A preliminary sketch? Even in its crude state its allure is undeniable. I stare in awe at the drawing for a moment and notice something different about it. It takes me a moment, but I realize she is lying in a different position from the finished painting.
In the final version, her legs are outstretched and her left
hand covers her sex, but in this rendition, her right knee is shamelessly bent and her left hand rests across her body.
I turn the book to view the sketch from a different angle, and I recall the other day, Edma and me in our studio. How we dissolved into nonsense after Maman’s severe disapproval of Édouard’s visit. It is Edma’s way to make folly out a grave situation. While I obsess over the unpleasant, she makes light of it. That’s just her way.
True to form, I was sulking at my easel trying to work, trying to not think of how mad Maman was at me, when Edma started making silly remarks, taking on the voices of the men who had attended the
soirée
at the Manets’ home on the Thursday prior. She was trying to make me laugh, but was failing miserably. I was growing quite irritable because she was making it nearly impossible for me to concentrate.
She held a paintbrush under her nose. I guess it was supposed to be a mustache, and she could barely keep a straight face.
She deepened her voice into a slurred, faux baritone, imitating Stevens’s drunken antics. “Just ask her, or must I do it for you, you poor, poor miserable man?”
I don’t know if it was the way her voice cracked during her ridiculous imitation of a drunken man that tickled me so, or the ridiculous way she looked with that brush balanced between her nose and upper lip, but I succumbed to her giddy buffoonery and said, “You want
misery
? I shall give you
misery.
” I grabbed the paintbrush from her and pretended to fence.
Edma clapped.
“
Mesdames et messieurs,
I present to you the new Olympia.”
I performed a dramatic, slow curtsy, waving my brush with a f lourish.
Edma clapped louder, “Brava!”
The memory teased a smile to my lips.
“Do you like it?” Édouard’s deep voice, all too real sounds behind me, and I snap the sketch book shut and return it to its place on the worktable.
The silence between us is a silken cord that binds me to him. It is too much, pressing down like a lover’s body. All my senses meld together until I hear my own blood rushing through my veins; or perhaps it is his breath against my neck or his hands in my hair.
Yet when I turn to face him, he stands at a respectable distance. “I hope you do not mind my looking. I was just . . .”
His expression, a look of sultry longing, of want and raw need, catches me so off guard I cannot speak.
“Not at all. By all means, please look until you have had your fill.” He picks up Baudelaire’s book of poems and holds it out to me. “Would you like to borrow it?”
I do not answer because the studio’s front door bangs open, and Madame Manet staggers through the threshold, holding a large picnic basket with both hands.
“Bonjour, everyone!”
she calls.
Édouard hands me the book, which I take, for lack of knowing what else to do, and rushes over to take the basket from her.
“Maman
,
what a surprise. I had no idea you were coming today.”
I set down the book, knowing I cannot bring it home. I cannot even allow myself to imagine the scene it would cause in the carriage on the way home. Fully expecting Suzanne to trail in after Madame Manet, I move away from the table to join the others, feeling more than a little indiscreet at having lost myself in Édouard’s belongings.
“I thought I would bring your lunch.” Madame Manet greets Maman
.
“I brought enough for an army. There is plenty for everyone.”
Édouard closes the door. No Suzanne.
Why did she not accompany Madame Manet? Why would she let her mother-in-law bear the burden of the long journey and transporting the food alone?
Édouard sets down the basket and kisses his mother on the cheek. “What a surprise. How very kind of you to come all this way, Maman.”
Madame Manet beams and retreats to Maman’s side. “Madame Morisot, I am so very happy to see you here today.” She hesitates, and I wonder if she will mention the unfortunate events at the soirée, but she does not. Probably for the best, because I’m not sure how Maman will respond.
Instead, she asks her son, “How is the painting progressing?” “We have not yet begun. But I was just about to suggest we
get to work.” He looked at me. “Shall we?”
He drags a chair to the balcony setting, and indicates for me to sit. Once I am in place, he lifts my left arm to rest on the makeshift railing. My body hums at his deliberate touch. Yet, there’s nothing personal in it. It’s all in the name of work.
He steps back to look.
“Mademoiselle
,
if you please, tuck your skirt underneath you so we might see the legs of the chair. Mademoiselle Claus, would you be so kind as to help her fix her train so it f lows nicely over the back?”
Fanny Claus does as she’s asked, but to accomplish the task, I must stand so we can turn the chair back so it will not ob-struct the line of the dress.
When I sit, Édouard studies me for a moment, brows knit. I wonder if he is displeased with what he sees, with both of us being dressed in white gowns?
He says nothing but, “This painting will take several days.
Are you prepared to wear the same dresses for the duration?”
I nod. “Will they not get dirty, monsieur?”
He strokes his beard and turns to Maman and Madame Chevalier. “Mesdames, would it be possible for the mesdemoiselles to wear a different dress tomorrow and bring the white frocks with them? They can leave them here to change into each morning. Mademoiselle Morisot is right, if they wear them back and forth every day, I am afraid they will get soiled.”
My eyes dart to the dressing screen, and my breath catches at the thought of undressing behind it. Then my gaze shifts to Maman to gauge her reaction.
Madame Chevalier looks to Madame Manet, who seems undaunted by the request. Maman stares at me with narrowed I-told-you-so eyes, as if the suggestion has f lown from my lips. “As long as you are comfortable with the idea, Madame
Manet,” says Maman. “I suppose I am, too.”
Much to my surprise, Madame Chevalier agrees, and that is the end of the discussion. Fanny Claus and I will be dressing partners, for there was no possible way we can navigate the buttons that run the length of the back of our dresses.
“Angle your body to the right, but look slightly to the left.”
I do exactly as he instructs.
“No, too much. Back to the center. Just a bit. Yes, there.
Good. Good. Hold that.”
He turns to his worktable and comes back with an armful of items, among them a red fan and a necklace. He hands me the fan, then walks around behind me and slides a slip of black velvet around my throat.
I only catch a glimpse, but I see the choker consists of a heart-shaped medallion strung on a piece of ribbon. I feel his hand working at my nape, and I wonder if the choker belongs to Suzanne or whether it is just a prop he keeps in the studio for just such an occasion.
After he finishes tying, he walks around to the front. “Hold the fan in your left hand and bring it up so it rests on your right arm.
“Yes, that is it. Perfect! Hold that pose while I arrange the others.”
It takes him an instant to accomplish the task. He directs Fanny Claus to stand next to me, and places Monsieur Guillemet in the middle, slightly behind us.
With my face angled away, it is hard to see the props he has selected, but I get the idea from conversation.
“Mademoiselle Claus, let the umbrella fall across your body, anchoring it with your left arm. Bend your arms at the elbows, like so.” He demonstrates. “And act as if you are putting on these gloves.”
His instructions for Monsieur Guillemet are as simple as, “Stand between the two ladies,
s’il vous plaît,
with your arms like so.”
Édouard bends both arms at the elbow, one slightly higher than the other, as if Guillemet is walking midstride.
I believe Manet is about ready to start, but he frowns and walks over to the worktable and rummages around for a while, then comes back with the homeliest hat I have ever seen—a close-fitting cap with a big, ugly dried pompon of a f lower pinned to it.
For a split second I fear he will pull it onto my head as fast as he slipped on the necklace. Alas, it is Fanny Claus who wins the pleasure. I hear Édouard rustling around next to me, but I dare not turn my head to look and lose the perfect angle he has assigned me.
I smile to myself, as I can only imagine how ridiculous her long, expressionless face must look in that unfashionable hat.
Maman, Madame Chevalier, and Madame Manet sit in the background chatting. They do not prove to be a distraction to
Édouard during the morning’s preliminary setup, but as the day wears on, and he begins to put charcoal to canvas, he grows visibly tense, occasionally looking over his shoulder at them.
“Are you all right Mademoiselle Berthe?”
His question startles and embarrasses me out of my trance. Although I have been daydreaming, I know very well he has not asked after the others’ well-being.
I adjust my pose, but try to sit straight. True, I am growing tired of holding the same position, but I won’t complain. I knew what was expected of me before I agreed to the task.
“I am fine,
merci
.”
Although, I suppose I forgot how exhausting it could be to sit in one position for hours. I heard Monsieur Guillemet fidgeting behind me.
“Antonin, please stop moving about. I am trying to capture your pose.”
Guillemet groaned. “My friend, we have been here for hours, it seems. I believe I speak for everyone when I say we need a rest.”
“Bear with me for a few more moments . . .”
Édouard’s words trail off, and his “few more moments” stretch on like a river meandering without an end.
I gaze at the fan until my eyes water. My arm is falling asleep and I want so badly to shift, but I do not dare after Édouard reprimanded Monsieur Guillemet. Careful not to move, I glance at Maman and try to catch her eye. I want her to know I am concerned about her comfort after sitting for such a long time. Surely, her back hurts.
“Mademoiselle —” Édouard looks up. “Mademoiselle Berthe, I realize your kindness to pose for me is taking you away from your own work. I do appreciate it. Are you planning on entering anything in the Salon this year?
”
“It is only July, Monsieur. Too early for me to decide.”
“
Au contraire, Mademoiselle,
it is never too early to have a goal in mind.”
I am embarrassed by his attentions. He had been so quiet until now. His sudden interest in my plans, our conversation in general, seems too conspicuous.
I am glad he has me angled away from Fanny Claus. That way I do not have to look at her, or what might be worse, I do not have to make an effort to not look at her.
“Perhaps it is a good thing I do not have a goal in mind. For if I did, I should not be so content to sit here and ponder it when time in the studio would be the only action that would help me reach that goal.”
He nods. “Very well then. Here’s to not having a Salon goal in mind so that I may freely monopolize your time.”
He laughs at his own wit and I smile back. I could only guess what the other two are doing, as neither of them makes a sound.
It strikes me that aside from the overly loud talking, Madame Manet has not interrupted him even though it must be nearing lunchtime. I thought certain Édouard would suggest a break soon, but he seems lost in his sketching, tossing the occasional annoyed glance over his shoulder as the ladies laugh a little louder than they should or get carried away talking at the same time. They seem to be having a grand time. I am glad because Maman looks less like she is burdened by the obligation to be here for me and very much like she is enjoying the company of new friends.
“There, that should suffice for today.” Édouard sets down his charcoal stick and steps back to view his work. “We shall reconvene tomorrow for a longer day.”
I am not at all sure if I want to see how he interprets me. I cannot say why, other than we seldom view ourselves as others do. One’s personal interpretation seems so intimate, although
I’ve never thought of it that way before. I am not quite sure I am prepared to know how he views me, silly as it seems. Eventually, I will know.
The others move about. The three elder ladies crowd around the easel.
Maman peers through her lorgnette and cocks her head to one side. From her pursed mouth and knit brow, I can tell she is not quite sure what to make of Édouard’s morning work.
“Well, like all things, I guess this, too, will take time.” She lowers her glasses and looks at Madame Manet. “Your son obviously knows what he is doing.”
The words come out more like a question than a statement, but Madame Manet does not seem to take offense.
She simply smiles and nods. “Please eat lunch before you go. I brought plenty for everyone.”
“Thank you, but we cannot stay,” says Maman. “We must get home.”
Although I am not aware of any particularly pressing matter, I am relieved that Maman does not want to stay.
Édouard is unpacking the basket and setting the feast on one of the less crowded worktables. “What is it that pulls you away?”
“My son, Tiburce, is arriving this afternoon.” Maman looks at me and smiles. “And we are expecting a caller. A gentleman caller. Berthe will want time to get ready.”
. . . I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and
through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.
—Emily Brontë
bservation
is a powerful tool. Generally if I trust this sense, it does not steer me wrong. Edma confirms as