With Violets
A
NOVE
OF TH E
DAWN OF
b
tPRE
SSION ISM
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I
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Elizabeth Robards
Are you fully aware of what this means?
It will be revolutionary—I would almost say catastrophic—to your bourgeois society.
Are you sure you won’t curse art, because once it is allowed into such a respectable and serene household,
it will surely end by dictating the destinies of your children.
—Joseph Guichard
Epigraph
ii
WHEN I awoke, I did not know I would make… 1
“I CANNOT believe you met him,” my sister Edma laments as… 9
WE travel in the cold rain from our home on… 17
“YOU insult my daughter and offend me with your crass… 30
ANTICIPATING Édouard’s arrival on Tuesday causes
time to stand still. 43
NO sooner has Édouard invited us to his studio on… 51
OBSERVATION is a powerful tool. Generally if I trust this… 68
THE next morning, I awake feeling as if my youth… 80
I ARRIVE at his studio the next morning, alone, as I… 90
I STAND trembling behind the screen afraid to move, afraid to… 96
IMPULSE draws me to Édouard’s studio. I have not seen… 107
I try to pretend Edma is merely away on holiday… 117
Édouard dropped by today, but I was not at home… 129
MAMAN excuses us from the Manets’ after-Salon soirée
claiming a… 141
LIGHT the color of amber glass reflects off the lone… 154
A FULL moon hangs high as Édouard walks me back to…
162
I HAVE been back in Paris two days and have not…
168
I AM grateful for evening’s darkness. It hides everything
but the… 178
AFTER Édouard and Eugène leave, I have much to do… 194
FINALLY, the trains are running again. Edma sent us a… 211
IF we begin again, it will end. It has become… 229
DAYS later, Édouard’s words still reverberate in my heart. I… 242
ÉDOUARD is as bold as the blue violets he sends… 255
I LOVE to paint in the garden beneath the chestnut…
267
“I HAVE received a nasty note from your friend Manet,” says… 283
Oh, it was indeed a strenuous day, when I ventured… 291
Eugène tells me this is the day the mail goes… 306
P
AR IS
—1868
hen
I awoke, I did not know I would make his acquaintance that afternoon. As I opened my eyes and set
my bare fe
et on the cold f loor, I had no idea a simple meeting
would shatter my existence and refashion it into a world I would scarcely recognize.
If I had known, I might have chosen differently. Alas, it is effortless to retrace one’s steps and spot the turn you should have taken.
What is not quite so simple is to opt for the safe route and spend a lifetime out of harm’s way pondering what might have been.
I have seen him in the Louvre. We have exchanged glances. Polite nods. Single words. No more. It isn’t proper because we have not been formally introduced.
I cannot help but notice him. His fine clothes and fair hair set him apart from any man I have ever laid eyes upon. He commands attention and compels the beholder to drink in his being. A masterpiece who speaks to the soul.
It happens weeks later, as I study the Italian painters,
copying Rubens with my friend Rosalie. I hear men’s voices echoing behind us. Indiscernible, only tones and inf lections, patterns of speech reverberating like a symphony of color in the nearly empty
musée
gallery. One timbre dark and rich as umber shadows. The other, vibrant as vermilion.
I do not have to turn around to know. I had memorized his voice, his gestures, as he copied the Italians and the Spanish.
The manner in which he attacked his brushwork—painting. Stopping. Retreating. Studying. Stepping forward to begin again. Then, as if he sensed me watching, he would momentarily abandon his dance and glance up, his gaze snaring mine like a mesh net. He would smile, nod. Before I could summon the grace to look away, he was lost again in Tintoretto.
I should have felt ashamed for staring so brazenly, but I did not. Odd that Propriety would drop her weighty baggage now, prohibiting a look at him.
The murmur of voices stops, all is quiet save the rhythmic
tap, tap, tap
of shoes and walking stick on the parquet f loor.
The conversation resumes, not ten feet behind us, muted by veiled whispers.
Rosalie paints in oblivion. How I envy her calm.
Chewing the wooden end of my brush, I fix my gaze upon the bare breast of Rubens’s water nymph, determined not to falter in the face of this contingency.
I’m glad I wore my green dress, although it is covered by the frightful gray painting smock. Of course, I shall not remove the cover-up. Nor will I preen and primp like an idiot. I will act natural, as if his footfalls are not sounding directly behind me.
Rosalie murmurs. The sound washes over me in cobalt waves. I plunge the tip of my brush into the vermilion, swirling it around so the lovely brashness coats the bristles. I dab at the water nymph’s nipple.
“Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles.”
I tighten my grip on my palette.
In my peripheral vision, I see Rosalie whirl around. Too anxious.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Fantin.”
Moistening my lips, I kept my gaze upon my canvas, wait
five beats, then turn, as if I have just realized we are no longer alone.
“Bonjour.”
My voice sounds cold and thin, an icicle melting under the brilliance of spring sunshine.
“Mesdemoiselles
,
may I present Monsieur Édouard Manet.”
I press my thumb into the edge of my palette until my hand begins to tingle.
“Monsieur Manet, I give you Mesdemoiselles Rosalie Riesener et Berthe Morisot.”
“Bonjour.”
He bows, quick and proper, over his silver-tipped walking stick. “I am quite familiar with Mademoiselle Morisot’s work. I have often enjoyed it at the Salon. I am a great admirer.”
His words resonate in the
musée’s
great gilded hall. Admirer?
Of moi?
I had no idea he even knew my name.
Is he teasing me?
His smile appears genuine, but if I ponder his words too long, I sense a hint of mockery in the upturned corners of his mouth.
“Merci.”
I fight the urge to retreat. I am not good at conversing with men. Words never come easily. Maman berates this fault. She says people will think my silence proud or sullen. Still, I would rather remain mute than spew nonsense.
Oh yes. It is best the meeting came as a surprise, that Monsieur Fantin gave me no notice of the introduction. You see, I am of a mind to create monsters in my head. Not that I think Monsieur Manet a monster.
Au contraire.
Although, the sheer magnitude of his persona frightens me as much as it thrills me. I admire his freedom, his sincerity, his willingness to explore and express what is real, what is true. He is at once terrifying and glorious. And breathtaking.
A true master.
He steps closer, walking around to the working side of my easel. “What have we here?”
My throat tightens, and I believe I understand how Eve felt in the garden when she realized the full magnitude of her nakedness.
It is just a painting, Rubens’s
Queen’s Arrival at Marseilles.
I tilt my chin to meet his gaze.
His eyes search my face, and his lips, curve into a pleasing smile. “Beautiful.”
Mon Dieu
, he is bold. I have heard tales of his exploits, but who was to know how much had been embellished. He is not a bohemian. For all appearances, he is a proper gentleman, if not a dandy.
My gaze shoots back to the water nymph’s lush form. I feel Monsieur Manet watching me, a casual assessment. Yet, I sense the man is fully capable of consuming all in his possession.
If I were prone to blush, it would happen now. Thank heavens my body does not make a habit of betraying my emotions. Of all my strengths, I am grateful for containment.
I take a deep breath. The smell of linseed oil calms my rattled nerves. I touch the tip of my brush to the ocher paint intending to deepen the shadow under the nymph’s breast, but as the brush strokes the f lesh-colored curve, the vermilion bleeds through. The resulting orange-tinged streak resembles a grue-some, bleeding gash.
Monsieur Manet’s mouth is pressed into a straight, measur-ing line. “Why do you mix those colors?”
A claustrophobic tingle courses through my limbs. “Mon-
sieur Manet, I beg your pardon, but I cannot work with you peering over my shoulder.”
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle. I, too, could not work under such conditions.”
If I have offended him, he is too much of a gentleman to make an issue of my faux pas. Surely, he will bid me adieu and take his leave. I feel sick at the thought of confessing to Maman that I had finally made the acquaintance of the great Édouard Manet and succeeded in affronting him in less than a quarter hour.
Yet he lingers. “Perhaps I might offer one suggestion?”
I say nothing, which he must mistake for acquiescence. He steps closer, our bodies a breath apart. As bold as you please, he plucks my brush from the palette. Long, clean fingers sweep my thumb. A tingling glow spreads across my breasts and throat, and I step back to create space between us.
Unaffected by the familiar contact, he simply loads paint onto the brush. I am relieved he does not look at me. For if he had, I fear he might have seen a gaping idiot staring back; a girl rendered stupid by the touch of a man.
Rosalie and Fantin abandon their conversation and observe Manet at work. Awestruck, I watch him heal the wound I have inf licted. Even Rubens could scarcely have done better.
I have been studying this painting for weeks. Yet as I watch him transform my ugly blunder into perfection, it is as if I am seeing it for the first time.
Rosalie sends me a quizzical glance.
But I do not stop him. How can I make her understand when even I do not?
In the presence of the old masters, with the gaze of the water nymphs raised to the heavens, and a disapproving Maria de’Medici staring down upon us, I must resemble a servant, obediently holding the palette for her master. A girl thoroughly consumed by the power of genius.