Authors: Where the Light Falls
They parted, Jeanette on Edward’s arm and Effie tagging along, the least perturbed of anyone. Edward had been studying the catalogue as a way to block out the turmoil and found Jeanette’s name. “There,” he pointed. She took the booklet in both hands, unable to think clearly enough to make sense of it in relation to the floor plan. Edward could. When they came into the right room, it took more searching in a welter of small canvases fitted like mosaics, but there it was:
Un Vestibule dans le Quartier Saint-Germain
, high in the double row above the line—not the best site, but less degrading than below the knees. Jeanette went very still, too choked by emotion to know what she felt at first; she understood Sonja’s pride the year before. She clutched Edward’s arm.
“It’s the beginning,” he said, “and a fine one.”
Effie wanted to go back into the French section to see what Carolus-Duran was showing that year, but Jeanette overruled her, mindful of the limits to Edward’s tolerance. “Hang on to your guest card, Cousin Effie. We’ll come back this afternoon if you like. Right now, let’s go celebrate somewhere.”
“All right,” said Effie, “You should become reacquainted with a landmark while there’s still time.”
They went to Le Petit Honoré.
* * *
The wedding was announced for mid July in Circleville. Edward’s lease was up on the first of May, after which he moved back into a residential hotel for a few weeks, this one on the Rue Jacob, because Jeanette loved the street and wanted him to experience something like her first year and because he wanted to be on the Left Bank, closer to her and the Renicks. There could be no thought of leaving Paris before the end of the Salon when she could reclaim
Un Vestibule
. Meanwhile, before the established artists left in June and Carolus’s atelier closed, she had her private meeting with Carolus in his studio to show him her watercolors of Provence. He assessed them and her other work candidly and with insight. Until then, she had not realized how much his seemingly off-the-cuff suggestions and occasional sharp rebukes over the past year had reflected a comprehension of her individual strengths and weaknesses. She went away inspired and momentarily in despair at having to leave—but it was time to start making real plans: to give notice, to book passage. And if leaving was hard for her, how much worse for Cousin Effie! It was telling that Effie seemed to procrastinate as much as she did herself.
“What a thought,” said Jeanette to Edward one afternoon near the beginning of June, “going back to the Hendricks!”
“Had you thought of asking her to live with us?”
“Do you mean that, Edward?”
“Well, my darling, I know that every shred of happiness I’ll ever have depends on your being with me, but I’m not convinced that either one of us has any idea how to run a house.”
“And you’d really contemplate having Cousin Effie around all the time?”
“We get along, you know. Could you be happy with her?”
“By now, of course, I could!”
They put it to Effie. “Oh, my!” she dithered, “what can I say? Why, it’s just what I should have expected from you two, only I didn’t see it coming. Nothing was further from my mind—Oh my. Well, thank you, but, no. No, I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
“If you’re afraid of what Aunt Maude will say—”
“No, no; I’m sure by now Maude has sorted out everything to her liking, and the last thing she needs is me in the way again. No, you see, I can’t come with you because I’m not going back at all.”
They stared.
“I’m staying in Paris,” she explained, as if the fact needed to be established, which in a way, it did. “Now if you’re wondering how I can live alone on what dear Polycarpus left me, you don’t need to worry—not that I couldn’t, but I’m not going to. I’m going to move in with Isobel and Miss Reade.”
She went on to describe a scheme for running a sort of
pension
or club for lady art students, with bedrooms, a big studio, a kitchen, a lounge. If they could attract someone like Miss Richardson, perhaps the girls could hire models for a few sessions a week. “Then on Mr. Renick’s advice, I took updated versions of some of my articles on living arrangements to William Galignani and he bought them for the Paris
Messenger
. If the response is good, I can redo the rest and he can run them and we might put out the collection in cheap book form, so then we could advertise the
pension
. Or even if that doesn’t work out, oh, well, you know, word of mouth.”
“Well, that
is
news,” said Jeanette, when they had exhausted Effie’s plans for the moment. “I guess I’ll have to find someone else to travel with.”
“Why not your husband?” asked Edward.
Jeanette was about to say that she might be a Bohemian, but not that much of one, thank you, when she realized what he had said. Husband, not fiancé.
“You mean—?”
“I mean, if you don’t mind missing a walk down the aisle in Circleville, we can get married over here.”
“We’ll elope!” cried Jeanette, falling back in laughter.
“Not what I had in mind. We’ll get old Noyes to tie the knot for us, and then we’ll take a wedding trip in Europe.”
“Oh, Edward, to the Italy you love, where I’ve never been!”
“Italy,” he affirmed, smiling into her eyes. “Soon, before it gets too hot. Then we’ll go up to Freiburg for me to show you off to the family and maybe all the way to Kiel and Copenhagen. We can go home by way of London.”
General Noyes had the authority to marry them as Americans on the embassy grounds. Mr. Renick stood in for Judge Palmer to give the bride away. A weeping Effie was, of course, maid of honor, and Amy a second bridesmaid to prove that she and Sonja were happy about the marriage. Young Paul came from Freiburg to act as best man. Cornelia gave a reception, just friends this time, in the secret garden.
And then Mr. and Mrs. Edward Murer left, the two of them, to go where they knew no one but each other, and no one else knew them (though for the first night, this paradise was only the Hôtel Meurice). Edward, who had been shut down so long; Edward, who feared his age as a barrier; Edward, whose only experience was to his mind squalid, found in Jeanette a partner spontaneous and natural. And Jeanette, whose education had come primarily from watching stallions take mares and whispered exchanges in the dormitory after the lights were out (and from Cornelia, who had embarrassed her by sitting in for her mother with a wholly inadequate little lecture)—Jeanette found that bodies had more than contour, surface, and underlying structure; they had deeper mysteries to explore: shadows, depths, highlights, tenderness.
Edward said, later, “Tell me truly, why did you marry me, Jeanette?”
“Do you have to ask?” she said, complacently, snuggling the curve of her body around the solidity of his hip, with an arm across his chest.
“I don’t believe you knew about this,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“No.”
“Then why?” It was a dangerous question, and he knew it, stupid. And yet he asked it.
“Truly?” she asked, shifting up onto her elbow to look at him aslant. In repose against the pillow in darkness, the shape of his face was different again from any view she had ever had of it. “You know how I painted a picture of my studio to remember it by, with your portrait on my easel as the focal point?” He reached up to touch her hair lightly. “Well, I need more than your portrait. Whenever I see you, Edward, no matter where or when, I see you more clearly and feel you more substantially than anything else around me. And when you were gone, when I didn’t know if you were coming back, everything, even the things I loved, were emptier. Without you, my world is bereft.”
“Oh, my darling Jeanette,” he said, pulling her back down onto his chest. “What you say is true for me, too, about you.”
“I know,” she said, settling happily, “which answers your question.”
Readers Guide
W
here the
L
ight
F
alls
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