With Violets (13 page)
Three days later, Maman and I attend Degas’ luncheon. Édouard and I stand face-to-face once again. I did not think he would come. But here he is, and I am happy.
As promised, Degas has rallied his friends, who meet regularly at the Café Guerbois to discuss such matters, but they moved the meeting to his home so I could join them as it would not be proper for a lady to waltz into a café. I had quite a time convincing Maman that luncheon with six gentlemen was appropriate.
I don’t understand what they might discuss at the Guerbois that would so offend my feminine sensibilities that we will not discuss here today. Someday I might have a mind to walk into a café just for the sake of doing so.
Or maybe not. When I think about it, it does not hold much appeal. In the meantime, here we are, seven artists and one slightly put out Maman, gathered together to talk about the dire state of the Parisian art
communauté
and how we—a group of virtual unknowns, plus one well-established rebel— can change the world.
I am not hopeful.
Besides Édouard and Degas, I sit with Camille Pissarro,
Frédéric Bazille, Auguste Renoir, each of whom I have never met, and Claude Monet, whom I remember thanks to an error at the Salon a couple of years ago when his surname was mis-taken for Édouard’s.
“Manet was not at all f lattered to have some youngster poaching off his ill-gotten fame,” Degas says, as we sit around the table enjoying bowls of steaming potato-leek soup. “He was especially peeved when Monet’s mundane seascapes got more attention than his latest outrage.”
Monet grumbles over the
mundane
label Degas has slapped on him, but then laughs with the others. Édouard simply rolls his eyes. I wonder if he has taken offense at being called
old
when Monet is scarcely ten years his junior?
“Now, look at the lot of you,” Édouard finally says. “Re-sorting to my old diversionary tricks, hoping to beat the system at its own game. You do me proud.”
“Yes, Ed, and we are so pleased you changed your mind and decided to join us today,” says Pissarro. “When Degas said you declined, I thought you had mislaid your rebellious streak. But here you are. There is hope for this world, after all.”
Édouard’s glance slides to me. My stomach spirals.
Hope? Perhaps.
We chat over lunch. I can barely eat because my stomach is a jumble of nerves at seeing Édouard again.
But he is pleasant enough and sits next to me and makes an effort to engage me in conversation. I cannot help but believe he was sincere about wanting to be my friend.
After the intimacy we shared, all I could dwell on was that he would not be my lover.
Now, I find reassurance in how he wishes to be my friend. If he were going to brag about his conquest he would have
done so already, and the men at the table would certainly not be talking to me as a colleague.
What has happened between us is our secret. Somehow it seems more valuable.
“The art they show at the Salon is produced by trained monkeys,” Monet says, when Degas’ housekeeper, Zoë, serves the apple tarts. “Each one copies one another, afraid to try anything new.”
“It is true,” offers Renoir. “Even the critics attest there is better work at the Salon des Refusés than in the Salon. When was the last time you saw a truly original piece at that exhibit?”
Édouard clears his throat. “The Salon of 1863, artwork entitled
Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
.”
He smiles at me and leans back in his chair, his hands
splayed on his vest.
“The critics deemed you a disgrace to morality,” says Degas. “But at least it is modern. There has been nothing note-worthy since Delacroix and Ingres. We need to take control. Do things differently.”
“Being different for difference’s sake? It just seems so artificial.” I regret asking the question as soon as the words are born.
“She makes a very good point,” says Édouard. “You must remain true to your soul. If you scribble on canvas like a monkey merely with the intent to be different, you are no better than the monkeys who conform to the system.”
“I think it boils down to a question of modernity.” Bazille’s voice is big for such a quiet man. “It is time we stopped living in the past and strive to bring modern art up into the modern world. We must move forward and leave the past behind.”
I want to breathe
you in I’m not talking about perfume or even the sweet o-dour of your skin but of the air itself I want to share your air inhaling what you exhale I’d like to be that close two of us breathing each other as one
— James Laughlin
J
ANUARY
1869
mpulse
draws me to Édouard’s studio. I have not seen him in two weeks, since that day at Degas’ home. True to his word, he left contact up to me. A very real part of me feels empty without him. After being used to seeing him nearly every day
for more than a month, I miss him.
I am taking a chance by calling alone, unannounced. There is always the possibility he will not be there or will not be alone. I must risk it because I will not know peace until I
see him again. If he is in, it would be fate’s way of telling me I am supposed to be there. If he is not in—well, I shall turn and go.
I pull my coat collar closed and sink my hands deeper into my muff as the carriage rattles over the Boulevard Malesherbes. I believe the Café Guerbois is not far from here. I am tempted to ask the coachman to drive by, but a few restless snow f lurries fall through the carriage window, and I shiver against the cold. As curious as I am to catch a glimpse of this exclusive male enclave, it must wait for another day. Maman is ill. I have taken the carriage into the city to fetch a remedy from the apothecary. There was no one to accompany me, so I have gone alone.
The shop is just around the corner from Édouard’s studio, and I cannot resist dropping in to say hello. To show him I harbor no ill feelings after what transpired a fortnight ago.
Heat rises up my neck at the thought. Yet, when I get out of the carriage, I can see my breath.
Before I allow myself to contemplate my actions—to lose my nerve—I climb the forty-eight steps to the
atelier
and stand at his door.
I knock, shove my chilled hand back into my muff, re-gretting my impetuousness. But the door f lies open so quickly I gasp and wonder if he is expecting someone else, or going out—but, oh . . . the look that sweeps over his face when he realizes it is me knocking at his door.
“Bonjour,”
I say. “Were you just leaving? I can call another time.”
He wears a white button-down shirt tucked into trousers. His shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows and there is a splotch of crimson paint on his forearm. I am surprised to see him dressed so casually and so lightly for such a cold day. But it suits him. Even in this casual stance he looks
magnifique
.
“Even if I had an appointment with Napoléon himself, I should not go now that you are here. Come in, Mademoiselle. Please, come in. Oh, it is great to see you. Would you believe I was just this minute thinking about you?”
“You f latter me.”
“The truth is you have not left my mind since I saw you at Degas’ table, more beautiful than the roses of the centerpiece.”
I smile and try not to let myself be carried on the wings of his f lattery. Alas, how else does one reply to such a sentiment?
He bows, sweeps his left hand in a motion beckoning me inside. I follow, feeling as if something inside me that has been broken a long while is finally beginning to heal.
His studio is chilly and I shove my hands deeper inside my muff. “Why do you not have a fire? You will catch cold. Maman is terribly ill. That is why I am out today. To fetch her medicine.”
He stands there, a dazed smile on his face, until finally he blinks, as if clearing his thoughts. “I am sorry your mother is unwell. If you are too cold, I will set a fire.”
“Oh, no please don’t go to the trouble.”
“It is no trouble, really. Normally, I would already have the stove blazing, but I just got in.”
“Were you away?”
He nodded. “Boulogne. The family is still there.” “I see.” My heart pounds.
“I return because I have too much work to do.”
I feel victorious, for I remember the little deal I had made with the heavens. It is a good sign to find him here. I could have so easily missed him. If I had called yesterday or tomorrow, I might not have found him in. As he starts the fire in the
poêle,
my eyes search all the familiar spots in the room.
The balcony set is still standing, and I am glad. I want to
believe he left it up on purpose. But then again, it has not been
so terribly long ago that he was working on the painting. Since the last time I was here. My gaze latches onto the dressing screen, and my stomach lurches at the memory of what transpired between us that day I was last here. I look away.
“How is the balcony painting coming? You must be nearly finished by now?”
“Almost. Would you like to see it?” I nod.
As he lights the fire, he indicates a canvas on an easel toward the back of the studio.
From far away, I cannot see much of a difference in Fanny Claus and Monsieur Guillemet’s images. They look the same as the last time I saw the painting. However, my likeness is considerably more detailed.
Well, that’s what they deserve for walking out on Édouard. It makes my blood tingle to think of the time he has spent perfecting my image, and I can’t help but wonder what he thought of as he painted me.
Heat f lames my cheeks at the memory. And here I am. Back again.
I set my muff on the sofa and start to remove my hat, but another canvas catches my eye.
Turned upside down and propped against the wall, is a portrait of . . . I cock my head. Suzanne and . . . ?
I squint at it as I walk over and lift the small piece, only about 70 centimeters across and not quite as high. It is indeed Suzanne, a ghastly reproduction of her in profile sitting at the piano looking as broad as she is tall and fully the triple-chinned, dumpy hausfrau.
Even more shocking is the figure painted directly behind her. I turned the picture upright so I can view it, and recognize Édouard, slumped on a divan looking lost, staring into space with the unmistakable look of bored discontent.
The painting is truly bizarre and makes me feel very uncomfortable, as if I am walking into the midst of a feud.
“Degas’ handiwork,” Édouard says vaguely.
He looks none too pleased, and I can’t tell whether he dislikes the unflattering nature of the painting or if he thinks me nosy for picking it up.
“The man has some gall,” he murmurs and slams the stove door.
I wonder if this is Degas’ attempt to paint from modern life rather than romanticizing art—as his compatriots preached so adamantly the other day—or if somehow, it is a commentary on the state of the Manet marriage.
I believe it is the latter. Why else would Édouard react so violently? Especially when the canvas was a gift.
It is on the tip of my tongue to comment on the former— opening a discussion of Degas’ and Monet’s ambitions to show outside of the Salon—when Édouard snatches the painting from my hands, and like a madman, takes a paintbrush to it, smearing an ocher rectangle down the far right quarter of the canvas, blocking out the piano and Suzanne’s face. Curiously, he leaves half her body visible as well as the image of him loll-ing on the couch. He also takes care to leave Degas’ little red signature scrawled in the bottom right corner.
“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.