Herr Schotter does not hate children, Mama says, and he does not hate us. She and Tante Hilda are from Bavaria, a small and gentle part of Germany with much song and dance and gemutlichkeit, which is coziness. But Herr Schotter is Prussian. He is a strict and proud man, and we should respect him for his high principles. He was once in the Prussian army, and ever since then he has been concerned with military and political issues. Now he is a strong supporter of Kaiser Wilhelm I, and though he lives in America, his heart is still with the German Empire. So Mama says.
Herr Schotter is mean. I am not sure that he has a heart, and I wish he were still across the sea with the German Empire. So I say.
When Papa told us we would travel across the country to California, it was a shocking and fearful prospect, but still an exciting one, promising new adventures. Paul and I did not imagine these long months in a strange and unexciting place, though Papa did try to prepare us. As we drove from Nashville to Germantown, he explained again that the timing of our escape from the clan bullies was bad, that we could not leave for California in the fall because the journey would last for at least four months, and would take us into mountains that would be dangerous or even fatal to cross in winter. We would need to prevail upon the kindness of Tante Hilda and her family, and wait until at least February to join a wagon train in Independence, Missouri.
Although Tante Hilda is really Mama’s cousin, we call her our auntie because she is like Mama’s sister. Herr Schotter must never be called uncle, but only Herr Schotter, except by his wife, who calls him Rudi, and his children who, unbelievably, call him Herr Papa. Tante Hilda is strong like Mama, but she is harder. Mama is strong like the earth; she can be hard or giving depending on the circumstances. But Tante Hilda is hard like mountain rock. She addresses us politely, and makes sure we have food at the table and enough warm blankets for our beds, but she stays busy most of the time and rarely speaks with us children. I admire her because she seems to want to do what is right, but I would not want to have to disagree with her. Paul says that the difference in the two cousins is that Mama is Mama plus Papa, whereas Tante Hilda is someone like Mama, but added to Herr Schotter.
Their children, our second cousins, are Franz and Sissi. Paul had looked forward to knowing Franz, who is sixteen and almost a man, and they are becoming friends, but not of the adventure-seeking, wrestling, mock-fighting type that Paul had imagined. Franz is a different kind of boy.
When we can escape his parents, Franz takes his sister Sissi, Paul, and me on long walks along Cherokee Trace, which winds between the Wolf River and Noncannah Creek. We hike through dense woods of birch and hickory trees while the sun shines down through their leaves to create lacey shadows. When we reach the river, we inhale its rich, muddy scent and walk alongside the strong current fed by autumn rains. It is delicious to move our legs and arms, to talk and laugh freely, perhaps even more so because of the usually oppressive atmosphere of Herr Schotter’s house .
We must walk slowly and take many rests, though, because Franz is sickly. When he was younger, the yellow fever came to Germantown. His little brother Karl died then, and his family feared that Franz would die, too. But Franz says he knew somehow that he had to stay alive, that he had something good to do with his life, and so he fought to live with all his will. As he recovered, he began to take short walks through the countryside and to write stories and poems set in the woods and by the river. He carries these poems on our walks and reads them to us as we perch on fallen logs and rocks to rest. Franz’s words blend naturally with rustling leaves and flowing water and birdsong. Franz says that almost dying taught him to love life with a piercing love, and that is what a person must have to write well.
While Franz is gentle and entertaining, Sissi is like a princess in a fairy tale. When I tell her so, she laughs and says that she is named after a Bavarian princess who became an empress, and her name must have some magic that makes people think she is a princess, too. Sissi is fine and humble the way that a real princess is supposed to be. She seems always to think of what she can do for someone else. She is thirteen, and so pleasing to look at, with her golden hair, green eyes, and gentle round face, that I sketch her again and again in hopes that I can take the memory of her with me when we leave.
The first time we are alone together, the day after my family arrives, Sissi brings me to her room, takes from her wardrobe the loveliest blue muslin dress, and holds it out to me.
“Cousin Matilda, you have not been able to bring many dresses with you, I think. You must wear this to dinner.” Her smile dimples her plump cheeks.
The dress is the blue of the sky at twilight on a late summer evening. It is like the blue dress I wore when I was little, when our lives were easier and Tod Carter would spin me in a circle and the skirt would bell out around me. I have not had a new dress since I can remember, but only Amelia’s dresses made over to my size, and she prefers dark and stern clothing.
“What a beautiful color,” I finally answer.
“Try it on. You are taller than I am but I am plumper than you are, so it should fit you,” she says with a laugh.
It fits well. I accept the loan of the dress and take great care of it, but later she will not hear of my returning it. This is only the first of her thoughtful offerings, of her belongings and her gentle words, and especially of her company, which carries me through the long days when we are trapped inside the house and must watch our every word and act. How has it not crushed her to live all her life in the coldness and gloom of her father’s house?
But Sissi is like the pansies that Mama used to plant in our garden, the ones that look delicate but bloom into early winter in spite of chilling blasts and little sunlight. She is strong enough that I can tell her some of what has been happening to my family and me in the past few years without frightening her or making her sad. She listens calmly and attentively and, when my words are spent, smiles and gives me tea and toast.
I wonder now what I gave Sissi in that exchange of our young hearts—hopefully something of value, perhaps a glimpse of a greater world beyond her castle walls. In any case, Sissi was my first close friend, and though we never saw one another again after this visit, I will never forget her.
After Sissi, I will have two lifelong friends, Rosa Bonheur, the great painter and advocate for women, and Count Ferenc Blaskovits, who will become my husband.
*****
SEPTEMBER 1894
(TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER)
Tata Castle, Hungary
I am strolling through the palace gardens bordering the lake, reveling in the cool breezes after almost unbearably hot summer months spent painting in Tangier. What a gracious host Earl Miklós Esterházy has been since my arrival here several days ago. We met in Tangier, and speaking English with him was so comfortable after the rigor of speaking French almost exclusively in recent years. The earl liked my paintings and invited me here to paint his dogs, but he has done much more, introducing me to many possible clients whose homes are in England and Austria-Hungary. He is a passionate admirer of dogs and horses, and is in agreement with me that they should be portrayed realistically, unsentimentally, in their natural dignity.
I will begin to sketch his dogs soon, but Earl Esterházy has insisted that I take a few more days to rest from the journey and the change in weather. As eager as I am to begin work, I can see that this is a wise suggestion. The doctors say that my lungs are weak, and this is why I so often suffer from colds and coughs. I have become so accustomed to the demands of work and travel, though, that today I must work at resting.
As I turn a corner of the garden path, a man approaches me, apparently with some purpose. He is of moderate height, trim, and dressed nicely, although not as formally as some of the palace guests. As he nears me, he sweeps off his hat to reveal dark hair streaked with silver, worn long to his chin. His warm brown eyes meet mine a brief moment before he bows from the waist.
“À votre service, Mademoiselle Bonheur,” he greets me in Fr
ench. “Je m’apelle Ferenc Blaskovits.”
So this is Ferenc Blaskovits, the realist landscape painter. I have heard of him even in Paris and know that he is of the Hungarian nobility, but since I am unsure of his title, I consider it wise simply to curtsey slightly.
“Monsieur.” I smile and extend my gloved hand, which he raises by the slightest touch of the fingertips and which he does not kiss, but over which he bows. Whether or not he is a member of the royal house, his manners are exquisite.
“Would you be comfortable speaking English, Monsieur?”
“But, yes, Mademoiselle. I do speak the English if you will like to be amused.” His accent is as charming as his humor.
“You are a painter, Monsieur—and a realist painter, I believe?”
“And you are the American painter of true animals, as I know, Mademoiselle.”
I am taken aback that he knows of my work, and no doubt I have shown that I am, since he gives a little laugh and bows again.
“Forgive me, Mademoiselle. We have just met, but I have wished to know you long times. Will you be kind to walk with me?”
I incline my head in agreement. His warmth has silenced me momentarily.
We stroll through the formal gardens past roses of every hue and perfume, still blooming vigorously in the mild autumn weather. I ask him about life in Hungary, and he describes the complex empire of many countries that is Austria-Hungary. He explains that when a very young man, he chose to avoid the demands of politics and to concentrate on making art. He speaks of his painting and of what he knows of mine, and we find that we share a commitment to realism founded in respect for the subjects of our work. I tell him about my papa, his courage and kindness, the beauty of his workmanship, about my brother Paul who was my first teacher, and about how inspired I am by Rosa Bonheur. As we meander back toward the palace, Ferenc stops beside a small tree of yellow roses, breaks one, and extends it to me with a bow.
“At this moment, Mademoiselle Lotz, I dare only to offer you the yellow rose of friendship, but this is not your true rose, not your true color. This I hope to learn in time.”
So it begins—the walking and the talking that we will renew each time we meet, at first year to year, then day to day, and at last moment to moment, as our friendship takes root, branches out, and blossoms.
*****
OCTOBER 1913
(NINETEEN YEARS LATER)
9 Rue de Campagne Premier, Paris
“This is a linden tree, Tillie,” Ferenc explains as he digs a hole in our small garden in spite of my objections. “It is a symbol of peace and beauty.”
“But, Ferenc, we are only renting here.” I am shivering in the cold, wet wind that blows back my husband’s hair from his leathery face. His hands and forearms are covered in wet soil as he continues to widen and deepen the hole. “We may not be able to stay. We may choose not to stay. As you have said so cleverly, we have learned to write with pencil in our date books.”
“Yes, Tillie, this is true. But your brother Paul, he is a part of you, no?”
“He is, one of the best parts of me.”
“Certainly, and though now he has gone, you still say of him, ‘He is,’ not ‘He was.’ This is also true, no?”
“It is true.” The tears come again without warning, as they have for the past week. Ferenc says it is good that I am finally weeping now as I could not last month when I first heard that Paul was gone from this world, that I have passed from cold, dark grief into a warmer sorrow. It was so unexpected—Paul was only fifty-eight years old. His heart simply stopped—dear heart. I will not be there to bury his ashes next to Mama and Papa, so Ferenc is holding another kind of ceremony.
“He is one of the best parts of me,” I say again, “and I will carry him with me.”
“Good.” Ferenc tenderly lifts the small sapling and kneels in the damp grass to ease it into its new home. “Then we plant the tree. And whether we stay or whether we go, the tree will stay, and it will live. Will you make steady the trunk while I finish preparing its new home?”
The trunk of the sapling is smooth, damp, cool. Ferenc spreads the roots over a mound of soil and fills the hole. Together we pat the earth firm with our palms. The wet, sharply sweet scent fills my nose.
“Now,” Ferenc says, taking my muddied hand in his, “we pray. Our Father, we put this tree into the ground and you give it new life. Our brother Paul will be put into the ground. Give him new life.”
“Amen,” I answer, and for a moment I can see Paul’s face as if he stood before me.
*****
MARCH 1870
(FORTY-THREE YEARS EARLIER)
Just past Fort Hall, Idaho
Paul puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Only a few more weeks,” he mumbles sleepily. We are rising before dawn on yet another morning, cold and stiff from sleeping on the ground with nothing but a tarp and a few blankets. We have been on the trail for three months; the novelty and excitement have long since worn off, and the past several weeks have seemed eternity. We stumble to the water bucket, splash our faces, and join Mama, Papa, and Amelia at the fire.
“This, too, shall pass,” Mama says, smoothing back my hair and handing me a cup of steaming coffee and a johnnycake dipped in molasses. The sweet cornmeal and strong, deliciously bitter coffee lift my spirits
“Indeed,” Papa says. “We are making progress. Today all our California-bound wagons will head south as well as west, along the Raft River on our way to Nevada.”
Paul pulls the treasured, dog-eared map from his pocket and he and Papa bend their heads over it until Paul is again inspired. We have been following “the mighty Snake River,” as Paul calls it, for drinking water and fishing. Papa and Paul have become quite the fishermen, and take me along sometimes when Mama can spare me. Last week I hooked a trout more than a foot long and Paul slowly, patiently pulled back on the line to help me bring it in. That night at supper, my fish—with its crispy skin and mild, flaky meat—was more delicious than any I have tasted before or since.
Soon the Snake River will widen even more to meet the Raft River that flows south toward Utah and Nevada. This place is called “the Parting of the Ways,” where the families heading for Oregon will follow the trail north and west, but we who are heading for California will go south and west through Idaho for a week or so, then cut across the very northwest tip of Utah to go southwest across Nevada. In Nevada we will need to cross a desert for forty miles, so we will take a few days of rest for ourselves and our animals, and fill every available vessel with water. Thankfully we will cross the desert in spring and not in summer, when we might not make it—Papa says that many have died trying. Paul has shown me a hundred times the route we are planning, detailing its adventure and its dangers. Today will be the day the wagon train splits in two.
Last night we had a sort of farewell party for the Parting of the Ways. We ate more delicious fresh fish, and used the last of the dried fruit to sweeten our johnnycakes. Some of the men drank a toast together, and the ones going to the California gold fields got very excited, telling everyone about all the gold they are going to discover and how rich they are going to be.
Gus, who is already eight but still a bit of a baby, asked Papa, “Are we going to California to get gold and live in a big house and have servants and ride in a fine carriage?”
“No, Gus, we don’t need riches. We are going to California to be free to live our lives in peace, and that is worth more than any gold we could find.”
Now, as we break camp and resume the trail, Paul tries to infect me with his enthusiasm, but it is a difficult enterprise. That is, until we spot the elk—the enormous, magnificent bull elk, eating grass at the edge of a woods in a valley below the trail. When he raises his head to chew, he appears bigger than two huge stallions—frighteningly big even at a distance. Judging from his relation to the trees behind him, he is probably about ten feet tall, with antlers spreading as wide as my height of four and a half feet. He does not seem dist
urbed by our wagons, and so far none of the men or boys has tried to shoot at him. Paul and I grab pencil and paper, sketching as swiftly as ever we can.
I have learned that with a large animal it is important to sketch first all of the muscles and underlying bone structure. The elk’s powerful muscles run in great ropes within his flanks and thighs. Once I have a suggestion of these, I can look at his coat of short fur, like a deer’s, which is russet brown, with patches of lighter fur on his back and around his brown eyes.
“His mate is probably in the woods,” Paul says, “either pregnant or with her young, while the bull is bold enough to come out for food and to look out for danger.”
“Could our wagon train be a danger that would make them run away?” I ask, still looking intently from elk to paper to elk.
“Of course, but we are too high above for him to smell or hear us. It’s the perfect vantage point to draw from.”
“I wish we could draw the female and the young, a whole family.”
“Let’s be happy with what we have, eh? If we hadn’t been forced to leave home, we wouldn’t have dust in our noses and throats, and we wouldn’t be so tired from the early mornings and long days, and we wouldn’t be weary to death of jostling along in this wagon and looking at what often seems desolation, right?”
I nod in commiseration.
“But we also would never have seen or drawn such a creature as this elk.”
I take my eyes from my drawing for an instant to look, really look, at Paul, the strong bones of his face so like Papa’s, his forth-right blue eyes, and his joy, which he somehow finds in himself more than in his experiences. This face I do not need to draw. It is imprinted on my heart.
*****
AUGUST 14, 1880
(TEN YEARS LATER)
San Jose, California
Tomorrow, very early, I will leave our home to study at L’Académie de Peinture de Paris. It is impossible to explain the strong emotions competing in me, but they create a force of energy pushing me into my new life.
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