The Witch of Painted Sorrows

by Rose, M. J.

  “How exciting. Do you know what it’s going to be?”

  “He said it is to be something of my choosing.” The maid pulled Grand-mère’s hair too tight, and for a moment the smile left her face. “Alice, do be careful.” Her eyes returned to mine. “I wish you would let me put some makeup on you and bring out the warm tones in your hair and the red in your lips. You’re so pale, Sandrine.” And with that she applied another dusting of powder to her own face. “What will you do to keep yourself occupied today?”

  I told her about my made-up friend.

  “Oh, wonderful. Will she be in Paris long?”

  “Quite long, I think. Perhaps the whole winter.”

  “You’ll have to bring her around for tea.”

  “I will, of course,” I said, hoping that my grandmother would be too busy with the count to remember about the invitation.

  “What is her name?”

  “Eloise Bedford.” I named one of the girls I’d gone to finishing school with.

  “Is her family French?”

  “No. Her father works for the government and has been posted here.” I assumed that would keep Eloise and her family off Grand-mère’s invitation list. She found government officials boring and preferred filling her salon with artists, writers, musicians, and dilettantes.

  “Government men don’t make good lovers,” she said. “They are too obsessed with proving their power, and too often they prove it with force. I pity Madame Bedford.”

  Two hours later I was looking at myself in a very different mirror in one of the fantasy boudoirs in the Maison de la Lune.

  Julien had left me alone to undress. I’d taken off all my clothes and removed the ruby necklace. But I felt strange without it around my neck. Diminished somehow, and even though it was impossible, weaker and less capable, as if it were some ancient talisman created to give me strength and power.

  I put it back on, covering it up first with undergarments and then a shirt and finally the cravat I’d bought the day before. I finished dressing just as Julien knocked on the door.

  “Are you decent?” he asked.

  “Yes, come in,” I said as I slipped on a black suit jacket, “and meet the newest applicant to École des Beaux-Arts.”

  Julien stood on the threshold and examined me in the mirror. For a few moments he didn’t say a word but just stared. I watched him trying to make sense of the illusion that stood before him.

  It was difficult even for me. Not only did I look different, but I felt different, too. These clothes were unlike anything I’d ever worn. The fabrics were heavier and rougher than my frocks, but from the first step I took in the pants, I adored the freedom the masculine garb allowed. There was also another benefit to my costume, a comforting one: if Benjamin did manage to trace me to Paris, dressed like this, I’d be that much more difficult to spot.

  “I don’t know what I’m seeing. Or not seeing,” Julien said. “You aren’t there.”

  I knew what he meant. I was looking in the mirror, too, and I wasn’t there. A young man I didn’t know was looking back at me. My costume concealed the most obvious female curves. The wig I had bought at the theatrical supply store hid my soft auburn curls, and this darker brown hair hung loose to my shoulders. A mustache, also purchased there, was glued to my upper lip. A pair of spectacles completed the transformation. There were traces of my face left: the jut of the chin my father called impish, the lips that were almost too full to belong to a man.

  But if you weren’t searching for Sandrine, you’d never see her, never recognize her. I was missing. And that was as it should be, for I wasn’t applying for admission to the École; Monsieur Verlaine was.

  I took off the wig.

  “What are you doing?” Julien asked. “It’s perfect the way it is.”

  I picked up some scissors and cut my hair scandalously short, with the curls reaching just as far as my shoulders, the length only men wore theirs.

  “The wig is too uncomfortable. This will work just as well.”

  “Your voice?” he asked. “Sandrine, how are you disguising your voice?”

  “When we put on plays at school, some of us had to take on the male roles. Since I’m tall, I got more than my share. To create the illusion we really were men, our teacher taught us to how to speak from our diaphragms in a lower register. Most of us couldn’t fool anyone, but my voice is deep to begin with, so it was easier for me. All that practice, according to your response, seems to have paid off, yes?”

  With Julien accompanying me, I had no trouble being shown to the admissions director’s office at the École des Beaux-Arts. Julien introduced me as Monsieur Verlaine, and Monsieur Girraud didn’t give my appearance a second glance. He welcomed me and proceeded to rifle through my portfolio. At first he hurried, but then he slowed and really examined the drawings and paintings.

  As he did, I tried not to think about the painters who taught here and how much I wanted to study with them. Especially the symbolist Moreau. He would know how to help me invoke the visions that I had been seeing both waking and sleeping since coming to Paris.

  “Where have you studied?” Girraud asked.

  “In New York City at the Art Students League,” I said, speaking in my best mock male voice, naming the institution that I had walked by dozens of times without much interest.

  “These do indeed show promise and skill. A certain force that is unusual. There’s no doubt you have talent, but you would be coming in halfway through the year, and all our classes are full. A stumbling block, you see?”

  “It would be a favor to me, Girraud, for you to consider making an exception,” Julien said. “Since his accident, Monsieur Verlaine has been disconsolate.” He gestured to my hand, which I’d wrapped in a linen bandage, suggesting a calamity.

  Julien continued: “It was my idea for him to come and get his hand back in practice, and I would feel terrible for having encouraged him to apply if you were to dismiss the request so rapidly.”

  Girraud closed the portfolio. “All right. I won’t make the decision on my own. Let’s show your work to Monsieur Moreau.”

  I was more than pleased he’d mentioned the one teacher I’d wanted most of all. As we set off, the three of us down the august hallways of one of the greatest art schools in the world, I thought of my father and how much he’d appreciate this scene. And how excited he’d be for me, knowing I was about to meet and speak with a painter whose work we’d both admired. Moreau was the best-known symbolist of the time. He concentrated on religious, historical, and mystical mythical subjects, the kind that appealed to my father and to me. A Moreau painting of Leda and the Swan was hanging in our Fifth Avenue home in my own bedroom. For my twenty-first birthday my father had given me a choice of a painting done by any living artist, and I’d chosen Moreau. Now I was going to be given the chance to meet him, and I hoped I could convince him to take me under his painterly wing.

  My hands were trembling, and the portfolio shook.

  “Moreau has stirred a lot of controversy,” Girraud said as we turned a corner. “He treats historical art tradition as a mystery religion or cult of the dead, and his poetic interpretations have tried critics’ souls. There is still much discussion over his theoretical approaches to subject matter, but as a teacher he is committed to his students’ mastery of the human form, as we all are, and seems to have quite a gift for bringing out what is best in each student as opposed to pushing them into a uniform style.”

  We’d reached an enormous room covered by a glass roof supported by an ornate metal structure. The walls were painted in a wonderful Pompeii red-orange. Light poured into the grand space and illuminated the terra-cotta floor tiles so that they appeared to be on fire.

  More than a dozen rows of plaster casts of famous sculptures created aisles. I counted six full-size horses, eight Greek and Roman warriors, a dozen gods and goddesses, seve
ral copies of treasures from the Louvre like Winged Victory, and too many academic plasters to count.

  The room was so beautiful and overwhelming that at first I didn’t notice a group of men at the far end, each standing in front of his own easel, painting from life. The nude on the raised platform was posed like Diana, goddess of the hunt, whose visage was all over Maison de la Lune. The artists were so quiet they might have passed for more of the sculptures if only their hands had been still.

  An older man with a heavy white beard and a dark, rumpled suit stood beside one of the students, pointing to his canvas and speaking in a quiet voice.

  He looked familiar, but at first I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t until we approached and I could hear his voice that I realized I had seen this very man in the Louvre, talking in a similar way to a student who was copying the Witch of Endor painting by Rosa.

  “Monsieur Moreau?” Girraud said, interrupting.

  Moreau turned, excused himself from his student, and came over to our small group. Introductions were made.

  After hearing Girraud’s explanation for the interruption, Moreau looked at me with deeply penetrating brown eyes. I could see sadness there. He, too, had loved someone who had died. Two people. Recently. His mother and a lover.

  I felt a trickle of perspiration travel down my back. How did I know that?

  “Any artist who studies with me walks a difficult path. Are you sure you are prepared to embark upon it?” he asked.

  My throat was so dry, the words came out as a croak. “Yes, yes, I am.”

  I’d spent so much time visiting galleries and museums with my father, never dreaming of creating art, just happy to be enjoying it. Now he was gone, and all that mattered to me was learning how to paint. As if my very existence depended on it.

  “Then let me see what you have,” he said kindly.

  I offered my portfolio with a hand that still trembled. Everything depended on what this one man thought.

  Moreau studied La Lune’s work even more carefully than Girraud had. He examined the first drawing for a long time. Then the next. Scrutinizing a third, he stroked his beard while Girraud explained about my hand. Only after Moreau had studied the canvases, did he turn his gaze to me.

  Did he somehow know that I hadn’t painted them? No, that was impossible. Then what was it? What was he trying so hard to figure out?

  “There is a lot you need to address. For instance, here”—he pointed to the thigh section of a seated nude in one of the drawings—“the articulation is awkward. From your sketches I can see that you know your anatomy, which is good. Nudes are part of the academic repertoire. But your technique is a bit tentative and sometimes lazy. Your composition is interesting. You have a solid classical sensibility but no unique style. You need to be developing one that is wholly your own. How long have you been studying?”

  “Five years, Monsieur.”

  “Where?”

  “In New York City.”

  Moreau once more returned his attention to the canvases.

  Julien glanced at me. I met his gaze. His expression was curious. Was he warning me about something? I couldn’t read his face well enough to know.

  “Where do your interests lie?” Moreau asked.

  Until he asked, I would not have had an answer, but there it was. “I’m interested, like you, in allegorical work.”

  “Really? You want to paint l’art épique?”

  I nodded.

  “And not just to flatter me so I make this decision in your favor?” He laughed, and we all joined in, although my laugh was so nervous it sounded more like a squeak.

  “Yes.” Even though I was making this up as I went, I was telling the truth. “My father and I were both fascinated with mythology, legends, and fantasies. The imagination, my father believed, was humanity’s most powerful force. Our ability, he said, to create is what makes us great.”

  It was true. It was what he believed—even though, I thought, he didn’t himself create anything other than a larger fortune than he’d started out with.

  “So you want to peruse symbolism?” Moreau asked.

  “Soft lights and pretty women are best left to the impressionists,” I said with a stridency that surprised even me. “I am interested in the search for the eternal truths in our ancient stories.”

  Had I gone too far? I wasn’t trying to flatter him. These answers came unbidden from some deep wellspring of intention inside of me. But now I was afraid he would think I was just being politic.

  As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I should wonder at the authenticity of your comments, but I think I believe you. I sense a passion in you. An almost frightening passion.”

  A chill passed through me.

  Moreau looked from me to Girraud. “I think I can find room in my class.” He turned back to me. “We meet on Saturdays and Wednesdays.”

  I sputtered out a thank-you that I repeated twice, but he brushed my gratitude off with a gesture. “When there are no classes, I expect you to visit the Louvre along with my other students and copy the Old Masters like Poussin, Raphael, Rembrandt, Titian, and Watteau. One must learn the techniques of others before one strikes out on his own. Don’t waste your time with the moderns in the Luxembourg. There’s time for that. Only when you know all the rules can you begin to break them and find your own style, and that is the goal. Not to turn into one of these boring copyists, but to become an artist with a vision. I’m not an easy teacher, Monsieur Verlaine. If you don’t prove yourself, I will ask you to leave . . . If you do, I will invite you to join me at my studio on Sunday mornings where I offer more extensive critiques than I give in the atelier and to spend some afternoons painting alongside me.”

  I thanked him. I was elated. I had been admitted to the finest art school in the world. I glanced over at Julien. He smiled back at me, clearly pleased that he had been able to help me.

  “Excuse me,” I said, still imitating a man’s speech patterns and tone.

  Girraud and Moreau both turned.

  “I need to tell you both something, if you could spare just a few more minutes.”

  I felt strange. Cold and warm at the same time. I smelled those faraway violets again, but this time they made me slightly nauseated.

  “I need to explain who I am.” I was looking at Monsieur Moreau, but I could see Julien’s face, too, and I could read the apprehension there.

  I was feeling the same fear he was. Part of me watched the scene from a distance, terrified, horrified. Another part of me wanted to laugh with delight at what I was about to do.

  “I can’t attend the École like this,” I said as I reached up and pulled at the mustache, took off my hat, and shook out my hair. As I loosened the cravat, my fingers trembled.

  “What are you doing?” Julien whispered as an appalled look contorted his face. “You are ruining the disguise.”

  Julien had told me he and the admissions director were friends, having met when Julien attended the École, and that the director had proved himself a rebel who challenged the institution into readying itself for the upcoming new century. I was about to give him a chance to prove just how forward thinking he really was.

  Both Moreau and Girraud watched in shock as I revealed myself to be a woman.

  “Mon Dieu,” Moreau said, “I had no idea.”

  Without shame, Monsieur Girraud examined my face. “I didn’t know. I saw . . . but . . .” He was flustered and confused, trying to make sense of the optical illusion that appeared before him.

  Monsieur Moreau put his hand up to his chin as he, too, peered at me. Despite his obvious shock, I detected a bit of delight in his eyes.

  “We have a policy,” Girraud said finally, and then turned to Julien. “We have a policy,” he repeated.

  “You had a policy,” I said in my normal voice. “It’s 1894, Monsieur Girraud. In Ameri
ca art schools accept women.”

  Julien took up the challenge. “You always talk about the future, Girraud. Now is your chance to do something about it. Break with tradition.”

  “I’ll fit in,” I said, imploring him. “I’ll keep my hair cut short, dress like this. I won’t be a distraction but just another student.”

  “I could never allow such a thing,” the admissions officer said as he shook his head vehemently.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “You can’t make a change like that without consulting the directors, the professors—there are so many people who I would need to discuss this with.” Vexed, he threw up his hands.

  “Really?” Julien smiled at his friend. “Is there an actual written rule about female students? I understood it was just another archaic assumption. Why not do it, Girraud? You both looked at her work, and you accepted her.”

  “Her work does indeed show promise and skill.” Girraud glanced over at Moreau for affirmation.

  The painter nodded. “Mademoiselle Verlaine—” He looked at me. “Is it still Verlaine?”

  I nodded. “It is.”

  “Mademoiselle Verlaine exhibits a certain force and passion that is unusual in either a man or a woman,” Moreau finished.

  “There’s no doubt you have talent, Mademoiselle Verlaine,” Girraud said. “But we have a policy. Most of our fine painters offer private classes. Even Moreau does sometimes. Perhaps you would consider—”

  “I don’t want to take private lessons. I belong here,” I cut him off.

  “But why?”

  “I know how much easier it would be to accept convention and take private lessons, but it won’t be the same. This is the greatest art school in the world. Nothing else will do.”

  Moreau glanced from my face to my clothes and back to my face. “As long as your presence doesn’t turn my class into a circus, I have no objection.” He turned to the director. “Girraud, it’s high time we joined the modern world. Let’s take this on.”