it is not proving to be as harsh as I might have feared. It is actually quite complementary.
“Berthe, are you listening to me?” “Yes I am, Maman.”
“Good, this is the most important part.”
I hope, Madame, that you will be kind enough to answer this devoted communication, which comes straight from the heart. For I am greatly interested in this promising artist; she must absolutely break with this new school, this so-called school of the future.
Please forgive my sincerity, Joseph-Benoît Guichard
Maman slaps her leg with the letter. “There, you see? If you will not listen to me, will you not heed the warning of your teacher? He sees it as a monstrous association.”
I scratch my head and a piece of hair breaks free.
I appreciate Monsieur Guichard’s f lattering encouragement toward my talent, but I wonder how it is he can be so blind to the fabulous talent of the likes of Monet, Renoir, and Degas. If they are madmen, then brand me as demented as they, for I shall reside in good company.
“Berthe, will you give up this nonsense and settle down? I insist you get your life together.”
It is suddenly clear to me that the beauty in his letter completely escapes Maman. “All you can read in his words is that he wants me to give it up?”
“You might as well if you insist on carrying on in such an unbecoming manner. You are too old for such antics.”
I am stunned silent. Absolutely aghast at her narrowness. She would rather see me the idle spinster sitting at her side with needlework in hand rather than making a happy independent life for myself.
“Are you suggesting I should quit painting as to stop drawing attention to myself and the fact that I have chosen not to marry?”
Maman grunts. It’s a sound that might as well be an af-firmative, but she considers my question for a moment before making the verbal commitment. Then, as if sent by the heavens, Amélie enters the room.
“
Pardon, Madame et Mademoiselle
. Monsieur Eugène Manet calls. May I show him in?”
“Oui, merci.”
Maman seems relieved. Yet I know her answer. She already confirmed as much. “Bring us some tea,
s’il vous plaît.
I am not at all disappointed to see Eugène. He has become a good friend in the six months since Papa died. Eugène was gentle in offering his condolences and quite indispensable assisting with the administration of the show. All this despite his brother’s vocal stance against Societe.
My newfound friendship with Eugène has been quite refreshing. He has even painted alongside me on several occa-sions. While he does not possess the talent of his brother, or the sparkling personality, it is nice to not feel the burn of competition that simmered beneath the surface of my and Édouard’s relationship.
What did I expect? With Édouard, I built the beast that nearly consumed me.
I tuck the piece of stray hair into my chignon just before Eugène enters the room.
“Bonjour, Madame et Mademoiselle.”
He bows to Maman and me, then takes a seat on the divan next to me as Maman suggests.
Maman makes the appropriate small talk before she excuses herself, leaving Eugène and me alone.
A beat of awkward silence hangs between us as we stare at each other at a loss for words.
I smile. He smiles back, and f lushes, and looks away.
“Your brother received nearly as much press from our exhibit as the Societe members. It seems we shall forever be tied to him.”
Eugène frowns and blinks.
“Yet he is dismayed at the lack of attention his paintings received in the Salon.”
“At least he was accepted by the jury. I guess it is human nature to always want more despite one’s accomplishments.”
A rueful expression washes over Eugène. He’s a handsome man. He doesn’t wear it as comfortably as Édouard dons that self-possessed, determined suit of armor.
Eugène is a good man. There is sincerity in the set of his jaw, the gentle notes of his quiet voice, and honesty in his gray eyes. I have never noticed the color of his eyes until now. He holds my gaze for a moment, laces his fingers in his lap, and glances down at his large hands. I get the feeling he has something on his mind.
Amélie carries in the tea tray and sets it down on the table in front of the divan. Eugène shifts his knees out of the way and it dawns on me how much smaller this room is than the drawing room in the house in the Rue Franklin.
“May I get you anything else?” she asks. “No,
merci,
this is lovely.”
I lift the pot and pour two cups of tea.
Eugène has settled back against the cushions with his cup in his hands before he speaks.
“Mademoiselle, my family has secured a house in Fécamp next month, and we would be delighted if you and your mo-ther would accompany us.”
I want to ask him if Édouard will be in attendance, but I do not. The earnest note in his voice and the manner in which he presents the invitation won’t permit me.
“Thank you for thinking of us. I shall talk to Maman.”
Society has cast woman in a rather unfortunate role. We are daughter, wife, mother—beyond those perimeters our very person is diminished. We are born to find love. Yet finding love is possibly the most difficult challenge a woman faces.
Until now it has been much easier to funnel all my devotion into my career. It is the safe existence as Eros has not smiled kindly upon me.
I could blame the poets for creating an impossible stan-dard—we are all Juliet, the devastated lover who would rather plunge a knife into her heart than live a moment without the love of a man.
I could blame Maman for bending me to the breaking point. Perhaps I should blame Édouard for making me love him; for loving me so intensely and letting me go. Even after all we’ve been through, in my heart I know the true depth of our feelings. Maybe that is all that matters. If it ever mattered. Perhaps it is time to let go.
On the Fécamp shoreline, I set a paper boat out to sea. Into that tiny vessel I have released all the blame I held inside. The tide pulls it out, pushes it back, finally to consume it in a frothy bite of azure wave.
The tidal dance is much like Édouard’s on-again-off-again summer plans. In the end, he opted to travel to Argenteuil rather than joining his family and mine in Fécamp.
I accept Eugène’s arm and his vow to make me the most cherished woman in the world. He is a good man, a strong man.
As we begin our journey down the beach, I glance back. Light glints off the f loating remnant of the little paper boat. The pressure of its journey under the sea has f lattened it back into its original shape and the tide swells and swallows it once and for all.
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.
—Francis William Bourdillon
J
ANUARY
1875
My dear Tiburce:
Eugène tells me this is the day the mail goes off and for fear of missing another opportunity of writing to you, I am scribbling a few words in haste. The thought of you has obsessed me for several weeks,
mon pauvre ami;
where are you? What are you doing? I should give a great deal to know these things and
even more to be able to contribute in some small way to your happiness.
As for myself, I have been married a whole month now; it is strange, isn’t it? I went through that great ceremony without the least pomp, in an ordinary dress and hat, like the old woman that I am, and without guests.
Since then, I have been waiting for events to take shape, but so far fate is not in our favor. The trip to Constantinople, so definite, so certain at first, is no longer certain at all. However, I shall not complain. For I have found a very nice garçon, whom I think genuinely loves me.
I have entered into the positive side of life after living for so long with foolish chimeras that did not make me very happy, and yet, thinking of my mother, I wonder if I really fulfilled my duty. These are all complicated questions, and it is not very easy, at least not for me, to distinguish clearly right from wrong.
Your loving sister, Madame E. Manet
R
obards
E
lizabeth
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Designed by Rhea Braunstein Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover painting of The Rest, portrait of Berthe Morisot (1841–95), 1870 (oil on canvas), Manet, Edouard (1832–83)/Museum of Art, Rhode Island, Providence, USA, Lauros/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WITH VIOLETS
. Copyright © 2008 by Nancy Robards Thompson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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