It is sad not to be with my family to mourn. Joseph and his wife, Amelia and her family, Paul and Gus will bury Papa without me, as they buried Mama. I simply do not have the funds to travel to America, even if it were practical for the funeral to be postponed for such a long journey.
I am thankful today to have my friend Ferenc to lean upon. He has arranged for a Mass to be said for Papa at the Catholic basilica at Montmartre, Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, a grand and inspiring place. Though the service is largely foreign to me, the beauty of it soothes my heart. It is as if it were Papa’s funeral. I have dressed in black and worn a heavy veil. Upon entering, we light a large votive candle for Papa that will burn the week through as a symbol of our prayers. The priest mentions Papa’s name several times during the Mass in special prayers. When I leave, I feel that the worst of the sorrow has been purged away.
What a friend and brother Ferenc is to me.
*****
APRIL 1910
(FOUR AND A HALF YEARS LATER)
9 Rue Campagne Premier, Paris
Ferenc Blaskovits has been in Paris a great deal, and it appears that he intends to court me. I cannot allow it.
Oh, he is without doubt one of the finest men I have known, and in fact is like my dear Papa in his mild, sensitive nature and love of beauty. And, yes, his attentions are charming. Yesterday when I returned home from sketching in the countryside, I found five dozen red roses arranged about my rooms, and the following note:
My dear Matilda,
When we first met, walking in the garden of Tata Castle, I offered you a yellow rose in friendship. Do you remember? I told you then that I would discover your true color. This is that color—Alizarin crimson—deep red of lifeblood, with the cool blue undertones of a lady. Please accept these crimson roses as a token of my highest regard.
Ever your servant,
Ferenc Blaskovits
Of course by now the landlady who admitted him to my rooms has spun a romantic tale about the dashing Hungarian count and the American artist. The neighborhood will be buzzing with it. How annoying when one’s private life becomes public.
Who could not be touched by the poetry of his gesture and the sweetness of his message, especially since it must have taken him great pains and some assistance to frame it in English? But it does not escape my notice that in the language of flowers the yellow rose signifies friendship, while the red signifies love.
No, this cannot be. I shall not marry, and our friendship is too important to me to allow for a flirtation.
*****
APRIL 1910
(THE FOLLOWING WEEK)
Rue Campagne Premier, Paris
“In Cairo you began to fall in love with me just a little, admit it.”
“In Cairo I was in love with the camels and the dromedaries, the Bedouin and the unparalleled light, and I also enjoyed the company of my friend.”
“But, Matilda, we are very good together.”
“Indeed we are, as close friends and colleagues.”
“As more than that. We have shared so much in these past years, almost as if we were married.”
“‘Almost’ is a very important word in that statement, Ferenc. Husbands and wives are promised to each other. Friends are free.”
“And you think that you need this freedom to paint, but I do not believe it.”
“Well, I believe it, and I require it. I am freely and gladly your friend, Ferenc. I value your friendship above any other, and I value you. Please accept that, and let us not talk about this anymore.”
“Very well, Matilda. But I will warn you that I am a very patient person.”
*****
JUNE 1911
(ONE YEAR LATER)
9 Rue de Campagne, Paris
“Ferenc, my niece Blanche has sent the most inspiring letter and news clipping from The San Francisco Chronicle. It seems that Blanche and some of her classmates at the state university are holding a strike of their dramatic production because the director is insisting that they dress and behave inappropriately.”
“Indeed, my dear. Her aunt has no doubt inspired her.”
I laugh, a little embarrassed and very pleased. Ferenc knows how I care about the rights of women, and it is characteristic of him to say something kind and encouraging at any opportunity. Thankfully his remarks no longer tend toward the romantic.
“I am proud of her,” I continue. “Of course, the article has a sensational title: ‘Baby Dolls Do Not Like Scene.’ To refer to them in this way rewards their courage with further disrespect, but it cannot diminish it. The article says that the young female dancers refuse to fall into the arms of the male chorus, especially since they are required to wear quite short dresses. And the young women have succeeded, Ferenc! The article reads, ‘…the feature will be dropped for the present, unless the coach is able to bring the men and women of the chorus together.’ Rosa Bonheur always said that if women stand together, they can earn greater respect and opportunity, even if only in small ways, even if only one small step at time.”
“And Matilda Lotz always says that if we elevate our vision, we can keep company with eagles.”
I never said any such thing; he has invented it. Still, sometimes it is a pleasure to let Ferenc have the last word.
*****
AUGUST 1913
(TWO YEARS LATER)
9 Rue Campagne Premier, Paris
Escorting me home after dinner, Ferenc drops to one knee and takes my hand.
“You cannot be serious, my dear Ferenc,” I say, laughing.
“As serious as I have ever been in my life.”
“I am too old for this—”
“You are magnificent.”
“I work all the time. I have been ill and tired. I have almost stopped thinking of myself as a woman.”
“I have never stopped thinking of you as a woman.”
“But my work—”
“Have I ever interfered with your work? Can you think of a single instance?”
“No.”
“Have I ever doubted your abilities, or discouraged you, or failed to value your paintings?”
“No.”
“Do you know why?”
“You value my work as you value your own. You know what it means to paint as I do.”
“Would you ever interfere with my work, Matilda?”
“Of course not.”
“So you see we have one mind in this matter. Your painting is prolific now and well received. Marriage now will not change what you have built in a lifetime. And you have been at least a little in love with me for a long while, as I have been so much in love with you, no?”
“More than a little.”
“Then we shall paint, and we shall love. Yes?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Yes, I will marry you now,” I repeat, surprised at myself because my answer seems completely natural and right and I have not one argument remaining.
Ferenc rises and takes both my hands. “Yes?”
“Yes.” Then he is slipping a ring onto my finger, a diamond surrounded with a swirl of smaller diamonds and set in platinum. It looks like a constellation.
“You rascal! You knew I would accept!”
“No, my dearest Matilda. I hoped you would accept. I asked my mother for this ring on my last visit, certainly not with self-assurance, but with great hope. It belonged to my grandmother, and I have wanted to place it on your finger for a very long time.”
We embrace, laughing at this new, yet somehow inevitable, state of affairs.
*****
SEPTEMBER 8, 1913
(ONE MONTH LATER)
Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, Montmartre
Ferenc and I join hands to climb the dozens of steps leading to the magnificent white stone church, up and up, toward a new life together. Entering, our eyes soar to the dome above the main altar, where Christ, in gleaming white, extends His arms to embrace the race of humankind. Light streams ruby, emerald, and sapphire through the stained-gla
ss windows. There has just been a Mass, and hundreds of candle flames offer the prayers of the faithful.
We are marrying in a Catholic church because Ferenc is Catholic, and because, like my parents before me, and like the Bedouin I have painted, I am a nomad. The many and varied faithful people I have known have taught me to open my mind, and with them I have learned to find God in each of the many places where I have sought refuge.
We have invited no one, preferring to avoid any fuss, to keep this day our own. I am dressed in a simple, dove-colored suit of light wool with a straight skirt and long, fitted jacket, a blouse of creamy handmade lace, and a close-fitting hat, also dove-colored, with a white ostrich plume. I am wearing my mother’s strand of pearls, always her best ornament and now mine. Ferenc has pinned on my lapel a corsage of crimson roses.
Père Martin, with whom we have arranged the ceremony, meets us and leads us to a side altar where, on the spot, he recruits a surprised parishioner and his wife as witnesses. The service is as profound as it is simple. We promise to be true to one another in good times and in bad, to love and honor one another all the days of our lives.
Afterward, we walk down the narrow cobblestone streets of Montmartre and toast with champagne at the Café Beaujolais. The proprietress, a plump, fluttery woman who resembles a pigeon, guesses our occasion, kisses us on both cheeks, and treats us to marvelous tarte aux champignons.
And then we return to my rooms, our new home as husband and wife. I am not giddily in love; I am not a blushing bride. At fifty-five years old, I have joined my life to that of my true friend and I am quietly, thoroughly happy. Ferenc and I spend the night discovering one another. I think we shall never stop discovering one another.
*****
JUNE 30, 1914
(NINE MONTHS LATER)
9 Rue Campagne Premier, Paris
I am in my studio preparing a canvas when Ferenc enters looking agitated, the color drained from his face. “Tillie, sit down. I have very bad news.”
“Just one moment.” I finish smoothing out the gesso on the canvas, seal the container, wipe the knife, and wash my hands, a bit annoyed that Ferenc has interrupted my work rather than waiting another half hour for this visit.
We sit facing each other at the east window.
“Tillie, Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Duchess Sophie have been killed in Sarajevo.”
I am stunned. The archduke was the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne. He was not a traditionalist like his uncle the emperor, but a reformer with great visions for his people. It stirred me to hear him speak while I was visiting the Imperial Palace to paint. “Who has killed him? Why?”
“The simple answer is that a young Bosnian Serb killed him because a small group of Bosnians want independence, but it is more complicated than that.”
“Yes, they always say that it is complicated,” I answer as hot blood rushes to my face and I begin to shake, “but the fact is that they have murdered an innocent woman and a great man who could have helped them. Do you remember how he spoke about transforming the Hapsburg Empire into the United States of Great Austria? That beautiful map he created? Instead of letting someone with dreams and power help them, they have killed him. Now they will have no one to help them, and it serves them right.” Tears choke me as I speak. I did not know I had so much anger.
“If only this were all, but it seems that much worse will happen. Tillie, we may need to leave Paris.”
“No! Why?”
“It is complicated.”
“That word again!”
“Tillie, my dear, take a few breaths. This makes you upset but we need to discuss it. I received the news of the assassination last evening, and I have spent a night without sleep considering the situation. I do not like to bring politics into our talks, but now I must.” Ferenc goes on to explain, in English when possible and in French when necessary, how international relations have been very strained for a long while. He tells me that even when he was a young man, the intrigue and wrongdoing were very great and this is one of the reasons that he knew he could not be active in the government. The politics now, as then, involve treaties and alliances that can make enemies of countries that have no actual quarrel with each other. France is an ally of the Russian Empire, and Russia is the protector of Serbia. Austria-Hungary angered Serbia some time ago by taking its territories in Bosnia, which means that Russia is angered, as well, and so, possibly, France may be.
At this point I must stop him. “This is so twisted that it makes my head ache, Ferenc. Are you saying that France is now an enemy of Austria-Hungary?”
“Not yet, but they could become enemies at any time, and with this assassination that could be soon. What is more, Germany is Austria-Hungary’s close ally. The German kaiser loves war and he is looking for a reason for conflict. He is an ally, but I do not like him or trust him. Germany borders France, and an attack on Paris would be easy.”
“But, Ferenc, Paris is our home now. Our community of artists and writers is here. Our paintings are shown and sold here.”
“It is not a good home if our lives are in danger, Tillie.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“We could move to Hungary.”
“To Tata?”
“Yes, to my mother’s estate, or if you prefer it, to Earl Miklos’s estate.”
“But what is there for us in Hungary? Is that not the life you left behind to become a painter?”
“I understand. Hungary is my home, but it is not yours. I agree, too, that our artistic life there would be a poor shadow of what it is here. But I think we would be safe. There is little to interest an enemy in the small city of Tata—no government to speak of, little wealth, no strategic location.”
“Ha! I think the same could have been said of my home in Franklin, Tennessee, shortly before it became a battlefield.”
“My Tillie, such horrible memories you have. But this is not civil war. I think the battles will be elsewhere.”
“Is there anywhere else we could go, Ferenc? What about Africa? Is there likely to be fighting there?” My emotions are becoming calmer as we work to solve this problem. I can see that Ferenc is very concerned, and it is becoming clear to me that we have to leave Paris.
“Fighting in Africa is possible—the Ottoman Empire could get involved, but it is not involved now.”
“Is it likely to become involved?”
“I cannot say. But you would much rather go to Africa than to Hungary, no? You like it there so much. I do, as well, especially Algiers. I had a wonderful childhood there. We could speak French. There are almost as many French in Algiers as in Paris, and many Americans, as well. You have always liked that.”
“We could live there inexpensively, even if we are not selling many paintings. It would be good to paint there again, Ferenc, would it not?”
“It would. We are decided then. I will write to some people today about a house. But we will need to begin to pack immediately, Tillie. Try not to bring too much.
*****
JULY 1914
(TWO WEEKS LATER)
9 Rue de Campagne Premier, Paris
I am looking helplessly around our comfortable rooms at all our special things. Without a doubt it is a blessing to be an artist, but it is also a burden, literally. Ferenc and I see things in a more intense way than most, so we develop a kind of appreciation for a chair, a book, or a vase that is so personal it may be called a form of love. To complicate this, so many of our belongings are connected with people we love, some of whom we will not see again in this life. And now “they,” whoever “they” are—those powers who do not know what love is—have gone to war again. Now this beautiful city may become a battleground, even as once my home in Franklin became a battleground, and we must flee this home, as well, taking only very little of what we love. I have already given away so many nice things—our Limoges china, which would not have weathered the journey; most of our books, many of which were difficult to part with; and most dif
ficult of all, our little terrier Lumi. Our neighbor Charlene will take good care of her.
It is difficult to know where to begin today—what to pack, what to set aside to give away—but I start with what I cannot part with, taking from the mantle the miniatures of Papa and Mama, and wrapping them tenderly in my best silk scarf. Then there is the porcelain music box from my dear friend Rosa Bonheur. She, like Papa and Mama, has gone beyond this world of painful partings, leaving everything behind but herself. I turn the delicate object in my hands, tracing the finely crafted faces and hands of the two lovely women, arm in arm, who decorate it. “They are you and I, ma chère,” she said as she presented it to me.
Rosa, why would you, who were so strong and resilient, leave me with this fragile memento of our unbreakable friendship? This sculpture will never survive the journey to Algiers. I turn the key on the bottom and listen for the last time to its melody, “Tristesse” (“Sadness”) by Chopin, one of Rosa’s favorites. It is a fitting tune for these times, and for how much I miss her. The music evokes the features of Rosa’s face, so firm, intelligent, and kind. She taught me to paint what I see regardless of anyone’s opinion, to be strong in the face of criticism and opposition. It has been said of both Rosa and me that we paint like men, but that is not so. We both have painted as people who portray what they see and do not sentimentalize. This makes us not men, but courageous and forthright women.
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