time to gather myself, to coax free the knot drawn tight in my belly.
I have come with a purpose. This is my mantra, and I repeat it over and over as the carriage rolls to a stop at number four rue de Saint-Pétersbourg.
When the door swings open, Édouard stands on the other side. The knot in my stomach tightens. He smiles, steps back. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
Mademoiselle. It is a cordial greeting. The brand he would
bestow upon any of his colleagues or Maman, perhaps. An icy draft extinguishes a f ire kindled at the thought of seeing him this morning. A f ire I hadn’t even realized burned until snuffed out. I stand cold and awkward, not quite sure what to do, inwardly cursing Degas for having put me up to this task. But this is not personal. I would be wise not to forget.
I step inside, dwarfed by the immensity of the place, although the studio looks the same as the last time. Neat. Almost too tidy, in fact. The capped jars of pigment lined up in a perfect row on the table in front of the window. The light shining through makes them look like great cylindrical jewels—ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue. They seem untouched. No signs of dust or stray color. Everything is in its place. The bed-covers pulled taut as if never used.
The only sign that Édouard works here is the canvas on the easel. But I do not see any new work lining the walls. It has been nearly three months. If he is not working, he will not be happy.
I look at him standing a safe distance away, neither of us seem to know where to begin.
I am tempted to peek at the canvas. It’s a different size than the painting of Victorine at the train station. I wonder if he has done more work of her. Where is that one? My gaze skims the room, but I do not locate it. Of course he would have given it to his dealers. Of course.
“Would you like to see?” He points at the canvas.
“Oui, s’il vous plaît.”
He turns the easel around. It is me, or at least a woman who looks like me. I look dumfounded at the black-clad image with heartbroken eyes starting back at me.
“It is not right.” Édouard’s voice cracks. “And I cannot seem to fix it.”
I cannot speak. I don’t know how to respond to a remark that seems so full of innuendo. Or perhaps it isn’t. Maybe from the start, I read too much into Édouard’s intentions.
“I understand you came to talk to me about business, Mademoiselle.” His voice penetrates my thoughts. “But could I trouble you for an hour of your time to work on the face? To . . . get it right?”
My stomach spirals, and I hate myself for it. Because I shall not put myself through it again. I came with a purpose.
“Of course, Édouard, as long as you dispense with the formalities. I would be most unhappy if I thought we were no longer friends after all we’ve shared.”
He exhales a heavy breath that seems to relieve a great weight from his brow.
“Certainly, Berthe. While I paint, you can tell me what you have come to say.”
“No, I think I shall wait until I have your undivided attention.”
He nods. “You make me curious. I shall work in haste.” “No, take your time. It will keep.”
His brows lift, and he smiles. “Quite curious, indeed.”
He drags a high stool over for me to sit on, and I feel better because he seems more himself now. The atmospheric pressure in the room has diminished dramatically. I can breathe again.
So he paints, and we talk—about everything and nothing.
Talking and laughing and it is so obvious we belong together it is painful. It feels so good to have broken through the awkward standoff. I know that even if we cannot be together in the true sense of the word, I cannot be without him.
Nor he without me, whether he knows it or not.
He looks up. His gaze lingers. There is a moment of baited silence. I can tell he wants to say something.
“What, Édouard?”
He starts to speak, then stops. Shakes his head. “What is it?”
“I have figured out a way for us to always be together.” He closes his eyes and blows out an unsteady breath. “It is a compromise, but one that could be the best solution for all involved.”
My heart beats against my ribcage like a trapped dove. “A compromise, Édouard?”
“If you were to marry Eugène—” I gasp. “Are you joking?”
He holds up a hand. His throat works. “Please, let me finish.”
“Do not make a joke of it.”
“This is an unbearably painful sacrifice to ask of you. But it’s the only way. If you married my brother, you would become a member of the family. We would be united forever by respectable bonds.”
I sit for what seems an eternity in stunned silence. I cannot believe he would ask this of me. That he is willing to give me away to his brother as Édouard himself took on Suzanne, his father’s mistress.
A vision clouds my thoughts—it is of Édouard that day in Mirande when he learned of my possible engagement to Puvis. He could not tolerate the thought of me with another, yet he would send me to his own brother’s bed. My insides twist.
“Please, my love.” He closes his eyes against the words. “Please, consider what I have asked of you.
It is our only option. Think about it—the very constraints that kept us apart will actually preserve us. If you marry Eugène, you will sign your name Madame E. Manet. We will see each other daily.”
“And I will spend my nights in your brother’s bed. Could you live with that Édouard? Could you be content knowing you had bequeathed possession of my body to Eugène?”
He doesn’t answer me. Simply focuses on the area of the canvas he is painting and lets the subject drop. While I sit, trying to sort out what just happened.
What did just happen? His trying to pawn me off on Eugène? Could Édouard really, truly have me marry his brother merely for the right to keep me in his life? I shudder at the thought. Why not just let me go? Fade into the horizon like the last light of a sunset. He has watched his share of fading sunsets. The thought sends an uncomfortable rush of ire pump-ing through my veins.
“How is your friend Victorine?” I ask.
He glances up absently. “Victorine? I suppose she is fine. I haven’t seen her in several months.”
What constitutes several? Actually, I believe what I really want to ask is how long she was in his life before she departed. I want to know if he offered his Olympia the consolation option of being his brother’s wife. But I say nothing. If I bring it up, he might misconstrue it to mean I cared.
I came today for professional purposes. I shall act as if nothing has happened because I must talk to him about a far more important matter.
“All right,” he says, finally, his gaze on the canvas. “I think I have accomplished something.” He gives me a stiff smile. Look at this and tell me what you think.”
I stand, walk around the easel. It’s the same black hat and dress. Only now the sad green eyes have been transformed into great sensuous brown pools. “Oh, Édouard. It’s lovely.”
“You are lovely.”
His compliment makes me tingle, but I brace myself against it. “But my eyes—my eyes are green. You have painted them brown.”
I notice he has also added a nice touch—he has painted in a small bouquet of blue violets into the bodice of my dress.
I look stronger. Somehow more sure of myself. He has transformed the despondent, green-eyed girl from the earlier version, into a confident—one might almost say sultry— brown-eyed woman. With violets.
What is art if not a revelation of what lives inside us? “You like it?” he asks.
“Oui, very much.”
We stand side by side, silently regarding the canvas. We are so close all one would need do is list slightly to touch the other. The moment is ripe to lose ourselves. To allow the beat of a heart to push us into each other’s arms, into bed, headfirst into the vicious cycle of love and obsession will begin again only to end in the same way it always does.
I can’t. I am no longer the despondent green-eyed girl. I step back to regard the painting from a safe distance.
Édouard shifts, too, away from me. “I have a gift for you.” “A gift?”
He opens a draw in the chest and removes a small canvas.
With a sad smile he hands it to me.
It takes a moment for me to understand, but slowly, the charming and bittersweet pieces collide.
A hand f lutters to my mouth. I need to sit down, but somehow, my legs hold me upright.
The painting is a still life. It contains just three simple ob-
jects, mementoes of the portraits he’s painted of me: a bouquet of blue violets, the red fan, and a note inscribed to Mlle. Berthe from E. Manet.
For a moment I believe my heart will break into tiny pieces. Until his words ring in my mind . . . If you marry Eugène you will be able to sign your name Madame E. Manet.
That knocks the wind right out of me.
The name would not make me Édouard’s wife any more than the marriage would bind my heart to Eugène. It would not be the same. How can he think that twisted web would ensnare happiness—for any of us? It is almost too much to bear.
“It is lovely, Édouard. Merci.”
The look on his face seems to implore, Have you considered my suggestion? Marry Eugène. I cannot, will not discuss it with him and decide to change the subject before he voices it.
I lay the painting on my coat and prepare to get down to business.
“Édouard, I wanted to see you today about an important matter. The painters who gathered at Degas’ table that day—do you remember?”
He nods, motions to the divan, and sits down. I choose a chair across from him.
“What are the scoundrels up to now? No good I presume.” “I wouldn’t say that. In fact, they—err—we have been quite
productive as of late. We have joined forces against the Salon.”
Édouard frowns and pulls at his beard but does not comment.
“We are finished with the Academy and are planning an independent showing to coincide with next year’s Salon. I have come today with an invitation. We would like it very much if you would join us.”
He stares at me, blinks several times, as if he cannot comprehend what I am talking about.
I scoot forward on my chair.
“Édouard, don’t you get tired of being bound by the Academy’s strings? Dancing when they tug and left to dangle lifelessly when they leave you hanging? I have endured my last Salon rebuff.”
“The Salon did not reject you last time. You showed a wonderful little piece.”
“A wonderful little piece that all but went unnoticed. It garnered me nothing.”
“You’re being overly dramatic.”
“No, Édouard, you are the one who cultivates the drama with your larger-than-life paintings. I have simply been Victorine’s successor in fulfilling your needs.”
He throws his head back but does not laugh, then slaps his lap with his palms. “Is that what this is all about, Victorine?”
“What?”
I have the strange jolting sensation that we are two trains traveling different tracks.
“I am talking about my career, for a change. Not my private relationship with you. Édouard, I cannot wait for you. I have decided to move on and carve out a life for myself, and that life revolves around my career. Pissarro, Renoir, Monet and Degas, and I will exhibit together. Right now we’re calling ourselves the Independents. Will you please join us?”
“And make a public stand against the Salon?” I nod. Vigorously.
“You must be out of your mind. You are making a grave mistake. Do you want to be branded subversive?”
Heat spreads to my cheeks. “You of all people are afraid of being different? Who am I talking to? I came to see Édouard Manet, the rebel, the revolutionary. Did I happen upon some-body’s grandfather, instead?”
He challenges, “Why don’t you stay with me?”
“Merci, non. I am quite disillusioned with the official system and would be quite happy to concede the privilege of conventionality to Eva Gonzalés or whomever you choose as your next protégée.”
“Degas has put you up to this, non? ”
“Degas has been instrumental in orchestrating this group, but no one has put me up to inviting a great talent to join us. Why are you behaving like this, Édouard?”
“After all we have meant to each other, how can you be so disloyal as to abandon me for a doddering old fool like Degas?” I stand and glare down at him. His words are a swift blow,
a carpet yanked out from under my feet. For a moment I feel as if I might fall. But I do not.
“You just can’t seem to accept that this is not about love or sex or anything other than art. But while you are on that subject, there is nothing more that I would rather do than be with you, Édouard, but you are the one who has dictated our fate by staying with Suzanne.”
“You knew from the start that I was not a free man. No, I cannot leave Suzanne and Léon. They need me. They would have nothing without me.”
“I am a free woman. Free to do as I please. Free to make a life for myself as you have so securely made one for yourself. My life will include Degas and the Independents.”
Standing there in the middle of his immaculate studio, I carefully lay aside the small canvas—I will not accept it—and pick up my coat. I have an epiphany—Édouard is so used to having everything his own way and on his own terms that there will never be hope for us.
I have always prided myself on being open-minded. Yet my own modernity has been severely tested since meeting Édouard. I have pushed myself to bounds I thought certain I was not prepared to tread. Yet, as I stretched, I touched the outer
realms of possibilities and pushed my limits far beyond what I fathomed possible. Doing so, I have become the person I am today: a person far more forward-thinking than even the great Édouard Manet.
As I leave his studio, the two halves of myself—Propriety and Olympia—finally meld into one whole person. For the first time, they both agree I can no more back away from participating in this show than I can cease breathing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I am in love with you. I have been thus since the first day I called on you.
—Alfred de Musset
I
“ h ave received a nasty note from your friend Manet,” says Degas to me at the next meeting of the Independents. “He says it is one thing for me to ruin myself. But says it’s quite another when my self-destruction spills out and taints the careers of others. He seems to believe I am corrupting you. Am
I corrupting you, Mademoiselle?”
I roll my eyes at him. “I can assure you, Monsieur, if you were and I objected, I would see to it that you ceased and desisted.”
Degas’ brows peak into little umbrellas over his eyes. Yet he manages to maintain an expression that borders somewhere between annoyance and boredom. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Manet will likely live to regret his decision. There must be a realist’s alternative to the Salon, and that’s what he does not seem to understand.”
Renoir, Degas, Pissarro, and Monet frown and nod.
“I definitely think him to be more vain than intelligent.
So, what else do we have? Any new business?”
Monet signals the f loor. “I’m talking to Nadar about the use of his space on Boulevard des Capucines for the show. It’s on the second f loor. Large. A nice space. I don’t think we could do better. I know we have time, but try to stop by and see it when you get the chance.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “Once we have secured the space, we will have a better idea how many artists we can recruit for the show.”
“Which brings up a good point,” says Pissarro. “What does a name like the Independents say about us? It says nothing. I suggest that we adopt something less radical and a bit more businesslike. Something more inclusive.”
“Now that you mention it, how about the Societe Anonyme des Artistes?”
“It’s awfully long,” says Monet.
“But it says exactly what we are,” offers Renoir. I nod.
“Think about it,” says Pissarro. “We have time.” Dear Mademoiselle,
I hope this note finds you well and working.
As your friend, I feel it my duty to express my concerns about your potential alignment with the artist group calling themselves the Societe Anonyme des Artistes.
You possess such talent. I beg you consider what
involvement with such a radical group will do to your fine reputation and subsequently to your career. I know at times you experience frustration with the official system. We all do, Mademoiselle. Please believe me
when I say, it will be far worse for you should you trod the less traveled road.
You faithful servant, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes
FEBRUARY 1874
My beloved Papa is dead.
I don’t know how we shall ever be the same. What will become of our family now that he is gone?
Financially, he left us quite well off. It is more a dearth of spirit that concerns me. This loss has shaken the very founda-tion of our lives.
Tiburce is off chasing rainbows. Edma and Yves have families of their own. It is just Maman and me now. Sometimes I believe Papa was the glue that held us together. Now I fear we will come apart at the seams, scattering each in our own direction.
Maman has sold our beloved home on the rue Franklin. All my memories are here. My studio. My f lowers and trees. I cannot fathom someone else living in our home, but she has already found an apartment—on the rue Guichard. There is no turning back.
With Violets Page 25