With Violets
Page 27
One must always reckon with the inertia of public judgment. The public has no initiative. Initiative has to be taken on its behalf. If it has to choose between two works presented to it simultaneously, one in conformity with accepted conventions, the other baffling all tradition, it is a foregone conclusion that the public will declare itself in favor of the conventional work at the expense of the work of innovation.
That is what is happening at the Boulevard des Capucines. The only really interesting part of the exhibition, the only part worthy of study, is also the only part whose curious implication eludes the great majority of visitors.
This rapprochement was premature, at the very least. It may work in a few years’ time. So it is possible that it may offer a lesson and, in certain conditions, may provide the opportunity for a triumph for the “plein air school.”
For this is what I would like to call this school—which has somewhat oddly been christened the group of the Intransigents—as that pursuit of reality in the plein air is its clearest objective.
The plein air school is represented at the second floor studio in the Boulevard des Capucines by MM. Monet, Pissarro, Sisley, Degas, Rouart, Renoir, and Mlle. Morisot.
Their leader, M. Manet, is absent. Did he fear the eccentricities of certain paintings? Did he disapprove of the compromise which allowed into so restricted an exhibition pictures conceived and painted in a spirit quite different from that of the school? I do not know. Was he right or wrong to hold back? I offer no answer. But there is no doubt at all that a selection of his paintings would have provided this exhibition with a more decisive, or at the very least more complete, statement of intent.
It is also possible that M. Manet, who has a fighting spirit, prefers to fight on common ground, that of the official Salon. Let us respect each man’s ideal freedom to prefer one course of action to another.
It may be helpful to inform the visitor that none of the pictures exhibited here has been submitted to the scrutiny of the official jury. As the exhibition opened on 15 April, it is by no means an exhibition of Refuses. But those who have seen it do not need to be told that not one would have been accepted, had they indeed been subjected to that trial. Why? In my eyes, that is their merit, for they break openly with all the traditional conventions.
But let the Limited Company—since that is what it is, indeed it might even be described as a cooperative—take stock. Its current organization opens the door to all the inept painters, all the laggards of the official exhibitions upon application for a share. This is the kiss of death.
If the company does not alter its status, does not affirm a common principle, it will not survive as an artistic company. That it might survive as a commercial one does not interest me at all.
“Impressionist.” Maman scoffs. “Is that how you want to be known?”
“Frankly, I can think of worse things to be called than an Impressionist.”
“Is old maid among them?”
I sit perfectly still and weigh my words because I do not want to fight with my mother. I do not have the energy. The move, the exhibit. Nearly half the year is gone and so is my will to forge headlong into battle.
“What people think is very important to you, isn’t it?”
She frowns at me as if I have just uttered a riddle or posed a trick question and is in no mood for games. But what I say is perfectly clear and true.
The showing of the Societe Anonyme des Artistes was a disappointment in many ways—not a single sale, mediocre attendance, mixed reviews tilting toward bad.
Maman is simply mortified and she’s been spoiling for a fight since the first snide words appeared in print.
I can’t even fight with her because I don’t even know what I want anymore.
At least Maman has conviction.
What kind of existence is this—waiting to live, waiting to be happy, believing better days will befall tomorrow, when tomorrow never comes.
“I took the liberty of contacting your former teacher Monsieur Guichard and asked him to view the show and render his opinion of the horrors in which you were involving yourself.”
She pulls a letter from her pocket and holds it up.
“I almost chose not to share it with you, but then thought better of it. My dear child, you are thirty-three years old. Well beyond marriageable age.” Her voice cracks with the emotion I see swimming in her eyes. “My Bijou, I am not well—”
“Maman stop this nonsense, you are as fit as I am.”
She waves the letter to silence me. I fall back against the cushions on the divan.
“I worry about you,” she says. “I worry what will happen to you when I am no longer here. Who will care for you, what fate will befall?”
I bite the insides of my cheeks because I want to remind her that it is I who take care of her. That I am perfectly capable of existing on my own. As she is so fond of reminding me, I am thirty-three years old and have had quite a while to grow comfortable with my own company.
“It is with these reasons in mind that I have decided to share Monsieur Guichard’s words. I hope you will take them to heart.
I sigh. I am so tired of this back and forth, push and pull. She’s accepting when the reviews are favorable or the sales large, but the moment the sky clouds, she runs to escape the rain.
I realize as I sit there, that my own mother is more of a fair-weather source of support than even the critic Louis Leroy.
She unfolds the letter, and I brace myself for what I am sure is to be the evidence of my mortal failure.
Madame, the kind welcome you gave me this morning touched me deeply. I felt younger by fifteen years, for this I was suddenly transported back to a time when I guided your girls in the arts, as teacher and as friend.
I have seen the room at Nadar, and wish to tell you my frank opinion at once. When I entered, dear Madame, and saw your daughter’s works in this pernicious milieu, my heart sank. I said to myself, “One does not associate with madmen except at some peril.” Manet was right in trying to dissuade her from exhibiting.
Maman pauses to glance at me, to make sure the dart landed squarely where intended. Yet what baff les me is how Monsieur Guichard learned of Édouard’s feelings toward my participation. I certainly did not tell Maman.
To be sure, contemplating and consciously analyzing these paintings, one finds here and there some excellent things, but all of these people are more or less touched in the head. If Mademoiselle Berthe must do something violent, she should, rather than burn everything she has done so far, pour some petrol on the new tendencies. How could she exhibit a work of art as exquisitely delicate as hers side by side with Le Rêve du Celibataire? The two canvases actually touch each other!
That a young girl should destroy letters reminding her of a painful disappointment, I can understand; such ashes are justifiable. But to negate all the efforts, all the aspirations, all the past dreams that have filled one’s life is a madness. Worse, it is a sacrilege.
As painter, friend, and physician, this is my prescription: she is to go to the Louvre twice a week, stand before Correggio for three hours, and ask for forgiveness for having attempted on oil what can only be said in watercolor. To be the first watercolorist of one’s time is a pretty enviable position.
Maman glances up at me to see if I am still listening. I am not so happy at his deeming the members of the Societe—the Impressionists madmen. It does not sit well with me. But the moniker Impressionism is starting to grow on me. The more I consider it the more I like it. His letter surprises me in that it is not proving to be as harsh as I might have feared. It is actually quite complementary.
“Berthe, are you listening to me?” “Yes I am, Maman.”
“Good, this is the most important part.”
I hope, Madame, that you will be kind enough to answer this devoted communication, which comes straight from the heart. For I am greatly interested in this promising artist; she must absolutely break with this new school, this so-called school
of the future.
Please forgive my sincerity, Joseph-Benoît Guichard
Maman slaps her leg with the letter. “There, you see? If you will not listen to me, will you not heed the warning of your teacher? He sees it as a monstrous association.”
I scratch my head and a piece of hair breaks free.
I appreciate Monsieur Guichard’s f lattering encouragement toward my talent, but I wonder how it is he can be so blind to the fabulous talent of the likes of Monet, Renoir, and Degas. If they are madmen, then brand me as demented as they, for I shall reside in good company.
“Berthe, will you give up this nonsense and settle down? I insist you get your life together.”
It is suddenly clear to me that the beauty in his letter completely escapes Maman. “All you can read in his words is that he wants me to give it up?”
“You might as well if you insist on carrying on in such an unbecoming manner. You are too old for such antics.”
I am stunned silent. Absolutely aghast at her narrowness. She would rather see me the idle spinster sitting at her side with needlework in hand rather than making a happy independent life for myself.
“Are you suggesting I should quit painting as to stop drawing attention to myself and the fact that I have chosen not to marry?”
Maman grunts. It’s a sound that might as well be an af-firmative, but she considers my question for a moment before making the verbal commitment. Then, as if sent by the heavens, Amélie enters the room.
“Pardon, Madame et Mademoiselle. Monsieur Eugène Manet calls. May I show him in?”
“Oui, merci.” Maman seems relieved. Yet I know her answer. She already confirmed as much. “Bring us some tea, s’il vous plaît.
I am not at all disappointed to see Eugène. He has become a good friend in the six months since Papa died. Eugène was gentle in offering his condolences and quite indispensable assisting with the administration of the show. All this despite his brother’s vocal stance against Societe.
My newfound friendship with Eugène has been quite refreshing. He has even painted alongside me on several occa-sions. While he does not possess the talent of his brother, or the sparkling personality, it is nice to not feel the burn of competition that simmered beneath the surface of my and Édouard’s relationship.
What did I expect? With Édouard, I built the beast that nearly consumed me.
I tuck the piece of stray hair into my chignon just before Eugène enters the room.
“Bonjour, Madame et Mademoiselle.” He bows to Maman and me, then takes a seat on the divan next to me as Maman suggests.
Maman makes the appropriate small talk before she excuses herself, leaving Eugène and me alone.
A beat of awkward silence hangs between us as we stare at each other at a loss for words.
I smile. He smiles back, and f lushes, and looks away.
“Your brother received nearly as much press from our exhibit as the Societe members. It seems we shall forever be tied to him.”
Eugène frowns and blinks.
“Yet he is dismayed at the lack of attention his paintings received in the Salon.”
“At least he was accepted by the jury. I guess it is human nature to always want more despite one’s accomplishments.”
A rueful expression washes over Eugène. He’s a handsome man. He doesn’t wear it as comfortably as Édouard dons that self-possessed, determined suit of armor.
Eugène is a good man. There is sincerity in the set of his jaw, the gentle notes of his quiet voice, and honesty in his gray eyes. I have never noticed the color of his eyes until now. He holds my gaze for a moment, laces his fingers in his lap, and glances down at his large hands. I get the feeling he has something on his mind.
Amélie carries in the tea tray and sets it down on the table in front of the divan. Eugène shifts his knees out of the way and it dawns on me how much smaller this room is than the drawing room in the house in the Rue Franklin.
“May I get you anything else?” she asks. “No, merci, this is lovely.”
I lift the pot and pour two cups of tea.
Eugène has settled back against the cushions with his cup in his hands before he speaks.
“Mademoiselle, my family has secured a house in Fécamp next month, and we would be delighted if you and your mo-ther would accompany us.”
I want to ask him if Édouard will be in attendance, but I do not. The earnest note in his voice and the manner in which he presents the invitation won’t permit me.
“Thank you for thinking of us. I shall talk to Maman.”
Society has cast woman in a rather unfortunate role. We are daughter, wife, mother—beyond those perimeters our very person is diminished. We are born to find love. Yet finding love is possibly the most difficult challenge a woman faces.
Until now it has been much easier to funnel all my devotion into my career. It is the safe existence as Eros has not smiled kindly upon me.
I could blame the poets for creating an impossible stan-dard—we are all Juliet, the devastated lover who would rather plunge a knife into her heart than live a moment without the love of a man.
I could blame Maman for bending me to the breaking point. Perhaps I should blame Édouard for making me love him; for loving me so intensely and letting me go. Even after all we’ve been through, in my heart I know the true depth of our feelings. Maybe that is all that matters. If it ever mattered. Perhaps it is time to let go.
On the Fécamp shoreline, I set a paper boat out to sea. Into that tiny vessel I have released all the blame I held inside. The tide pulls it out, pushes it back, finally to consume it in a frothy bite of azure wave.
The tidal dance is much like Édouard’s on-again-off-again summer plans. In the end, he opted to travel to Argenteuil rather than joining his family and mine in Fécamp.
I accept Eugène’s arm and his vow to make me the most cherished woman in the world. He is a good man, a strong man.
As we begin our journey down the beach, I glance back. Light glints off the f loating remnant of the little paper boat. The pressure of its journey under the sea has f lattened it back into its original shape and the tide swells and swallows it once and for all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.
—Francis William Bourdillon
JANUARY 1875
My dear Tiburce:
Eugène tells me this is the day the mail goes off and for fear of missing another opportunity of writing to you, I am scribbling a few words in haste. The thought of you has obsessed me for several weeks, mon pauvre ami; where are you? What are you doing? I should give a great deal to know these things and
even more to be able to contribute in some small way to your happiness.
As for myself, I have been married a whole month now; it is strange, isn’t it? I went through that great ceremony without the least pomp, in an ordinary dress and hat, like the old woman that I am, and without guests.
Since then, I have been waiting for events to take shape, but so far fate is not in our favor. The trip to Constantinople, so definite, so certain at first, is no longer certain at all. However, I shall not complain. For I have found a very nice garçon, whom I think genuinely loves me.
I have entered into the positive side of life after living for so long with foolish chimeras that did not make me very happy, and yet, thinking of my mother, I wonder if I really fulfilled my duty. These are all complicated questions, and it is not very easy, at least not for me, to distinguish clearly right from wrong.
Your loving sister, Madame E. Manet
Robards
About the Author
Elizabeth
Award-winning author ELIZABETH ROBARDS formerly lived in Franc
e and has studied art and writing. She earned a degree in journalism only to realize reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Much more content to report to her muse, Elizabeth has found Nirvana doing what she loves most—writing contemporary and his-torical women’s fiction full time. She loves to travel—–and when she can’t, her imagination transports her all over the world. For more information about her work, please visit her website at http://www.ElizabethRobards.com.
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Credits
Designed by Rhea Braunstein Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover painting of The Rest, portrait of Berthe Morisot (1841–95), 1870 (oil on canvas), Manet, Edouard (1832–83)/Museum of Art, Rhode Island, Providence, USA, Lauros/Giraudon/The Bridgeman Art Library
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