With Violets

by Elizabeth Robards

  Looking at my sister, so full of life, it is quite clear that she has moved on with her life.

  This is how I decide to paint her: with her back to the cold, ugly harshness of the world. A rose that has blossomed and is thriving in the prime of her life.

  My Dear Bijou,

  Your father seemed to be deeply touched by the letter you wrote to him. He appears to have discovered in you unsuspected treasures of the heart, and unusual tenderness toward him.

  In consequence, he often says he misses you. But I wonder why. You hardly ever talk to each other. You are never together. Does he miss you then, as one misses a piece of furniture or a pet bird? I am trying to convince him to the contrary, that it is much better not to see your poor little face bewildered and dissatisfied over a fate about which we can do nothing. It is a relief. This is what we have come to think, and we conclude that it is much better for you to be with Edma. That you two should remain together for a while.

  I visited Manet, whom I found in greater ecstasies than ever in front of his model Gonzalés. He did not move from his stool. He asked how you were, but I suspect he has forgotten all about you for the time being. Mademoiselle Gonzalés has won all of Manet’s attention. She has all the virtues, all the talent, all the charms. She is an accomplished woman.

  Last Wednesday there was nobody at the Stevens’s except Monsieur Degas, who sends his regards.

  That is all for now, Maman

  I crumple Maman’s letter. Why isn’t she content with four hundred kilometers separating Édouard and me? Why is she still so afraid of what might happen that she f inds it necessary to rub my nose in the news that he has forgotten

  me in my absence? That Eva Gonzalés holds him captive in her spell?

  I stand at the window and gaze out at the harbor, at the lonely boats and the still, glassy water. I once read that water was a symbol for life. But here it seems dead. Is it an omen? The death of dreams and lives.

  In Paris, the city breathes for you when you wish to give up. It gives you no choice but to live.

  Perhaps I shall give into the death of Lorient and say here with Edma forever.

  After four full days of work on the canvas, the painting is beginning to come to life. Edma, too, seems excited by it. I enjoy her company. The weather is exquisite, and she insists on accompanying me every day to the harbor to pose.

  “Berthe, this is almost as good as being in the company of our friends. I have missed the Salon so much.”

  “Did I tell you I spoke to Puvis on opening night?” Edma shakes her head.

  “I had spent most of the evening with Édouard. He was in such high spirits, very excited about how the public had received Le Balcon. For about an hour he was leading his mother and me all over the place when I ran headlong into Puvis, who seemed very happy to see me.

  “He was trying to persuade me to meet him at the Salon again the next day because he couldn’t stay that night—had just dropped by and was getting ready to leave. While I was talking to Puvis, I completely lost sight of Édouard. I was mortified. Puvis left. Édouard had wandered off. Suddenly I was alone in the midst of the crowd. I was so embarrassed to be walking around the place on my own. When I finally found Édouard, I reproached him for leaving me.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I most certainly did.” “What did he say?”

  “I believe he was a bit put out. He told me I could count on all his devotion, but nevertheless he would never risk playing the part of my nursemaid.”

  “You’re joking?” Edma laughs, a great big guffaw of a laugh, which tickles me, too. Oh how I love the sound of my sister’s happiness. It warms me like nothing else can.

  “Sounds to me as if Monsieur Manet was none too pleased to see Puvis,” she says. “Did they speak?”

  Her insinuation makes me smile, and I look up from the canvas.

  “They were cordial—just barely, though—exchanged polite words, but the next thing I realize, Édouard is gone.”

  “He left on purpose.” Edma twirls her umbrella. “My, my, what a temper if he is not the center of attention.”

  “Oh, I do not know if it is like that.”

  The conversation trails off. Edma wears a wistful expression. “I love hearing all these stories. Consider me crazy if you like, but when I think of all those artists, I tell myself that a quarter-hour of their conversation is easily the equal of solid

  quantities.”

  “I suppose.” I blend some blue in with the green to create a shadow in the foreground of the scene. “They usually have something interesting to say. It’s usually laced with a bit of scandal.” I tell her what Degas said about Léon. Edma’s eyes grow wide and she sits up straight.

  “I can only guess that he married her to give the child a home,” I say.

  “But not his name?” Edma asks.

  I shrug. “He is an honorable man.” I want to add that their marriage does not mean he loves her as a husband loves a wife, but I refrain.

  Edma sits thoughtfully for a while, tipping her face up to the warm breeze. “What does not make sense is that he married her so long after the boy’s birth. What do you make of that? Didn’t Madame Manet say they had been married f ive years? And the boy is in his mid-teens.”

  I nod as I blend white and red to the shade of her scarf and touch it to the canvas.

  “Then that means he was nearly ten or eleven years old when they married. And why pass him off as his godson? Something does not make sense, Berthe.”

  I chew the handle of my brush for a moment, weighing my words. A cool breeze blows in off the harbor. I have pondered the same puzzle myself almost daily since that evening at the Salon. Alas, I have found no logical explanation save Édouard being a man of honor. Since answers will not annul the marriage contract, I have decided to leave it at that. Never mind the way he looks at me or worse yet, the way he kisses me into a stammering state of confusion. No, those are not traits of honor. Not when a man has pledged his life to another.

  Yes, it is much easier to stop at honor and just leave it alone.

  I gaze at the results of my four days labor. Never have I been so pleased with my work. It’s as if the energy pent up during my months of paralyzing idleness has been stored, cul-minating in this piece.

  “It feels sublime to be back on track,” I say. “I would so much rather produce one good work than an entire Salon full of mediocre scribbling.”

  “Good, then shall we call it a day?” She stretches. “My back hurts from sitting on this hard wall.”

  “Yes, let’s go. We’ve been here a long time.”

  I feel guilty talking about my triumph in the face of Edma’s artistic purgatory.

  But then I stop. Why should I feel guilty? She has a baby on the way—the thought takes me by surprise and sends little shivers down my spine.

  Even if Edma did not wish to pick up a brush again, I hope she will at least consider adorning her walls with a few canvases.

  I will paint her something new before I return to Paris. I consider leaving this one, but I want to hang onto it and submit it to the Salon next year. It was disappointing to not have an entry this year—it was one thing to be rejected, but it made me quite disgusted with myself to know I didn’t even try.

  Inaction—the worst of diseases.

  I glance at the painting as we walk up the dirt road. In a way it is symbolic—that everything that is meant to be always works out as it should. Edma has her baby. I have my painting.

  “Who is that?” Edma says. “Who?”

  I shade my eyes and follow Edma’s gaze up the road to the porch of her house and see the figure of a man sitting on the porch steps.

  At first I cannot see clearly because the sun is in my eyes. At four o’clock, the sun is on its downward grade in the western sky. It shines brightly, silhouetting the visitor. Without trees, the unfiltered light plays havoc on my vision, and I think it might be Adolphe returned home early.

  I squint into th
e light and for the span of a beat, my heart stops. No, it can’t be—

  “Édouard?” I whisper.

  Surely not—a strange swirling sensation begins in my stomach, and my head swims. Surely the light is playing tricks on my eyes.

  “I believe it is he,” says Edma. “Berthe, he has come to see you.”

  I quicken my pace as well as I am able, lugging a large canvas and easel. Edma has my paint box. It is no challenge for her to pass me. As we draw closer, Édouard stands and removes his hat.

  “Bonjour, Madame Pontillon. Et mademoiselle . . . I am so happy to see you. I feared I had missed you after coming all this way.”

  He steps forward and relieves me of my easel. I am suddenly very conscious of the work that had so thrilled me only moments ago. I angle it away so he cannot readily see it.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” says Edma. She sets my paint box down on the step. “I hope you have not been waiting long. We have been out making the most of this beautiful day.”

  He smiles. “You look well, Madame. I have just recently arrived. Mademoiselle, I am happy to see you have been working. Please, may I see what you’ve done?”

  What is he doing here?

  I hesitate, gripping the edges of the canvas with both hands, careful not to smear the wet paint. The breeze lifts the scent of the oil and it reminds me of the last time I was in his studio. I wonder why. It is the same pungent scent that surrounds me most every day of my life. But suddenly it personifies him.

  He reaches out and with a gentle hand turns the canvas toward him. He’s quiet for a moment, then a slow smile spreads over his face.

  “This is a masterpiece.”

  I recall a time when Degas remarked at how Édouard admired the work of his friends, and once Maman warned me to beware of the difference between a man’s personal compliment and his professional evaluation. Yet, my heart lifts as a leaf soar-ing on the breeze.

  “You possess such talent,” he says. “I stand in awe of you.

  I would gladly have this in my personal collection. Name your price.”

  Edma laughs. Claps her hands like a child.

  I take a step backward, because it suddenly feels as if he is standing much too close. “Do not be ridiculous. I cannot sell it to you. The paint is not even dry.” I am stammering, and I hate myself for it.

  “What brings you to Lorient, Monsieur?” Edma asks, as if sensing my agitation. Her bemused expression suggests a mere fraction of the feelings coursing through me.

  “What brings me here? Why Mademoiselle Berthe, of course.”

  My skin tingles.

  Edma makes a sound like, Oh! “Well, if you will excuse me. I shall just go inside.”

  The door clicks shut behind her, but opens again. Edma sticks out her head.

  “I thought you might want to go for a walk, but please come in anytime you like.”

  She disappears inside, leaving me alone with Édouard.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‌

  The stars and the rivers and the waves call you back.

  —Pindar, Greek

  L

  ight the color of amber glass ref lects off the lone tree in my sister’s yard. The hue deepens into a rich shade of burnt umber where the setting sun reaches through the leaves to caress the branches and trunk. Twilight usually leaves me feeling wistful—melancholy even—homesick for places I’ve never been, achy for some indefinable something I could never

  put my finger on.

  This evening, as we stand on Edma’s porch, Édouard offers his arm. “Shall we walk?”

  “That would be lovely.” As I lace my arm through his, I feel akin to the light—I am all at once mellow and f luid and hot.

  This evening I finally feel as if I have found that for which I have been longing my entire life.

  We walk in silence for a long time before I ask him, “Why did you come?”

  “Mademoiselle, you disappeared. I waited for you to write

  to me. But I waited in vain. Finally, I had to send Fantin to your Maman to do a bit of detective work to discover your whereabouts. And here I am.”

  He places his hand atop mine in the crook of his arm. I cannot believe he has gone to so much trouble to find me. If Maman’s letter was true, I wonder how he escaped the en-chanting Eva’s death grip.

  “Maman wrote that you have been quite busy with Mademoiselle Gonzalés. I did not write because it sounded as if you did not have a moment for anything else.”

  Édouard narrows his eyes. His brows knit into a bemused frown.

  “That is not true. Would your sister mind if we were gone so long to take a turn around the harbor?”

  I shake my head. “There is no one within four hundred kilometers who will mind.”

  Again, we stroll in silence. I wonder what he had told Suzanne of his trip to Lorient. If he has told her. And how long he plans to stay. Did he intend to ask Edma for a room for the night?

  All these questions swirl in my mind, but Maman’s comments about the eternal Mademoiselle Gonzalés surface high above them all, pushing the others to the side. I decide I will not let him sidestep the issue with the diversion of a walk.

  “Relations are going well with Mademoiselle Gonzalés?”

  He shrugs. Then after a moment’s hesitation, shakes his head. “No. As I told you at the Salon, she is very young and demands constant attention.” He wrinkles his brow as if the mere thought causes him pain. “I do not have the time or patience for that.”

  “Is that so? Maman wrote that—let’s see, how did she put it? That she found you in greater ecstasies than ever in the presence of the captivating mademoiselle.”

  “I do not mean to dispute your mother’s good word, but au contraire. When she visited my studio, I was working furiously to finish the mademoiselle’s portrait.” He waves his hand in disgust. “I have done as much as I intend to do with it. Yesterday, I informed her papa that the arrangement is finished.”

  I try not to smile. Try to stroll along as if we are discussing the weather and other banalities. But I find myself enraptured by the strange pleasure of standing so close to him—in public, without fear of happening upon an acquaintance who would delight in telling the world about what she has witnessed.

  His hand is still on mine, tucked in the crook of his arm. Those we pass regard us as if we belong together—man and wife out for a stroll on this beautiful, warm spring evening. We do not see many people, but those we pass smile and tip hats in gracious greeting. Édouard holds himself in an erect manner that suggests he is proud to be seen with me.

  I have the sensation of knowing what it is like to belong with him. Yes, it would be like this if we were married.

  I stop wondering why he come to Lorient. Leaning in a little closer to breath in that familiar smell that is Édouard— the lingering scent of linseed oil, and wool and man. For a few beautiful, timeless moments we are one, and I lose myself in the blissful illusion as we walk together toward the harbor.

  The air smells of a salty sweetness I had not realized before. Looking again at the cracks in the road, I recall the first day I set foot in Édouard’s studio, when the air smelled fresh and the world felt new and full of possibilities.

  Before we reach the water, he veers off the parched road past a row of identical white plaster houses to a grassy knoll I did not notice yesterday when I arrived.

  Finally we stop at the top of the hill beneath the shelter of a weeping willow tree.

  Dust motes dance in the golden sunlight that filters through the f lowing branches, highlighting the new green that mingles with patches of the lingering winter brown.

  He sits on the grass and tugs me down next to him. My stomach pitches because I think for an instant he might kiss me. Instead, he settles back on his elbows and simply gazes at me, through half-open eyes, his leg touching mine.

  I arrange my skirt around me, more for the sake of diversion than anything else. When I glance up, it is obvious that he likes what he
sees, but the intensity with which he studies me makes me uneasy, as if he is comparing me to every woman he has ever beheld.

  I do not mind holding myself up to comparison when the competition pertains to something within my control, but I have always shied away from contests of a personal nature because the rejection that follows hits too close; it’s too private. I can always fix a canvas or paint with different colors or in different venues, but I cannot change the person I am. And that is fine, for I have never desired to be anyone else—especially right now.

  It is much easier to turn away before a suitor’s interest fades. That way I never have to watch the interest dim. It never becomes personal. They never come back. Never pursue or try harder. They crumble and fall. And I know it is for the best. For the relationship would have fallen eventually.

  A f lock of birds screech as they f ly by in formation.

  But here is Édouard. Steadfast and persistent. He keep following. No matter how fast I walk away, I turn around, and there he is.

  “I enjoy looking at you.” His voice is a husky timbre, and his leg shifts closer to me. “I enjoy being with you.”

  I am exhilarated and frightened all at once.

  What would he do if I reached out and took what I wanted, like a common whore? That is how Suzanne captured him— although it is hard to imagine her being so bold.

  Édouard and I share the same madness, the same visions, and disgust for the impostors who claim to paint the truth. That is how we come together—in truth and beauty. Not by one snagging the other. Trapped into a life together by virtue of a child.