I Always Loved You (15 page)

M
ary Cassatt, Gustave Caillebotte, Claude Monet, Camille Pissarro, Berthe Morisot, and Eugène Manet all watched Degas pace from one end of Caillebotte's well-appointed parlor at 77 Rue de Miromesnil to the other. Mary thought the chosen meeting place odd; the Caillebotte family had suffered a spate of recent deaths and it seemed unkind to invade, but Degas had assured her on the way over that Gustave's mother had offered her parlor in hopes of enlivening their spirits. But when they arrived, there was no sign of her. A downcast maid greeted them at the door, and a dark pall hung over even the home's exquisite furnishings and brocade draperies.

A formal letter outlining Degas's concerns had arrived at the Cassatt home a week ago, causing Mary's father to roll his eyes and say, “This is what happens when you withdraw from official exhibitions and entrust your welfare to renegades.”

The assembled group, huddled on armchairs and divans, was depleted. Though he was still committed to the group, the relentlessly impoverished Cézanne had removed to Aix, his family home, to reduce expenses. However, he was not missed, because he rarely socialized with anyone other than Zola, his childhood friend. Mary had met Cézanne on several occasions, and even in his best moments he looked like a beleaguered skeleton, his red-rimmed eyes ever roving. Renoir, also absent, had recently clashed with Degas over his dictum that anyone who submitted to the Salon must forgo exhibiting with the group. It was a matter of principle, Degas had said, to which Renoir had replied that it was not a matter of principle, it was a matter of money. He needed to make some, and no one with money had ever hired an impressionist to make his portrait. Not that Renoir's defection had done him any good. The Salon jury had rejected both his paintings.

Degas would not engage with Mary in the carriage, though she had pressed her argument, crafted over the past week, as forcefully as she had dared. Now he paced, preparing to recount his fears to the group, which he had already summarized in his letter. Though Degas rarely had trouble expressing his opinion on anything, he seemed unusually nervous.

“It is foolishness even to try,” he began.

They were scheduled to open their exhibit in two weeks, on the first of June, in a different apartment on the Rue le Peletier. A deposit had been paid. Frames had been purchased. Posters had been printed. But Degas was concerned about the World's Fair, the Exposition Universelle. The fair was not a surprise; the city had been preparing for it for months, but the extent to which it had engulfed the city had shocked everyone. Day and night, workers destroyed sleep and rendered life miserable. Construction of a brick palace atop the Trocadéro and fair buildings on the Champ de Mars had rendered the seventh and sixteenth arrondissements din-filled arenas. Thuds and shouts infiltrated every home, mean and stately, in the two districts. Electric arc lights burned all night long. An overabundance of spring mud made the champ a quagmire: Carts and
camions
overloaded with materials plunged into bubbling sinkholes. Even mourners at the Passy Cemetery had had to contend with the hubbub drowning out priests' remarks. And now that the exposition had opened, traffic strangled the city; every fiacre and omnibus overflowed with visitors.

“It's difficult enough to compete with the Salon, let alone a world exposition. That irresistible circus is smothering everything in the city. I propose that we cancel our exhibition. Even the Salon is opening late this year,” Degas said, shamelessly using the Salon he despised as a supporting argument.

“Forgive me, Degas,” Caillebotte said, “but all you've talked of all winter has been your search for a venue, of printing the necessary posters, of Mademoiselle Cassatt's debut. And now you want to abandon all of it? Paris is teeming with visitors from all over the world. We could surpass all our previous attendance by the thousands.”

Mary nodded in agreement. She barely knew Caillebotte, but she liked him very much. His lean build and sharp, carefully groomed beard conveyed a disciplined personality that appealed in the midst of the slapdash garb of the other men.

Before Degas could answer, Pissarro leaned forward and said, “If I may, Degas, didn't you just tell me the other day that you have no canvases to show? Isn't that really why you want to put off the exhibition? Because you are not ready?”

“Nonsense,” Degas said. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Is that true, Degas?” Caillebotte said.

“It is not true. What is true is that visitors don't know Paris. They won't know how to find us. We could paper all the kiosks in Paris with fliers and no one would come. For that matter, we are the only Parisians left in the city. Most everyone else has fled. They've sublet their apartments for twice, three times the rent and escaped to Dieppe or Nice for the summer. Paris has turned into nothing but a huge hotel. And I can assure you, foreigners who visit expositions are not art lovers. They go to fritter away their time on the fairgrounds in the interest of being seen. We would be wasting our time. No one will come to see us. At this late date, we can't retrieve the deposit for the apartment, but we can at least save half the rent.”

“But Degas,” Pissarro said, “you told me you have nothing ready to show.”

“That is not relevant. I'm trying to be prudent.”

“So prudent you forced Renoir from our midst?” Caillebotte said. “With your silly rule, you made him desert us. And he is one of the best of us.”

The argument was veering off course. Of late, the group, which Mary had at first believed so singular in its objectives, seemed to be nothing more than a loose association of opinionated individuals who rarely agreed. She would never admit it to her father, but his suspicion of the group no longer seemed unfounded. She said, “What if we double our efforts at advertisement? We could distribute fliers at the fair—”

“And look as if we are amateurs or gypsies?” Monet said. He sat slumped in a straight-backed chair set apart from the rest of them. His face was ruddy from having spent the spring painting outdoors. He held his glass of wine precariously in his callused hands. “We might as well set up our canvases on the streets leading to the Trocadéro and let people peruse them there. Besides, the Champ de Mars is too far from the ninth arrondissement to induce attendance.”

“Berthe,” Mary said, “what do you think? You and Eugène could find us a space there, couldn't you, since you live so near? Or at least you could suggest one? There is no rule, is there, that our exhibitions have to take place in the ninth arrondissement? Why not the sixteenth or the seventh? Why not look near the Trocadéro? Why not pitch a tent near the
champ
?”

The Manets had arrived at the same time as she and Degas, but they had spoken only for a moment. Tonight Berthe looked wan and pale, thinner than usual. “I—” she began, but before she could finish, Monet said, “That's already been done.”

“Give my wife leave to speak, Claude,” Eugène said.

“Forgive me, Madame Morisot,” Monet said. “Have you anything to say to enlighten the American?”

“Enough, Claude,” Caillebotte said. He turned to Mary. “I'm afraid Claude is right, Mademoiselle Cassatt. The last time Paris hosted a World's Fair, Édouard rented a tent just off the
champ
. He set his pictures on easels, laid a carpet on the wooden floor, furnished it with armchairs, and even had a maid serve refreshments. No one came, even though Zacharie Astruc wrote an article about him in the newspapers every day. The whole thing was a huge failure. Édouard lost so much money his mother nearly disowned him. Isn't that right, Eugène?”

“It was her money, of course, that he'd used,” Eugène said.

“There are more of us this time,” Mary said. “Together, we could attract more visitors; we could share the costs.”

“You are forgetting, mademoiselle, that the relevant point is that we could not charge admission,” Degas said. “So it would be an outlay with no return. Unless Monsieur Caillebotte sees fit to throw his money away.”

They all turned to Caillebotte, who met their inquisitive gaze with an impassive one of his own. He had, over the years, lent them all money, never asking for its return. Unlike the others, family wealth sustained him, but he did not acquiesce now.

“You see? Far be it from us to follow in Édouard's failed footsteps,” Degas said. “So, are we agreed? We abandon this year out of practicality? Or put it off till autumn?”

“Will you have canvases then, Degas?” Pissarro said.

“I did not say I did not have canvases.”

“But this capitulation is premature,” Mary said. “We haven't yet exhausted every idea.”

“I believe we have,” Degas said. He looked around the room. Sidelong glances confirmed that everyone, or almost everyone, agreed. “Then it's settled. Perhaps autumn. But not June.”

Mary colored. Everyone else rose from their chairs to find their way to the drink trolley to refill their glasses. No one came to talk to her, not even Berthe, who hovered near the doorway with her glass of sherry.

“Try not to see this little interruption as a failure,” Degas said, bringing Mary a glass of wine and sitting beside her. “Manet is beside himself. He has to move studios because his landlord is still furious about that little stunt he pulled with his private exhibition. This is nothing like that.”

“Only a little interruption?”

“Nothing public matters. What matters is what happens inside the studio. Your work. That is where genius lies, where it is born, where it is played out. It is not born on the walls of an exhibition. That I
can
guarantee. Besides, the press destroys us every time. Not because they are right, of course, but because they are stupid. Think of this as a reprieve from your inevitable public flogging. They will ridicule you just as much as they ridicule the rest of us.”

“Don't patronize me, Edgar.”

“But weren't you worried that you didn't have enough canvases to show?”

“And aren't you just being selfish? If what Monsieur Pissarro says is true?”

“Be thankful you have more time,” he said, ignoring her accusation.

“It would seem that now I have an eternity.” The wine was tannic. Mary bit her lip. “You are giving up. All of you. We could have made people come. There is always a way.”

“But you have a picture showing at the fair. A juried show, I might add. What more do you want?”

In late March, a letter had arrived for Mary. The printed letter, addressed to
Sir
, though the envelope itself was directed to
Miss
Mary Cassatt, stated that the “Committee for Selection of Pictures by American Artists in Europe for the Paris Universal Exhibition” was soliciting artwork from American artists in Europe to supplement the work they had already collected in America. American artists resident in Europe were to be allotted one-eighth of the available gallery space. Given the limitations, it was advisable to send but one painting for consideration. Oil or watercolor only, sent to the Fine Art Department of the United States by 15 April, inclusive, labels included, their blanks to be filled out and affixed to the case and back of the picture, sent to a suite reserved at the Grand Hotel in Paris.

Mary sent two: the one of Eloise in the blue chairs and another recent drawing, of the head of a woman done in yellow pastel on blue paper.

The rejection did not arrive heralded via yellow envelope, as did rejections from the Salon. It did not even arrive via post. It arrived in the dirty hands of the carter she had hired to carry her work to the hallowed halls of the Grand Hotel.

Mister Cassatt,

Thank you for your submissions to the Committee for the Examination of Works by American Artists, Resident Abroad. We are returning your canvas of the painting of the little girl in the blue chair, “Portrait of a Young Girl.” We regret that due to space restrictions we have had to be very rigid in our selections, having been charged with selecting art that best represents the American character. We will, however, be exhibiting your “Head,” which exemplifies that fine attitude of American optimism we wish the world to admire.

Yours most sincerely,

Mr. C. E. Detmold,
Mr. Augustus Saint-Gaudens, and Mr. D. Maitland Armstrong

While she was pleased to be represented, one drawing was not an exhibition.

“What more do I want?” Mary said now. “I want you to try.”

“That's not what you want. You want recognition, my dear,” Degas said. “You and Renoir should pout together outside the door of the Salon hanging committee and beg for medals when they answer their door.” His tone had grown sharp and mocking.

“That is unfair,” she said.

“So your father was right. You do paint for others.”

Mary set down her wineglass. “Why do you paint, Edgar?”

“I paint to make art.”

“As do I. We are no different.”

“Oh, yes, my dear, we are. You want the world to admire you, which means you think too much of it. I, however, think so little of the world that I don't care if it ever admires me.”

“Then why exhibit at all?” Mary said. “Why not hide in your studio and make art and ignore everyone? Why ever let anyone see what you've done?”

Degas shrugged. “In a perfect world that would be my preference.”

“I don't believe you.”

“You are too bourgeois for your own good, just as your father is.”

Caillebotte, listening from across the room, said, “Degas, there is no need to attack the lovely Mademoiselle Cassatt because she disagrees with you.”

“Degas can attack her all he likes,” Monet said. “Her proposition is ill-founded. She thinks because her family has money that money is an obstacle for no one. I can't risk a centime on so shaky a prospect.”

Mary's hands were trembling. “We don't have the kind of money we're willing to throw away. And none of you has the courage to do what is necessary. The world is in Paris. Let's show them who we are.”