“I was about to get ready to work, but it’s hard to concentrate knowing that thousands of paintings are about to be judged.” Mary had a pointed chin and sharp dark eyes. The way she pressed her lips together at the ends of sentences and her thin patience for small talk reminded May of Louisa.
“What did you send?” she asked.
“She sent an oil painting of me! She did a pastel in almost the same pose. Mary, may I show her?” Lydia asked. When her sister nodded, Lydia left the room and quickly returned with a picture of a woman leaning forward in a theater box, wearing a ball gown the color of butter and sugar beaten together for a cake. The pastel strokes seemed hasty, even slapdash, though May was charmed by their energy. She said, “What a superb portrait.”
“I thank the model.” Mary nodded at Lydia, whose skin didn’t glow as much as that of the woman in the picture. Her hair was more brown than red.
“I look forward to seeing it after you finish blending the pastels,” May said.
“It is finished,” Mary said.
“Of course. I’m sorry. Pastels make it hard to tell. I’ve never been good with them.”
“You must try again. I leave mine in the sunlight to warm them. Once they get soft, you can layer one color over another.”
“You don’t think it’s too bright?” Mrs. Cassatt’s eyes were as dark and sharp as her daughter’s, though the rest of her was soft and wider.
“My mother thinks I should paint as I’ve done in years past. Women playing mandolins, toreadors, or Spanish dancers against dusky backgrounds. Probably the Salon jury likes those more, too.”
“Your work will get in! It’s been chosen before,” May said.
“Yes, and been turned down, too. One year yes, the next no, which was more discouraging after my acceptance. I retreated to Switzerland. With the Alps outside my window, I couldn’t not paint.” Mary shook her head. “I darkened the background of my rejected painting, and it got in the next year.”
“Where are our manners? Won’t you have tea?” Mrs. Cassatt asked.
May smiled, then looked at Mary. “Actually, I came to see if you’d come with me to watch art being delivered.”
“Won’t there be an awful lot of bohemians out today?” Mrs. Cassatt pressed her lips together.
“Mother, they’re preparing for an art show, not a revolution.” Mary turned to May. “Should I ask our driver to hitch up the horses, or do you want to walk?”
“A carriage would have an even harder time than we would getting through the crowds. Do you have suitable shoes?”
“I’m not sure I could do without my gowns and hats made in Paris, but I order my shoes from England.”
Mary changed into a tailored gown cinched at her waist, with enough room in the fashionably slim skirt to take reasonably wide steps. As they headed up the street, she said, “I’m glad to leave before my mother started citing all the dangers of being out among such riffraff.”
“She didn’t really protest your going.”
“She didn’t have to. I’ve had thirty-two years to study the way she sets her mouth when she disapproves.”
May was surprised by the way she bluntly stated her age. She’d assumed Mary was older than her, not four years younger, because of her prior successes at exhibitions. Or perhaps she shaved off a few years, the way May sometimes did.
“At least living with your family, you know when to worry or not. Louisa writes that my mother isn’t well.”
“You’ve told me your sister exaggerates her maladies.”
“She writes as if Mother’s every stomachache will be her last one. But I miss her. As she’s confined, I hope my letters with details of life here bring her some pleasure.”
“I’m certain they do. Why doesn’t your sister come visit?”
“Her health is poor, too. And she gets seasick.”
“It’s a terrible curse. I told my parents I couldn’t bear another voyage, and if they wanted to see me, they’d have to come here, where I have a better chance of selling work. I was surprised when they did, but my father retired, and he likes the horse races. My mother and sister enjoy the opera and ballet.”
“None of those would entice Louisa. Neither would art.”
“My father once said he’d rather see me dead than be an artist, but now that I’ve made some money at it, he’s softened. He pays for our home, while my paintings must cover art supplies and a studio. I told them I wanted to spare them the smells of paint and solvents, but really, I’m not sure I could paint with them in the next room.”
“I used to hate suppertime, when everyone would report their good works, and all I had to say was how I’d spent the afternoon with a paintbrush. Even to me it sounded small.”
“But it’s not. I’m lucky to save money on models, as Lydia wants to be of use, and not being well she is limited in what she can do. Even my mother agreed to pose reading Le Figaro. I’m not sure what to do with these, and I’m having trouble earning money with portraits. One woman said I made her look old. She was old! Which doesn’t mean I didn’t find beauty, just not the sort she wanted. Others are insulted because I pay as much attention to a teacup, bonnet, book, dog, or fan as I do a face. Such things make a composition come alive. But how did you bewitch me into speaking so much about myself? How is your class?”
“Monsieur Krug rarely comes, though he sends in other artists to assess.”
“That’s how most cours are run here. One can learn more copying in the Louvre, but the younger ladies say they’re too busy studying from casts of the antique or from models.”
May remembered arriving in Paris and spending days walking through halls full of paintings and sculptures, standing nearly breathless before the Venus de Milo. Sometimes she’d set up a rented easel and tried to copy the delicate mouths painted by Michelangelo, or the pink and peach tones of Titian. She didn’t go as often once foot-warmers were offered along with the easels, around the time when they’d begun painting from life in class. She said, “When you’re paying for classes, it feels wrong to miss a day at the atelier.”
Mary pressed her lips together, the way her mother had when they planned to go out. “The Louvre is one place women can talk with other artists, including men. We can’t do that at the cafés or brasseries without damaging our reputations. I met Monsieur Degas in front of a painting.”
“You’ve mentioned him before,” May said as they crossed a bridge. On the other side of the Seine, the wider roads were crowded with carriages driven by men wearing red waistcoats and top hats brushed to gleam. More buggies crowded the Champs-Élysées. They passed galleries and shops displaying jewelry and perfume bottles on damask-covered stands.
“We speak only about art or the group, which he dislikes calling a group, that he is part of. Some mean to insult with the name Impressionist, criticizing the work as hasty sketches, but some are adopting the name,” Mary said. “Why shouldn’t the impressions of fleeting moments be captured? They work fast to catch the light and keep traces of their hands in the brushstrokes.”
“Isn’t art about getting the details right?”
“Let beholders imagine their own details.”
“Are you courting?”
“Monsieur Degas? No! He’s about ten years older, set in his ways, cross, and outspoken. Of course, I have a temper, too.”
“My sister says she regrets her anger, but I wonder if she’d write so much without it.”
Mary smiled. “Sometimes Monsieur Degas finds fault with my work, and I vow I’ll never talk to him again. Then I pass one of his paintings in a shop window and must visit him. He sees the world as I do.”
May had glimpsed him through the window of the Café Nouvelle Athènes, a bearded, round-shouldered man wearing salt-and-pepper tweeds and a scarf wrapped around his neck. She understood that Mary might find it hard to admit she was drawn to him. “Perhaps he’ll escort you to the Salon.”
“Perhaps, as a friend,” Mary said. “Neither of us are besotted,
though I rather prefer older men, who understand more.”
“But young men are beautiful.”
“Then you don’t care for Mr. Houghton? He smiles at you at our soirees.”
“The widower? I expect he has his sights on any breathing woman who might look after his seven children. My escort will also be a friend, from London. Mr. Ramsey has decided that whether or not his work gets in, it’s time to see the exhibition.”
“Monsieur Degas isn’t submitting anything to the Salon this year. He’s just showing with his group, the way they did last year. It was magnificent.”
“You went to the Impressionist exhibit?”
“Stepping in was like entering a lush garden. There were no pecking strokes, just great splashes of color. But few sold.”
They passed the charred and roofless Tuileries Palace, where clipped boxwood lined crushed stone paths and sentries made sure that no one entered with a dog, which might leave a mess, or carrying a package, which might contain an explosive. Just beyond was the Louvre, with rows of arched windows, turrets, and many palatial rooms. May said, “Your painting will be accepted into the Salon. And someday, perhaps in this museum, too.”
“Thank you for your faith.”
They stepped more carefully as the wide streets grew crowded with packed omnibuses, each pulled by three horses. Long-haired men wearing floppy ties over wrinkled shirts and wide corduroy trousers crowded the top decks. Some held paintings large enough to catch the wind. In front of the Palais de l’Industrie, men carried paintings overhead or cradled marble busts like babies in their arms. As deliverymen climbed the stone steps, boys and men balanced on fences and yelled praise or insults.
May held Mary’s arm, murmuring, “Pardon,” as she made a way to a bench with room for them at one end. She hoisted her skirt, bent her knees, and stepped up, pulling on Mary’s arm. They had a good view of the crowd and paintings of the exodus from Egypt, Gauls entering Rome, crownings, and beheadings.
“Some artists rush to do the themes that won prizes the year before,” Mary said.
“My humble bowl of fruit can’t stand out among all the grand ideas.”
“Noble ideas can get wearisome. One can hope, but we shouldn’t expect fairness. The juries are fickle, not known for honesty or even knowing anything about art.”
“I don’t suppose it helps us that all are men.”
“I’ve heard that when one votes for a woman, the others jeer, ‘Is she pretty?’ We have more opportunities here than at home, but still the Académie des Beaux-Arts is closed to women, and their students are the only ones eligible for some of the important prizes.”
Six men carried a large painting of a nude Venus rising from a seashell. As other men called, “Ooh, la la,” the earnest carriers turned the painting to face the other side. This exposed the work to a new group of men, who hooted. When someone brought in a painting of an angel, several men flapped their arms. Another pressed his hands together as if in prayer. Men mooed at a picture of cows. They barked at a picture of dogs.
Deliverymen took more paintings from handcarts and wagons. They set marble sculptures on trolleys they trundled to the back entrance.
“That’s a crime against art!”
“Non! C’est très belle!”
“A horror!” A man straddling a lamppost shouted.
Another shook his fist at a still life. “Throw that in the garbage!”
May said, “For all the talk of freedom there is in Massachusetts, I never knew what it was until I came here.”
Mary shouted, “C’est magnifique!”
May laughed to hear her dignified friend raise her voice. Then her face heated as she followed Mary’s gaze to a man lifting her still life of bottles and fruit from a cart. He stashed it under his arm along with several others and hurried up the steps. May’s painting with all its careful strokes disappeared from view.
Mary cried, “Vive Mademoiselle Alcott!”
May grabbed her hand, which felt as thin and hard as her sister’s. She thought of how her brushwork had grown steadier, how her vision had widened since she’d been here. She’d enjoyed the sounds of her sweeping brush, the accomplishment of mixing a color to just the shade she wanted or making a shadow the right shape. But she still wanted her painting to be chosen for the Salon. She wanted her work to be seen.
DURING THE SIX WEEKS BETWEEN JURY DAY AND THE announcements of decisions, May worked on more still lifes. On weekends, she went to the Louvre or for carriage rides in the Bois de Boulogne with the Cassatt sisters. She arrived home late one afternoon to find Rose holding a pale green refusé card, printed with, “Please come to collect your work at the Palais.”
“I never thought I’d get in. Not really,” Rose said.
“I’m sorry. That portrait should have been accepted.” May hugged her, feeling her heart beat hard as she let go and glanced at the table, which held Camembert cheese, vin ordinaire, and macarons. She asked, “There’s not a card like that for me?”
“Congratulations.” Rose gave her a wobbly smile.
May whooped. “Wait until my mother hears! And Rose, you mustn’t let this one refusal stop you. Begin another painting.”
“It’s not just this rejection that’s discouraging. Monsieur Krug never once said that I had talent.”
“He never praises anyone.”
“He makes sure you get the first choice of where to set your easel. He pins your sketches on the wall.” Rose tucked her refusé card beneath a pile of letters.
“I’ve been painting for most of my life! And it’s no disgrace to be turned down, when thousands are refused.”
“I’ll go pick up the portrait. I’d like to give it to you for all your help, if you’ll have it.”
“Then the Salon’s loss will be my mother’s gain. She’ll appreciate your portrait more than anyone else ever could.” May looked back over the table. “You don’t think my refusé card could have gone missing?”
“No. They send them out all at once. And of course they wanted your work.”
The next day, May reveled in the embraces and congratulations of friends at the atelier. Then, except for the letters she sent to Mother, she tried to keep her joy quiet, until worry returned. What if the refusé card sent to her been lost? Could she have been wrong to assume her humble painting had been chosen?
On a warm April morning, she walked through Montmartre, crossed a curved bridge over the Seine, and heard washerwomen on the banks, scrubbing, slapping, and singing. Reaching the fashionable Grands Boulevards, she spotted the stems and leaves of tulips, hyacinths, and irises coming up, the closed buds of rhododendrons. She walked by the Louvre, then climbed the wide steps of the Palais de l’Industrie, listening to each of her footsteps. The big brick building looked golden in the sun. She walked through the doors, asked for directions, and made her way down a hall. She found a door with a sign that read Administration de l’Exposition des Beaux-Arts and knocked.
She was called in and asked what she wanted by a man sitting behind a desk. After she explained, he opened a ledger, flipped through its tall pages, drew his finger down a column, looked up at her, and said, “Admise.”
18
MUGUET DES BOİS
May dressed in a bronze gown with a square neckline and tight sleeves. She pinned flowers on the bodice, slipped feathers in her hat, and fastened the six buttons on each of her long gloves. She and Rose walked past blooming chestnut trees along the Seine, then met Mr. Ramsey among the crowds around the Arc de Triomphe, where children sold bunches of bluebells, ground ivy, and lilies of the valley for those celebrating the first day of May. Mr. Ramsey filled May in on news of Jane and London while they joined a line that wound around the exhibition building. May had heard that more than ten thousand people were expected here today, and thousands more were apt to be turned away. Ladies in pink and yellow gowns with flounces held white parasols. Artists who hadn’t shaved seemed to have at least combed their hair off their foreheads, paid at
tention to how they tied their cravats, pinned their shirt cuffs instead of just folding them back, and polished their boots.
After several hours in line, May and her friends climbed the wide stairway and entered halls adorned with portraits of queens and military men. Still lifes, les natures mortes, of Oriental drapery and Venetian glass were hung one above another, from waist height to the ceiling, in elaborately scrolled and gilded frames. Many mimicked the palettes of old Italian and Flemish masters, though they’d been painted that year by Messieurs Gérôme, Bouguereau, Carolus-Duran, and Meissonier. These paintings of Napoleon and his army, a serene Madonna, David fighting Goliath, and cavaliers in bright uniforms would fetch thousands of francs.
May’s progress through the crowd was interrupted by friends who congratulated her on having her name in the programme. Fanny joined them, and she, Rose, and Mr. Ramsey shrieked, sounds barely audible over the surrounding exclamations and gossip, when they reached May’s painting.
“You didn’t tell us it was en ligne!” Mr. Ramsey touched her elbow, in recognition that it had been hung at the height of an average eye, rather than low, or worse, “skyed,” hung so close to the ceiling that viewers had to crane their necks.
“I was lucky.” May was satisfied that the bottle looked perfectly rounded. The apples glowed. She fanned her face to hide her pride that must have been apparent as she thought of how many artists had used costlier objects, and yet her little painting in its plain wooden frame had not only been chosen for the Salon, but had also been hung in such a coveted place. She said, “Next year I expect we’ll see your work here.”
“And yours, too, again!”
May didn’t want to think about this being her last chance. She felt slightly unsteady on her heels. The crowds made her dizzy, as if she’d been spinning too long at a ball, caught in a trap of frothy gowns. She looked around, trying to remember everything to tell Louisa about what might be the best day of her life. She hated to leave her painting, but since exhibitors were given a pass to return as often as they liked, she said, “Let’s visit some other rooms.”
Little Woman in Blue Page 19