Little Woman in Blue

by Jeannine Atkins

  They went to a restaurant where the candlelit room with varnished black walls held just half a dozen tables covered with crisp white linen. Waiters took silent steps toward and away from them, filling their glasses when the water was still near the rim. In movements that seemed choreographed, one man whisked away a plate, while another put down a fresh one holding beautifully arranged meat, vegetables, or cheese. A waiter poured champagne, which didn’t taste quite right to May. Another man brought a bouquet of yellow roses, saying, “These came for Madame Nieriker.”

  He set the jar of flowers between May and Ernst, who, delighted with his surprise, grinned like a boy. She squeezed his hand under the tablecloth, then leaned past the fragrant buds, just opening but big enough so no one might see their kiss behind the drape of petals, as if they were in their own yellow room.

  THE NEXT WEEK, MAY JOINED ERNST ON THE MORNING train to Paris. After he headed to work, she toured the Salon with friends. On another morning, she met Mary Cassatt at a café. Mary’s dark hair was swept under her Reboux hat, with an extravagant burst of ostrich feathers. Her gray dress with jet buttons down the front, an edge of lace showing at the cuffs, was the height of fashion, though below the accordion pleats, May spotted her flat-heeled British shoes. Mary’s dark eyes were steady, and her lips pressed together, an expression that reminded May of Louisa. Was that why she’d put off seeing her, afraid she’d criticize her choices as her sister might? Instead, their conversation flowed as if little time had passed. Mary congratulated her on her painting in the Salon. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she said, “There’s little worse than a mother dying.” As they walked to the Impressionist show, they talked about their work and May’s marriage.

  No lines wound around the building to get into the show with pictures of people in gaudy clothing and chairs the color of egg yolks. These were viewed from the side or below instead of straight in front. Some portraits were sliced at the edges of canvasses. Instead of everything being shaded as if it were at the back of a pantry, light seemed cast by the noon sun, with shadows as brilliant as whatever cast them. Paintings by Claude Monet, Camille Pissarro, Edgar Degas, and Paul Gauguin showed streaks and scratches left by brushes and palette knives. May felt caught between shock and longing for this bright, lush world that reminded her of a dark river turning petal-pale, a room full of people pushing up their sleeves, whispers turning to shouts. She overheard people demanding back their entrée fee, complaining, “Five slashes as fingers! My children could do that!”’

  “Sky isn’t the color of butter.”

  “Those women look like they have cholera or jaundice. Or are dead.”

  May thought that all the paintings she’d seen, and which she’d loved, had been like looking to the past. Within these plain white frames she saw the gleam of the present and the future. She asked her friend, “Where are yours?”

  Mary led her to a gallery with eleven of her paintings and pastels, including Little Girl in a Blue Armchair, one of Mary’s sister in the loge of a grand theater, and another of her holding the reins of a carriage with determined hands and an intent expression. The portraits of strong and sensual women had the softness and colors of babies and cakes, not the ones May used to make, which were dense with molasses, but the light ones with spun frosting that gleamed from cases in pâtisseries.

  “These are bound to win the medals,” she said.

  “There are no prizes. There were so many fights putting up this show. Where to hang what, and Monsieur Degas went into a rage when someone suggested bringing in a couch. He doesn’t want an audience unwilling to stand. But one thing we agree on: The Impressionist credo is no jury, no medals, and no awards. Why should we compete with each other, when we’re all different?”

  “I like that. Though I do think yours are the best.”

  “So have you become an Impressionist?”

  “No, but I understand more. I’ve worked on the rules for so long, I can’t throw them all out.”

  “What you need remains in your hand. None of it is wasted. One makes the new ways her own. Père Tanguay, who takes Monsieur Cézanne’s paintings in trade for brushes and canvas, won’t sell black paint in his shop. But I don’t reject lines or contour. I want to show form as well as light.”

  May understood that beauty changed. Artists had to keep up. She followed Mary into a room filled with pictures of washerwomen, ballerinas, acrobats, and seamstresses with wrinkled skin. A woman bending over a tin tub looked rather too pink, but her loneliness and beauty shined through. May asked, “And how is Monsieur Degas?”

  “He works as much as I do. He infuriates me, then shows me something I hadn’t seen. We went to the Louvre, where he pointed out how Botticelli’s Madonna had her fingernails worn down by fieldwork. Some of the toes curved in as they do from wearing shoes, not bare feet or sandals, as Virgin Mary would have worn. The painting is exquisite, but why not show women as we are?”

  “Then you don’t miss showing in the Salon?”

  “No. The crowds here are bigger than they were two years ago, and a few works have already sold. I’m the only woman with paintings here this year, since Berthe had a baby in November—did you hear? A little girl named Julie. She promises she’ll have work next year. I’m certain she will.”

  “They are both well?”

  “My mother worried that a first baby from a mother who’s thirty-seven would mean difficulties, but everything was fine.”

  “You said a woman must choose between art and motherhood.”

  “Everything changes, and why shouldn’t Madame Manet lead the way? Berthe has already painted some since the birth. She has a strong will and a bonne to help with the child.” Mary set her black eyes on May’s. “You must have that, too. Might I have a baby to paint, with her dear mother soon?”

  May glanced down. It had been a while since she’d bled, but that had happened before. She hardly dared to hope and wished she could consult with her mother or Anna, who might tell her about signs. “I haven’t said anything to Ernst yet.”

  “One child, Berthe agrees, maybe two. Beyond that, a woman’s chances to keep painting are slight.”

  “Ernst comes from a big family and misses the bustle. But we’ll have to see. One little girl or boy sounds nice.”

  LATE ONE AFTERNOON, MAY FILLED THE DELFT VASE with mint and roses, though their scents seemed a bit too sweet. After Adrienne took a chicken from the oven, May told her to go home early. She went to the bedroom and brushed her hair until it crackled, plumped the pillows, opened the windows to let in the smells of spring, and took away the dish she’d set out for the neighbor’s cat, now licked free of cream.

  When Ernst came home, she threw her arms around him. He laughed, then pushed up her sleeves to kiss her wrists, then elbows, then the skin behind her ears. He pressed his lips against her neck as they moved into the bedroom, where the tall windows let in the croaks of frogs and hum of bees. He gently pulled clasps from her hair. She bent to take off his shoes and socks, curved her hands around his long, elegant feet, then stepped back. “I haven’t drawn enough today.”

  “May! Now?”

  She grabbed her sketchbook and ordered, “Take off your clothes.”

  He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of the sleeves, and sat on the edge of the bed. She rapidly sketched his head, chest, and arms, then tugged down his trousers. She said, “The folds of the cloth aren’t as interesting as what’s beneath.”

  After a few minutes, she set aside her charcoal stick and put her palms on his hips. He pulled off her gown, petticoats, and stockings. As they settled on the bed, she tasted the salty skin around his ear, then the soft creases of his throat. He swung his legs over her hips. She wrapped her arms around him. Their eyes never left each other’s as they rocked together.

  Afterward, she watched the room turn darker while Ernst played Haydn on his violin. She put on her robe d’intérieur and went to the kitchen. She wrinkled her nose at the chicken Adrienne had roasted with onions
and bay leaves, and she brought a bottle of Clos de Lampes, the local wine, fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, and a bowl of plums back to the bedroom. She spread the feast on the coverlet and tore apart the crusty loaf, handing him a piece. “I could live in France just for the bread.”

  He set down his violin and bow and spread the Brie, which was warm, a bit melted. “And why would anyone live in a country where there were only one or two types of cheese? Not when we can live where there are dozens.”

  “I love to hear you play. You should devote yourself to music.”

  He swept his arm over the food and wine. “Where would all this come from if I left my job?”

  May ripped apart the bread, then fed him a plum. “Then you’ve given up thoughts of traveling to South America, helping to make that clear light?”

  “I won’t go now, but I don’t know that I’ll want to keep my job for more than a year. I’m young. I want …”

  “Do you regret marrying me?”

  “Never! It’s just, I have dreams. I’ve always …”

  “Please don’t talk of traveling!” She took a deep breath, then heard a thud in the second bedroom. “What was that?”

  They ran to the next room. The neighbor’s cat had pounced onto the sill of the open window and snatched the stuffed owl. The cat bounded back outside with its prey.

  “Not my owl!” May cried.

  Ernst leapt onto the windowsill. She tossed him her robe, which he threw over his bare shoulders. He crouched, dropped to the ground, and chased the cat up a tree. The cat stopped on a high branch and dropped the speckled owl.

  May pulled on her nightgown and ran out to pick it up. She looked up at Ernst among the green leaves, with her blue robe falling open. What a devoted father he would be.

  After he scrambled down, she hugged him and said, “I want you to have your dreams. I just don’t want our children to grow up poor as we did. And I don’t want to paint flowers in Brazil! A jungle is no place for a baby.”

  “Our children?” He stepped back, grabbed her bare arm, and studied her face. “Darling.” He lifted her in the air, while she waved the owl.

  When he put her down, their kiss was warm and moist. She said, “I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Just think, there will be three of us. A family.” He stroked her belly.

  “You can’t feel anything yet!”

  “Of course I can. A little girl as beautiful as her maman.”

  “You’re terribly silly. And I love you.”

  He kissed her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, and the sides of her mouth. He sank to his knees and lifted her nightgown. “Let’s have a big family.”

  “You don’t want to go to South America?”

  “I don’t need anything but you.” He stood again and caressed her neck. “Wait until my mother hears. Shall I write to her, or do you want to? Should we wait? We have so much to do. What should we name her?”

  “We have time. Besides, the baby might be a boy.”

  “Girls run in your family as well as in mine. We could name her after your mother.”

  “That would be nice. Though I never cared for the name Abigail.”

  “We could call her May. How we’ll spoil her.”

  She pulled Ernst to the ground, kissing him until her breath filled her hips and she could hardly tell it from his body inside her. Around them, she heard boughs rustle, rise, and fall.

  THAT SUMMER, MAY PAINTED POPPIES, LAVENDER, irises, and biscuit-colored foxgloves. Working amidst buds that swelled before spilling open, changing butter-and-cream colored blossoms to blue on her paper, turning leaves larger than they were, sweeping paint to every edge and corner, her hand seemed to pull the world closer. Sometimes she touched her curving belly and thought of how she’d never be lonely again. Now that she felt quite certain that she was with child, she sent a letter to her family with her news and begged Louisa to visit. Louisa sent back congratulations but wrote that Anna had broken her leg and needed her. She didn’t feel well enough for a sea voyage now and was busy reading Mother’s old letters and diaries to write a memoir, which Mr. Niles had promised to publish.

  As the months passed, May’s fatigue deepened. Ernst insisted that she see a doctor, who said that he could do nothing for the backaches that began to plague her and warned that, especially at her age, she should expect discomforts. She didn’t suppose he meant the way her throat burned when Ernst left for his job in Paris. Sometimes now silence felt like a threat, instead of a kind of company. Her paintbrush trembled or slashed in one wrong direction. May made herself keep working, unscrewing the top of a tube containing a blue so vibrant that it was almost purple or opening a tube of sunny yellow paint. Gradually, her vision and hand felt all of a piece, though the muscles in her throat tightened the way they did when she listened to Ernst’s violin strain for high notes. She left a short unfinished stroke, a scrubbed-away patch on her paper, to acknowledge what was crucial, what escaped, how her paintings might never match her vision. Would her sense of imperfection ever leave her? Was that what made her an artist?

  At noon, she stopped for rice with marmalade and a tumbler of milk, and she looked through mail. Louisa sent old issues of Scribner’s and The Atlantic Monthly, a pattern waist that May could wear instead of a corset. Each time she unpacked a baby frock, booties, a little knitted cap, or a thick biography of Turner, she saved the note Louisa had enclosed to look at last. Surely Anna’s broken leg had healed by now and Louisa could leave that memoir? No, not yet.

  May was grateful for the gifts, though she slit open the boxes feeling that each measured the distance between herself and her sisters. Louisa sent a check, which May folded without yet looking at the numbers. She was afraid that a grand sum would mean that Louisa didn’t plan to come. May knew she’d be fine, but she wanted a sister’s advice, as well as that of Adrienne, who’d given her the name of a trusted midwife. May tried to remember what her cousin Lucy had said was necessary. She’d made it sound simple. Clean, strong hands and kind eyes, she believed. Louisa would know. May hadn’t yet accepted the offer from Ernst’s mother and sister to be there for the birth, since that might mean there wouldn’t be a room for Louisa.

  AS THE DAYS GREW DARKER EARLIER IN THE EVENING, time itself seemed to narrow and press in on her. The sun fell at a sharper slant. Drumming crickets, the slightly burnt scent of drying grasses, gave the air an edge. Fallen leaves left bare branches, which brought the tolling of church bells closer. The bees had flown away. Birdsong grew fainter. May touched her big belly, willing away loneliness, but something clutched in her chest. The coming anniversary of Mother’s death felt harder this year than last, perhaps because she carried a child that her mother would never hold. May addressed another envelope to Louisa. I need you to help, she wrote. Help was a word her sister understood.

  In October, a large package arrived, holding a quilt stitched by Anna and Louisa. May pressed her face in the soft fabric, the splendid array of blues. She waited until Ernst got home to open the letter tucked underneath.

  Dear May,

  We are all well enough here, with Anna’s leg recovering nicely. She was shocked when you wrote that you have plenty of clothes for the baby, that a few little gowns and a blanket would be sufficient. She said, “Oh, that poor girl, all alone and ignorant.” She says those frocks will be soaked in minutes and you must have fresh, dry ones, so we are sending more.

  I have given up the idea of writing a book about Marmee, though there could be no worthier subject, one bound to cheer and instruct readers. Perhaps she poses too great a theme for my pen, and Father stays with philosophy, so we are burning her diaries and letters. This is the best way to ensure that someone who didn’t know her as we did does not attempt to write her life.

  Father continues with his lectures but as ever has no sense of business. I must manage for both him and Anna, so I cannot be spared for a visit now. Perhaps I can come next spring, when your baby is here. I have some pains, as yo
u know, and am afraid of being a burden to you when I mean to help.

  Love, Louisa

  May threw down the letter.

  “Darling, what’s wrong? Is it your father? Is he ill?” Ernst asked.

  “How dare she!” May’s hands trembled. “Louisa’s worst fear was having her stories burned, but she destroyed our mother’s diaries! She had no right. She was my mother, too.”

  “May, sit down. Your face is turning red.”

  “Louisa could never stand the truth. I suppose Mother complained in her diaries, and Louisa won’t let anyone think that our family wasn’t as idyllic as she described.”

  “You must calm down. You’re delicate.”

  She shook her head. She’d never felt stronger, but the world seemed more fragile. Bare branches scratched the window. She heard dry leaves rip in the wind. “Louisa was there for Beth and our mother, and she’ll never let me forget it. Why should she? She’s good, and everyone knows it. I hate her!” May rubbed her aching hands, understanding that she missed her sister as much as their mother. She sobbed. “I love her so much.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “She must hate me for not being there with our mother at the end.”

  “No one could dislike you. You say that because of the baby you carry. My mother told me it can make some women say strange things.”

  She supposed that could be so. Bouts of unease were followed by periods of calm. She thought that Louisa’s presence might calm her. Had it ever? “She sent money. She thinks we can’t survive without her help. I wish we could send it back.”

  “She is kind. But we can manage without help, if you’d rather.”

  May wiped her tears with the back of her hand, thinking they couldn’t turn down a gift when there were doctor bills and expenses like cradles and perhaps a nursemaid to think about. “She’s not coming.”

  “We thought she wouldn’t, didn’t we?”

  “The last time I was in Concord, I promised to give her something wonderful. I couldn’t even imagine what it might be. But now I see that I want her to hold our baby. And when she’s a little older, to take her hand while she learns to walk.”