With Violets (25 page)

M
AY
1871

The courts are closed. Papa is free to go. He insists on moving us from the rue Argensen to Saint-Germain.

“How can we leave our son in the thick of battle?” Maman insists.

“Your staying in harm’s way does nothing to keep him, safe,” Papa yells. “If you wish to support him, you will go to a safe place so he may remove you from his list of worries.”

Maman looks as if she has been slapped into reality. She says nothing, only starts packing what is left of her belongings to take to Saint-Germain.

Because of the new outbreak of fighting, I decide against accompanying Edma to Cherbourg. It is a good thing, too, now that we must move once again.

The day before we leave, I receive a letter from Puvis: Mademoiselle,

Please be so kind as to send me news of you and your family to Versailles,
poste restante
. I have been here for several days with my sister and brother-in-law, who is a member of the Assembly.

No other place is more unlike Paris than this. That is why I should have chosen it in any case, in order to escape certain sights and certain contacts. I was happy to leave my awful quarter, where informing against one’s neighbor is becoming a daily occurrence, and where one may at any moment be forced to join the rabble under penalty of being shot by the first escaped convict who wants the fun of doing it.

I hope that your parents will not think that the place can hold out forever, and that they will leave Paris

to await the denouncement elsewhere. If Versailles were not overflowing with refuges, it would be the best place for you, but short of Versailles, there are Cernay, Saint-Cyr, Marly, and many other places.

One is truly bathed in a feeling of grandeur in this admirable and magnificent setting, the sight of which is reassuring, since it recalls a beautiful and noble France, and one can forget for a moment how false and corrupt she is today. Once again, I repeat my prayers to you: please let me know what is happening to you. I assure you all my respectful devotion.

Pierre Puvis de Chavannes

Saint-Germain is a haven compared to the ugly, dirty Paris we leave behind. But it doesn’t shelter us from news of the further tragedy that befalls our beloved city.

“The rue Royal is deserted. The entire quarter is dismal and dreary,” says Papa, who has just come in from his afternoon stroll. “All the shops are closed; people stand at the window watching the marchers move toward the Place Vendôme to seize the post of the National Guard.”

Papa shakes his head. Maman and I can do little but stare at his drawn face. “It is a bloody massacre. They were marching without arms. Twenty-five men killed.”

He sinks into a chair at the table in our new accommoda-tions and buries his face in his hands. None of us need utter a word to know what each is thinking.

Tiburce leading the unarmed front. My brother, who thrives on being in the thick of the fight, believes he is invincible.

All we can do is wait and pray he is unscathed.

*

A few days later Tiburce drops in for a moment to assure everyone of his well-being. He looks handsome in his uniform adorned with a party ribbon in the buttonhole. Maman makes such a fuss one would think Thiers himself had paid a call. But I, too, am relieved to see Tiburce looking so well.

“I am on Admiral Saisset’s staff. We have taken over the Grand Hôtel. The greater part of the place is barricaded. The windows are covered with mattresses, and we have plenty of cannons and guns.” He pauses to sip his tea, and he makes me think of a little boy who has come in for refreshment after spending the morning playing war with his friends. “During the f irst negotiations, I volunteered to relay communications to Generals Chiseret and Lullier. I am acquainted with them, so I was the natural choice to deliver the
communiqué.
”

Maman sighs, “Ah, so brave, my boy.”

Tiburce puffs. “I have known some tense moments.” His eyes shift to Papa, who looks very old as he slumps in his chair, the vacant expression of worry creasing his forehead.

“It is all in the posturing. For example, we publicize that our forces are two thousand strong. In reality, five hundred is a more accurate count.” He laughs. “Never fear, reinforcements are on the way.”

Papa frowns. The clock ticking in the background seems overly loud. “This is an atrocity. You cannot fight with so few men. Please stay here and forget this foolishness. They will get by without you.”

Maman snorts and throws her head back. “He has a commitment to Admiral Saisset. He cannot simply
forget
to follow through on his word, as
you
would have him do.”

Papa looks dejected and Maman indignant. Tiburce’s expression does not waver. Ever the diplomat, he tries to mend the peace between the two. “Father, I have men who rely on

me for their orders. I am no longer on the front line. When we rally tomorrow at the Grand Hôtel it shall go quickly. We shall be covered. Since they have used force, we shall pick up our arms.”

He stands to leave. Maman rises to hug her hero. Papa turns his face to the window.

“You have done your duty,” she says, holding his face in her hands. “Take good care, my son.

I watch Tiburce walk out the door. I am proud of his zest. I envy his sense of purpose. It has been a hard time for everyone, but he has not stood by passively subjecting himself to the whims of fate. I have wasted the last year of my life fretting over situations rather than f ighting to change them.

Actually, my discontent has been growing longer than a year, beyond the disruption of war. It started with Édouard. I placed my happiness in his hands, gave him permission to mold my emotional well-being as he deemed f it, and look where it has landed me. I am to blame for my own unhappiness.

I received another letter from Puvis. He asked me to call him Pierre. He is sweet, showering me with attention where Édouard has removed himself from my life.

Pierre wants to see me. Wants to win Maman’s and Papa’s approval. I admit it overwhelms me sometimes, but in him, I have found the affection of a fine man who understands my soul belongs to my work.

Tiburce has found his purpose in his work. I should follow his example. I may not be equipped to go to battle on a national scale, but seeing Tiburce march off so proudly, I realize I can take possession of my life and trump the demons I have battled for so long and win my own war.

My Dearest Edma,

The more I think about your life, the more favored it appears to be. I wish you would tell me whether it is really possible to work in Cherbourg. This may seem an unfeeling question, but I hope you can put yourself in my position and understand that work is the sole purpose of my existence, and that infinitely prolonged idleness would be fatal to me from every point of view.

The countryside here is the prettiest in the world; there would be a lot of subject matter for someone who liked bare landscapes and had the necessary equipment for work. Neither of these conditions exists in my case, and I no longer want to work just for the sake of working.

I do not know whether I am indulging in illusions, but it seems that a painting like the one I gave Manet could sell, and that is all I care about.

Since you understand perfectly well what I mean, answer me on this point and now let us talk about more interesting things. Everyone is engrossed in this wretched business of politics. We can hear the cannon throughout the day; we can see the smoke on Mount Valérien from the terrace. From time to time we meet people who have got out of Paris. Their accounts are contradictory: according to some, people there are dying of starvation; according to others, the city is perfectly peaceful. The only thing certain is that everyone is f leeing from it, and this is sufficient proof that life there is not pleasant.

We are almost reassured about the fate of our house on the rue Franklin, but I see this morning that they

tried to destroy the batteries of the Trocadéro from Mount Valérien; such an operation cannot be carried out without splattering the neighborhood, and we are philosophically awaiting the outcome.

Affectionately, Berthe

There is nothing for me in Saint-Germain. Nothing to paint. Nothing to anticipate.

If I am to quit dwelling in the past and move forward, I must move myself to a place where I am able to move on. With a valise filled with enough painting supplies for Edma and myself, I board the train to my sister’s home in Cherbourg. Maman and Papa are quite safe in their little Saint-Germain sanctuary. I can go to my sister with a light heart.

As the engine pulls out of the station, I do not even glance back at the old life I leave behind. The war has torn down more than walls and monuments. I am a different person than I was a year ago, although I do not see how anyone could suffer through the terrible atrocities we have lived through this year and emerge the same. It is not possible. I am broken, yet not irreparably damaged. It is as if I have been taken apart and reconstructed anew. The old ways were certainly less complicated, but now . . . Now I know I shall steer my ship wisely, as Maman is so fond of telling me.

I do not know if it is just that I am happy to be in Edma’s company again or if it is merely a relief to be out from under the web of tension Maman and Papa have spun. Even the air here is lighter in Cherbourg. I find many pleasing vignettes to paint outside so I can enjoy the charming spring days. I have

begun a new life in this charming place, leaving behind my old unhappiness.

“Edma, turn your head to the left and look down at little Jeanne. This will make a beautiful painting.”

My sister’s morale seems remarkably improved from when I visited her in Lorient, where she led such a bleak existence. She has a baby now. She has discovered purpose in life. Although she shows no more interest in picking up a paintbrush—she showers all her attention on Jeanne and is content to sit for me.

Dear Mademoiselle,

Your letter brings me much pleasure, and I should like to prove this to you by my promptness in answering it. I wish, however, that it had been more detailed about several things, such as the welcome you received from your sister, who must have been happy to see you again, and also about the outcome of your journey. You know how much such things interest me, whether they pertain to your art or directly to your personal life—which I presume to be the case at the present, for one hardly paints while traveling in a railway carriage. You are enjoying fresh air in the company of your family who love you, you are seeing a place that is new to you, and you are no longer hearing the stupid cannon. Meanwhile, you are as well informed as we are of every important event, and, finally, you are always in your own company. Why then should one be sorry for you? You ask me what is being talked about and what is happening in Versailles. Well, it’s always the same things. The rue des Reservoirs has not become

easier for Parisians to climb, and they mark time in their souls even more than on the street. As for me, I produce as much as I can, but these things remain in a latent state, so to speak—formless sketches or spots of color that I expect nevertheless to turn to account some day. It is cold, sharp, unpleasant. The shade frigid and the sun pitiless. Add to that some great dust squalls that blind you from time to time and an absolutely artificial existence and you will know as much about Versailles as if you were living here.

Thiers upbraided the Chamber in very severe terms at yesterday’s meeting, to the acute displeasure of the great majority, despite appearances to the contrary, and despite the vote of absolute confidence that followed his lashing.

Above all, please write and tell me everything you are doing and thinking. It is more than likely that we shall soon return to Paris. You must come and see what is left of my poor studio.

Ah, those cannon balls—brutal things, aren’t they? I often think of those very pleasant hours I spent last year in that big bazaar that has become a dressing station, filled today with every sort of disease. Not so long ago, it was full of strollers, paintings, sculptures, pastries,
etc.
The point is that time passed quickly there. All this is now strangely gone with the wind, and no sooner will the ruins be more or less restored than one will be oneself a ruin. If only ivy would grow around old me the way it grows around the statues of Versailles.

And so you see you must tell me in great detail what is happening to you, whether you are working,

whether you are succeeding—in other words, everything.

Adieu, dear Mademoiselle.

I remain forever your faithful servant, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes

J
UNE
1871

Maman wrote that Tiburce came home yesterday. He gave additional details, of the horrors, but did not confirm everything the newspapers are saying. Montmartre is taken, but the Place de la Concorde put up such a resistance that the shells rained all about our house. We have not much hope that the rue Franklin will soon be cleared. There was a rumor that a neighbor’s home was gone, but only part of the wall of our home was damaged and the furniture is still intact.

The Communards have stolen the linen, some pictures, a clock—all the things they can carry, and of course, they emptied the wine cellar, then scrawled disgusting epithets on every available surface.

What is going to happen? I tremble to think. Maman says that once Paris is taken, Monsieur Thiers will resign, and without him there will be nothing to restrain the reactionaries. We shall advance to full-f ledged monarchy. New struggles, open or hidden, with no respite. I am afraid that such will be our lot.

M
AY
25, 1871

My Dear Bijou,

Paris is on fire! This is beyond description. Throughout the day the wind kept blowing in charred papers; some of them were still legible. A vast column of smoke covers Paris, and at night a luminous red cloud, horrible to behold, made it all look like a volcanic eruption. There were continual explosions and detonations; we were spared nothing. They say the insurrection is crushed; but the shooting has not yet stopped. Hence, their claim is not true. By ten o’clock, when we left the terrace, the fire seemed to have been put out, so that I hoped very much that everything had been grossly exaggerated, but the accounts in the newspapers this morning left no room for doubt. Latest official dispatch: the insurrection is now driven back to a very small part of Paris, the Tuilleries is reduced to ashes, the Louvre survives, the part of the Finance Ministry building up from the rue de Rivoli is on fire, the Cour des Comptes is burned down, twelve thousand prisoners, Paris strewn with dead.