With Violets

by Elizabeth Robards

  “There,” he says after he has f inished. “That should teach him.”

  I am so stunned I cannot speak.

  He removes a still-life painting of a bunch of asparagus from the wall and hangs Degas’ family portrait in its prominent place.

  The scene disturbs me in a way that knocks me off balance. Or is it because I’ve come here today, tempting fate, when I know better.

  “I should go.”

  I go to the couch and collect my muff and start toward the door.

  “Stay just a while, please?”

  I hesitate. I have never glimpsed this unpredictable, angry side of him. It frightens me so much I’m not sure it is safe to stay.

  He must be reading my thoughts. “I’m sorry. Degas makes me so angry. Sometimes he oversteps the bounds of appropriateness.”

  The spell is broken, and any fanciful thoughts I might have entertained have been trampled under his tirade. So I stand, wearing my hat and coat, clinging to my muff, as he pours tea.

  “Come sit. I know you don’t have much time, you must get back to your sick Maman, but please indulge me for fifteen minutes.”

  I remove my hat and coat and sit upon the big red divan, my dress puffed around me like a giant white cloud. I twist my body toward him so that we might finish our conversation.

  “Stay just like that” he says, picking up his sketch book. He draws a few quick marks, then gets up, rummages through a drawer in a chest across from the bed and pulls out a red fan— the same one I held in Le Balcon. He hands it to me. Steps back to look, then kneels and tugs the hem of my skirt up so my black slipper shows prominently.

  “What are you doing?” I pull my foot back, but he grasps it firmly and returns it to where he originally placed it.

  “Don’t move,” he says. “I want to paint you just like this.” “Édouard, I must get back—”

  “I know. Just allow me a few moments to capture you just like this.”

  I cannot resist. So I make small talk while he sketches, determined to lighten the tone.

  “I have come with news. My sister, Edma, is engaged to be married.”

  He smiles. “Is she?”

  “I believe you know the fellow. Adolphe Pontillon?” “Pontillon? You’re joking? He is an old navy comrade of

  mine.”

  “He proposed just last week. We expected it sooner, but his military unit shipped out for a month. Our house is all af lutter with wedding plans and such.”

  “When is the special day?”

  “In late February or early March. They have not chosen the date just yet. I suppose with Edma’s wedding, she will not be part of the new modern movement now. Degas and company will just have to understand.” I stiffen at having uttered his name and hope it doesn’t cause Édouard’s bad mood to return.

  “Why not?”

  “Edma will give up painting once she marries.”

  “Why would she do that? Why would she throw away such talent?”

  I have asked the same question myself numerous times, and I am thrilled to hear him echoing my sentiments.

  “Are you saying you would have your wife be a painter?” “My wife is not a painter, so I cannot answer that question.

  But if my wife painted, I would consider it my duty to be her greatest source of inspiration.” He arches his brows. “I would not be doing my duty as a husband if I did not encourage her.”

  There’s implied meaning in that statement, says Olympia. Propriety ignores her.

  His gaze lingers on my face and his hand pauses, charcoal on the sketch pad. “You look so . . . . so beautiful . . . in your white dress and black ribbon, sitting there with your cheeks pink and f lushed. I want to remember you this way always.”

  See! See there? says Olympia.

  My pulse pounds. I desire him so much it is torture, and for this brief moment he is mine. We two are the only beings in the world. I savor the moment and its lush sensuality.

  “Are you painting much these weeks, since I no longer hold you captive in my studio?”

  “Oui. I am concentrating on my copy studies at the Louvre, as I will not have time to finish something for the Salon jury to consider.”

  “Nonsense, if you get to work you could easily have a masterpiece together well in time for the jury.”

  I shake my head. “It is doubtful with Edma’s wedding dominating every waking moment.”

  He frowns. “Do not let others distract you.”

  I lift my eyebrows at him and resist reminding him that he is the one who usually dominates my time.

  He laughs. “I saw that look on your face. How terribly inconsiderate of me, Mademoiselle, to monopolize your time when I am warning you against just the such. I understand that you have work to tend to and precious little time in which to do it. It is not often a woman enraptures me. When that happens, the whole world seems to slip away.”

  What did I tell you? says Olympia.

  A sensation like a whirlwind lifts the pit of my stomach and takes f light inside me.

  “Really, I do not mind. If I did, I should not be sitting here right now.”

  He smiles.

  “So your sister is getting married,” he says absently. “And you?” He says the words so vaguely, I do not understand what he means.

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you have a bridegroom on the horizon?”

  “Moi? Getting married? Of course not.” “I am delighted to hear that.”

  His seductive smile stirs something inside me. I do not like it, because it is something he should not be toying with if we are to remain friends in the pure sense of the word.

  “Why are you delighted that I should not give myself to another, Édouard?”

  He does not answer me. I am not comfortable with the direction the conversation is taking.

  “I should leave.” “Not yet. Please?”

  I can neither stay in hopes of a companionable visit nor can I summon the will to rise and take my leave. So I sit silently count-ing the beats between his looking at me and the paper as he draws. Until finally his eyes linger on me, straying from the rhythm.

  “You realize they’re all mad for you.”

  It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Pardon?”

  “Especially Degas, I could tell what was on his mind when he came to the studio to see Le Balcon. And when he delivered that painting.” He nods to the altered canvas on the wall. “Beware of him, Berthe.”

  Interesting, since that is precisely what Degas said about him, says Propriety.

  “You are angry over Degas’ painting, Édouard. It has nothing to do with my friendship with Degas. So please do not pretend that it does.”

  “It should not have anything to do with you, but he has made it so. He painted that portrait of Suzanne and me because of you, so that I would remember my place.”

  “Well, you should. You are married. Degas and I are not. He is my friend. And even if he is a little gruff, he is as safe as a kitten.”

  Édouard slams down the sketch book.

  “He is the world’s worst misogynist, and even though he is enamored with you he is incapable of expressing it properly, much less loving you the way you deserve to be loved.”

  “Pray, tell me exactly how I deserve to be loved, Édouard?”

  He takes my hand and pulls me up from the chair so we stand face-to-face. I believe for a moment he will kiss me, but he does not. I am more disappointed than relieved, because he has awakened something in me that will no longer sleep, something that longs for more and will not be satisfied with just the occasional visit where we passionately fall into each other’s arms fearing we will be discovered.

  “We cannot do this,” I murmur. Yet, he does not back away, does not release me. “You will not have me, yet you do not want anyone else to have me. It is the worst of inhumane treatment, Édouard, because I do deserve to be loved.”

  Chapter Twelve

  ‌

  “Everything
that was no longer exists; everything that is to be does not yet exist.”

  — Alfred de Musset

  FEBRUARY 1896

  Dearest Berthe,

  I have never once in my life written to you. It is therefore not too surprising I was very sad when we were separated for the first time. I am beginning to recover a little, and I hope that my husband is not aware of the void I feel without you. He is very sweet. Full of attention and solicitude for me. Please be happy for me.

  Yours Always, Edma

  My Dearest Edma,

  If we go on this way, we shall no longer be good for anything. You cry on receiving my letters, and I did just the same thing this morning. Your letters are so affectionate, but so melancholy, but I repeat, this sort of thing is unhealthy. It is making us lose whatever remains of our youth. For me this is of no importance, but for you it is different.

  This painting, this work that you mourn for, is the cause of much grief and many troubles. You know it as well as I do.

  Come now, the lot you have chosen is not the worst one. You have a serious attachment, and a man’s heart utterly devoted to you. Do not revile your fate. Remember it is sad to be alone; despite anything that may be said or done, a woman has an immense need of affection. For her to withdraw into herself is to attempt the impossible.

  Oh, how I am lecturing you! I do not mean to. I am saying what I think, what seems to be true.

  Affectionately, Your sister Berthe

  MARCH 1869

  I try to pretend Edma is merely away on holiday without me, but I do not succeed in fooling myself into a better mood.

  I have not seen Édouard since that cold January day at his studio. He did not come after me with a plea of friendship, and

  I certainly did not seek him out only to have him tell me we will never be. I do not trust myself alone with him anymore. I certainly will not throw myself at a man who does not want me. It is all for the best that I have a million tasks to tend to, important work that went undone as I helped my sister prepare for her marriage to Adolphe.

  After all the celebrations surrounding the wedding, I am in no mood for another soirée, especially one where I am expected to assist Maman in serving as hostess to Édouard and his family among nearly thirty other guests for the informal gathering.

  Alas, Maman is in a festive mood having succeeded in marrying off her second daughter. She seems on a mission to create a matrimonial trio. I suppose she believes she stands a better chance of striking a match for me if she casts me in the company of eligible men. So she has taken it upon herself to invite every unmarried man I have ever mentioned, including Eugène Manet, which means she also extended an invitation to Édouard, Suzanne, and Madame Manet.

  They all come.

  As well, in attendance are Degas, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, Fontin (who is still nursing heartbreak over Edma’s nuptials), among others, including several unmarried men who work at the ministry with Papa.

  At least Maman is playing fair—an equal number of interesting, creative fellows offsets the dull business-minded professionals whom I fear will bore me until I nod off as they rattle on about industry and finance and other dry subjects, which hold absolutely no interest for me.

  Without my dear Edma, I scarcely know what to do with myself and hide in the kitchen, helping Amélie.

  It’s an informal affair. Hors d’oeuvres and drinks, which Amélie ran herself ragged to prepare. Small consolation, it’s not

  a dinner party. Still, I wonder why Maman cannot just leave it alone.

  She walks into the kitchen, sets two empty wine decanters on the table, and starts barking orders. “Amélie, we need more canapés and the carafes need to be refilled. Please be more vig-ilant so that they are not drained empty. It looks bad when my guests have to ask for refreshment.”

  The poor girl shoves a tray into the oven, wipes the perspi-ration off her forehead with the back of her hand, and starts to fill a plate with hors d’oeuvres.

  “Berthe, why are you in the kitchen when we have guests in the drawing room?”

  I pour a bottle of wine in the carafe. “Because I prefer Amélie’s company to the thirty intimate friends you have invited over tonight. Maman, I am sick to death of parties after all we have just been through for Edma’s marriage.”

  “This soirée is for your benefit,” she says. “Please come with me and be sociable. Perhaps you, too, will find a husband. There are plenty of eligible men out there. Surely there’s someone out there who suits you.”

  If you only knew, Maman. I blink back the urge to voice my thoughts and say instead, “I am not looking for a husband, Maman. Marriage is not something I will enter into unless I am in love.”

  Amélie bangs the oven door shut.

  “It is far better to get married with compromises than to remain independent and in a position that is no position at all,” Maman quips. “Within a few years what is left of your charm will pale, and all too soon, you will have far fewer friends than you have now. Tonight, you have your choice of any man in the room.”

  In other words, the bloom is wilting on the vine. I should present myself to be picked while the picking was good.

  When I do not respond, she says, “Go along, you have not greeted the Manets. Please do make an effort, Berthe.”

  As Maman and I enter the drawing room, my gaze connects with Édouard’s. It is true. I have not yet spoken to him. I realize it is the mark of a terrible hostess.

  A young man whom I do not know—probably someone from Papa’s office—is playing a lively Mozart concerto on the piano. As I make my way over to greet the Manets, I see Degas.

  Good. I shall talk to him instead. I suppose a good hostess would make obligatory greetings, not tying herself to one guest until she’s made her rounds. But hostessing, as with wife-ing, is not my strong suit, and I do not have the energy or the inclination to make the rounds. I’ll opt for a long visit with Degas, whom I have discovered is always good for a dry laugh. He, of all people, will see the irony in Maman’s pitiful attempt to marry me off to the first man who would have me.

  I steal a glance at Édouard, who still stands near the door talking to Fantin. So Édouard believes Degas to be mad for me.

  How ridiculous.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur.”

  Degas stands. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Lovely to see you tonight. I trust you have been well?”

  We talk about our work, Edma’s wedding, and the progress he and Monet have made arranging a show independent of the Salon.

  “Our hardest task seems to be finding a gallery that will host such an event. We have had no luck.”

  “Now that my sister’s wedding is over, perhaps I can help.” “That would be very kind of you.” He reaches into his coat pocket and removes a slender, rectangular object I soon realize

  is a fan. “Here, I have brought you a gift.”

  I open it and realize it is not just an ordinary fan, but beau-

  tifully hand painted in watercolor and brown ink. It portrayed a group of Spanish dancers and musicians.

  “Did you paint this?”

  He nods. “You see here, this depicts the romantic poet Alfred de Musset.” He leans in closer—but there is nothing improper in his gesture—and points to the figure. I feel Édouard watching us as we talk. “You know of Musset, yes?”

  I nod. “The writer. He enjoyed quite a passionate liaison with George Sand.”

  “Oui, this is she.” He points to a figure drawn opposite Musset.

  Degas’ gift gives me pause. Why a painting of Musset and Sand? If I let my mind wander, it could pick out all sorts of suggestions—commentary on my affinities . . . But how would he know? Or Degas’ affinities? It is curious how Manet and Degas have avoided each other tonight.

  “Have you spoken to Monsieur Manet and Suzanne?”

  “I have not.” Degas swells like a big toad. “He is no friend of mine.”

  “What is the matter?”

  “He is a vandal, an
ingrate. Quelle horreur! I gave him a gift and he defaced it. I presented him with a family portrait I had painted myself. I go to his atelier to find he has painted over it.” I did not dare confess I was there the day Édouard did so.

  I also do not dare question the underlying meaning implied in the portrait or the fan. Oh, Degas, what kind of innuendo? I tap the fan against my palm.

  “Watch out for him,” Degas says. “Manet cannot be true.

  He has an inherently fickle nature and cannot be trusted.”

  His insinuation makes me uncomfortable. I do not like being in this position. Even if I am keeping my distance from Édouard, both men are my friends.

  “Monsieur Manet is a gentleman.”

  “Come now, Mademoiselle, open your eyes. His behavior is as clear as the crystal chandelier that hangs from your ceiling. He has designs, but they are not so well hidden as he might think.”

  “Bonsoir, Degas, do I hear you taking my name in vain?”

  Édouard appears, smiling. I am relieved because he can defend himself if Degas continues to persecute him. I will not be responsible for the task.

  Degas talked on as if he had not heard Édouard approach. “You claim Manet is a gentleman? Since when? Did he finally decide to spin moral fiber?” He turns in mock surprise. “Ah, Manet, there you are.”

  Degas is angry, and after the display of temper I witnessed in Édouard’s studio, I fear they will get into a brawl. “Monsieur, your timing is impeccable. We were indeed talking about you.”