Lift My Eyes

by Magdalen Dugan

  I resolve to paint Rosa from memory while I am in Algiers. Then I carefully wrap the porcelain music box in tissue to give to L’Alliance Internationale des Femmes, the women’s group Rosa always supported. Though she has been gone from this world for only fourteen years, Rosa has become so famous that anything belonging to her should bring this organization quite a sum toward establishing the rights of women to work and act in the world, and this Rosa cared about perhaps just as much as painting.

  *****

  JUNE 1883

  (THIRTY-ONE YEARS EARLIER)

  The Paris Salon

  For the first time, I am showing at the prestigious Paris Salon my painting of the two dogs, “Ronflo and Rough.” I am confident that the painting is good. The San Francisco Bulletin has written a favorable review quoting from a Paris correspondent with the Baltimore Sun, and Papa and Mama are so proud they have bought every copy they could lay hands on.

  I am not surprised to be here, but I am surely out of place. Not only am I a woman, the only woman in my class at L’Académie de Peinture de Paris, but I am an American, and one with little skill in the French language. I stand near my painting, trying to catch a few words of the viewers’ comments. Almost no one speaks to me, and when they do, it is only a polite word or two.

  But who is this magnificent figure in black silk, regal in spite of her short, stocky physique, her hair cropped as short as a man’s? She is approaching me, and I am afraid that she is going to speak.

  “Mademoiselle Lotz?”

  “Oui, Madame,” I manage to stammer.

  “You are the young American woman who paints the animals comme vos amis.”

  I think she has said that I paint animals as my friends. “Merci, Madame. I paint what I see, and the animals are truly—vraiment—mes amis, my friends.”

  As she removes her glove, I note the prestigious medallion of the French Legion of Honor on her right shoulder. She extends her hand. “I am Rosa Bonheur. I also paint the animals comme mes amis. And you shall be also mon amie, my friend.”

  I take a deep breath against dizziness. Rosa Bonheur is one of the most respected animal painters in Paris, in the entire world as far as I know. I have studied her work these three years I have been at L’Académie. Rosa Bonheur has just said that she wants to be my friend. I hope that my hand is not perspiring too much as I take hers.

  But she immediately puts me at ease. She speaks of her striving to see the animals truly, to render them faithfully, as her father, the realist painter Raymond Bonheur, taught her. But the desire is not enough, she says, nor is the eye alone. One must study the physiology of the animals, in order to paint the flesh and bones beneath the skin. I have heard the stories of how, years ago, she cut her hair and donned men’s clothing to be admitted to the slaughterhouses where women were forbidden to enter, how she braved the odors and dangers of the bloody warehouses in order to study the bodies of cows, pigs, and sheep to inform her paintings. I say little, though, but simply listen, letting her words kindle new inspiration in me.

  After a few moments she takes her leave, but she is as correct in her prediction as she is great in her esthetics. From that moment forward, in spite of the difference in our ages and accomplishments, Rosa Bonheur is my true friend, and I am hers.

  *****

  JANUARY 1885

  (TWO YEARS LATER)

  Paris

  “Rosa, listen, the critics in America like my painting! The San Jose Mercury News says, ‘A picture by Miss Matilda Lotz, now in the San Francisco Ladies’ Art Exhibition and entitled, Le Premier Dejeuner, is pronounced by critics as above criticism, and by far the best picture in the exhibition.’ What is more, Rosa, and what is beyond my deserving, they rank me near to you. ‘As an animal painter she is rapidly taking rank with Rosa Bonheur.’ They cannot understand how far your accomplishments surpass my own, dear Rosa, or know how much you are teaching me, but will you forgive them, and be happy for me?”

  Rosa smiles her wide, generous smile that reminds me of Mama’s. “Certainement, ma chère. You are my protégé, so of course they compare you with me, and this gives me plaisir. You learn quickly and well, but more, you want with your heart to paint truly. This is your great gift, which deserves every honor they give.”

  I am silent a moment to bask in Rosa’s praise, more rare and more valuable to me than the praise of the critics. But her point, that it is the desire to paint well that merits praise, strikes a nerve. I have now won two gold medals from the Paris Academy, and I confess that this great honor has swelled my heart with pride, especially since I am the first woman to receive these awards. Indeed, my work is good. But I have been given a natural talent for which I must be grateful, and that talent has been shaped by the best of teachers to whom I have been led by the generosity of my patrons and by my parents’ faith in me. For all of this the authentic response must be gratitude and not pride, since I am not the author of any of these gifts. What then has been my part but to love that which I see, and to strive, even to struggle, to paint it faithfully? This, and purposefulness, a refusal to be moved in my resolve to paint. Yet it seems that to a great extent these qualities also are the gifts of Papa and Mama, and now of Rosa Bonheur. Now that I have come to this realization on my own, Rosa speaks again.

  “Ma chère, there is something else. You must see this praise for what it is. The critics see the painting, perhaps, and say that it is good. To their great surprise, they see that a woman can paint. Astonishing! They do not see you. They do not know whether you are good.

  “Regarde. Twenty years ago I became the first woman to receive the Legion of Honor. It is a great prize, no? But how did I receive it? I was forced to wait until Emperor Louis-Napoleon was away from Paris. And why? Because the great emperor could not bear the thought that a woman had won such an honor. My critics and my country could not resist honoring my work, but they did not see me. They could see only a woman despised by the emperor.

  “Ma chère, the best teacher will see you not as a young woman of twenty-seven, not as a woman at all, but a painter, one who is and is becoming a painter. The best teacher will see that you are good à un degré, how do you say this?”

  “The same word. I am good to a degree,” I say a little sadly.

  “Oui. You are good to a degree, but you must continue to become better.”

  Rosa Bonheur is this teacher who sees me, of this I am certain, but I am too shy to say so. Instead, I rise from my chair to sit on the rug at her feet, and she rests a hand on my shoulder.

  *****

  JANUARY 1885

  (TWO YEARS LATER)

  Rosa Bonheur’s Home at By

  The carriage rattles over cobbled streets and speeds down country roads, past flowering cherry trees bright in the afternoon sun. Life confronts death again, and at this moment it is not clear to me which will be the victor.

  I left this morning the moment I received the message that Rosa was declining. Will I be able to see her before the end? I have just lost Mama last November. She passed quickly, without my being able to return to California to say good-bye. It would be devastating to lose Rosa in the same way.

  At last I arrive at Rosa’s farm, and I bolt from the carriage, into the house, up the stairs, as her maid is calling something after me, something which cannot possibly be important enough to detain me. But when I arrive at the door of Rosa’s bedroom, I realize what the message must have been—the darkened room is lit with candles and perfumed with rose incense—the priest is here, administering the last rites. People are standing near the doorway, so I join them quietly until the service is completed.

  Anna Klumpke stands at the foot of the bed like a somber statue draped in black. This Anna is the American portrait painter from Boston who has shared Rosa’s home for some years since the death of Rosa’s lifelong friend Nathalie Micas. Many gossip wildly about the nature of their relationship, but I do not know its personal details. I know only that Anna, like Nathalie before her, loves Rosa and sh
ares her life, and I know that, like me, she is a young woman who must witness the passing of her friend. I, too, know what it is to love Rosa, in our case as the student loves the master. Anna does not cry, but gazes steadily at the figure in the bed.

  That figure, always one of the strongest and most vibrant persons I have known, is scarcely recognizable. The compact, muscular body remains the same, since Rosa has been actively painting, tromping about her farm, and caring for her animals right up to the end. But the face is drawn and pale, and devoid of that life force that always illumined a room and commanded attention. All has drawn inside now, as the sap of a tree in hard winter, waiting and, so I hope, preparing for renewal.

  In French, the priest asks Rosa whether she repents of the sins of her life. She opens her eyes, nods, murmurs something I cannot hear. It seems she has already given a confession and is now affirming it. Her eyes are watery and only half open. Is she in pain, or simply weak?

  Now the priest recites the Creed in Latin and some of those present join in quietly. Rosa echoes some of the phrases; it seems she does not have the strength to recite the entire prayer. Then the Our Father is begun. The priest slows the prayer, as Rosa struggles to pronounce each word. Our Father, I say in my heart, forgive her. She was great in her goodness and in her art and perhaps she was also great in her transgressions. She did not know anything but large thinking and bold living. Surely the beauty she made stands out from the mistakes. Surely not only her paintings will live on.

  Now Rosa opens her mouth to receive Holy Communion, a tiny particle that the priest inserts carefully, no doubt guarding against choking, since she seems unable to lift her head, and finally he utters a blessing, asking that God forgive her and lead her to eternal life.

  We all murmur, “Amen.”

  “Amen,” Rosa says, surprisingly forcefully. And this is the last word she speaks. No doubt exhausted, she closes her eyes and lies very still, seeming to recede into the blankets.

  One by one, people nod or bow to the still figure of the great artist, offer a word to Anna Klumpke, and quietly leave the room. I move into a corner where I can look on her, now sleeping, her breasts rising and falling rhythmically.

  Now I can weep, sensing that she is already leaving us and will not return. Does she know that I am here? Perhaps it does not matter, since she is occupied with the greatest work of her life, this final metamorphosis. Will it always be like this for me, standing alone in cold, stony grief while those I love leave this world for one I cannot even properly imagine? But my tears warm me, making the pain more present for just a moment before lifting the stone from heart. I weep for Rosa, for Mama, for Paul. I could not say good-bye to any of them. I wonder whether they can forgive me. I weep for myself, the one who remains.

  Then suddenly, out of the second-story window, I glimpse Rosa’s lion, bounding across the enclosed lawn.

  *****

  FALL, 1872

  (TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER)

  Woodward’s Gardens, San Francisco

  I am standing fewer than ten feet from a magnificent golden lion. His head is huge and haloed with a golden mane that looks so soft I want to run my hands through it, though I do know that if I did, he could kill me. He regards me calmly; I behold him in awe. He is not as large as I expected him to be from what Paul and I read, but his presence is even greater than I imagined—an intelligent, powerful, and noble presence. I am thirteen years old, and this is my first trip to the wonder known as a zoological garden. I want to draw this lion, but I do not, not today. I cannot take my eyes away from him, not until Paul pulls me off to see more animals.

  Woodward’s Gardens are very popular and hold many different fascinations. Paul would have spent hours at our first stop, the main house, looking at the paintings and sculptures collected from around the world. I agreed that these are lovely and I would like to return to give more attention to them. Then Mama wanted to visit the conservatory of rare plants and trees. But I could not concentrate on greenery or even on art, jealous of every minute I could be spending with the animals.

  The birds wander where they like here. The ostriches with their large bodies, long necks, and tiny heads, are awkward when they walk, and hilarious when they run. The flamingos are the most astounding color, an orange-pink—I pick up a drifted feather to press in my journal. Deer, cows, horses, and sheep roam among the birds as if in the Garden of Eden. But the wolves and bears, and of course the lion, are kept in cages. I suppose they must be, or they could not be here at all.

  “They don’t seem as happy as the animals we saw in the wild on our journey,” I say to Papa. “Is it right to lock them up like this?”

  “Is it right? I cannot say, Tillie,” Papa answers. “Are you enjoying visiting them?”

  I nod.

  “Do you understand how dangerous the caged animals are?”

  “Yes. This seems like the Garden of Eden, but I know that cannot be.”

  “Then you have some difficult facts existing together. You like to visit them, we are not in the Garden of Eden, and they are as dangerous as they are beautiful. You will need to think about this.”

  *****

  SPRING, 1873

  (ABOUT SIX MONTHS LATER)

  Woodward’s Gardens, San Francisco

  I have returned to visit my wonderful lion. Today I am going to pet him.

  I have thought about the difficult facts existing together as Papa told me to do, and I have come to some conclusions.

  I would like to set the lion free, but of course this is impossible. I would not be able to get the cage open, and even if I did it would be terrible for everyone, including him, if he were to be loose in the city. The authorities would have to shoot him to keep him from hurting people. So he is as well off here at Woodward’s Gardens as anywhere outside of Africa, which is where he probably wants to be.

  The other difficult facts are that he is beautiful and at the same time he is dangerous. This I can do something about. Our horse Obsidian used to be dangerous to ride, but I tamed him. I looked into his eyes and petted him and talked to him until he trusted me. Then I could ride him.

  I approach the bars that separate the lion and me. “Hello, my beauty. I don’t know your name, but I will call you Sunrise because that is what your mane reminds me of. Hello, Sunrise. I am Tillie.” As I speak, he approaches me. I extend my hand just up to the opening in the bars and he sniffs it, the way a horse or dog would do. His eyes are golden brown and so intelligent. I look into them and he does not break the gaze.

  I stand there a long time, telling Sunrise about our family and our animals and how I like to draw, and he stands there listening. Then very slowly, I reach my hand through the opening in the bars, closer, closer until finally I can touch his mane. It is not as soft as it looks, but it is thrilling to touch him, to know him.

  “I need to go back to my family now, Sunrise, but I will come back soon. Next time, I will draw your picture.”

  *****

  SUMMER, 1893

  (TWENTY YEARS LATER)

  Basel, Switzerland

  Today I have seen a hippopotamus, a rhinoceros, and a giraffe for the first time. They are all astonishing creatures.

  I was recently painting portraits of Earl Esterházy’s horses in in Hungary when some of his Swiss guests invited me to their home here in Basel to paint their dogs. Today I have been taken by their entourage to a place of local pride, their zoological garden. Here animals from all parts of the world are on exhibit. Indeed this is a great adventure, though I wish I had the time and materials to sketch.

  As much as I want to see these wild creatures, I cannot help regretting that they are on display behind bars. There is something I do not like about the attitudes of the people who do this. For example, today we have been told that we cannot view the Bengal tiger, since he is deemed “too aggressive.” This makes me smile, since recently I, too, have been termed by critics “too aggressive” in my painting style, “too much like a man.” Why, I w
onder, do we engage with a being and then criticize it for its nature? Of course a tiger is aggressive; how could it fail to be so?

  The breeze is a delicious complement to the summer warmth. I close my eyes to savor its passage across my hands and wrists, and I lift from my neck the hair that has escaped my chignon. When I open my eyes, it is to see, some ten feet distant, the world of two brown eyes enshrined in a huge head of golden fur—an African lion, always one of my favorite animals, one I first encountered in San Francisco as a child. I meet his gaze and slowly approach the cage. As his eyes search my nature, I speak to him.

  “Hello, beauty, hello. Who are you? I am Matilda, beauty.”

  I take the glove from one hand and slowly reach it toward the bars, wanting, as I did years ago at Woodward’s Gardens, to pet this magnificent creature, to bury my hand in his mane. I extend my hand to let him get my scent, I on one side of the bars, and he on the other, talking to him, meeting his gaze, until he is comfortable with me. We continue to meet each other’s eyes as he sticks out his tongue to lick the tips of my fingers. By now I can tell his frame of mind, and I inch my hand closer to him, through the opening in the bars, closer and closer, until a cry from behind me breaks the mood. The lion rears his head and growls.

  “Fraulein Lotz! Achtung! Be careful!” My companion runs up behind me, warning me in German and English. “Mein Gott! Take away your hand! Der Lowe ist gefahrlich! The lion is dangerous!”

  “Jah, ehrlich,” I reply. “Yes, indeed. He is too aggressive.”

  “Excuse, Fraulein Lotz? What is it you say?” My companion, an overly polite young man, is offended at my tone.

  “No matter,” I reply. Obediently I withdraw my hand and replace my glove. As I walk away, I wonder, if Rosa Bonheur had been here, what she would have to say. I wonder, too, whether this lion is aware that he has been forced from his home.