With Violets (26 page)
J
UNE
1871
Maman writes that she saw the Hôtel de Ville the day after she returned to Paris. What she saw was frightful—the substantial building has been ripped open from one end to the other!
It was smoking in several places, and the firemen were still pouring water on it. It is a complete ruin. Your father would like all this debris to be preserved as a perpetual reminder of the horrors of popular revolution.
It’s unbelievable, a nation thus destroying itself ! Going down by boat, I saw the remains of the Cour des Comptes, of the Hôtel de la Legion d’Honneur, of the Orsaybarracks, of a part of the Tuilleries. The poor Louvre has been nicked by projectiles, and there are few streets that do not bear traces of the struggle. I also noticed that half the rue Royale is demolished, and there are so many ruined houses, it is unbelievable— one rubs one’s eyes wondering whether one is really awake.
Tiburce has met Manet and Degas. Even at this stage they are condemning the drastic measures to repress them. I think they are insane, don’t you?
Maman
J
UNE
10, 1871
Dear Mademoiselle,
We returned to Paris several days ago, and the ladies asked me to send their regards to you and to Madame Pontillon.
What terrible events have befallen us this year. How shall we ever get back to normal? Each of us
blames another, but we’re all responsible for what has happened. We’re all ruined; we shall have to work hard to glimpse life as it was before.
I happened upon your brother a few days ago. Yet I have not been able to visit your mother as I had hoped. Eugène went to see you at Saint-Germain, but you were out that day. I was pleased to hear your beautiful home in Passy escaped damage. I hope, Mademoiselle, you will not prolong your stay in Cherbourg, as I would like very much to see you.
Ed. Manet
Many Waters cannot quench love, Nor can the f loods drown it.
—Song of Solomon 8:7
J
ULY
1871
f
we begin again, it will end. It has become a pattern with Édouard and me. He senses my pulling away, and courts me vigorously to close the distance. His charm will whitewash the gray distance between us, over which he will paint a new scene
of budding possibilities that in the end will never blossom.
Only this time I shall not allow those seeds to take root. I leave his letters unanswered, which makes him all the more attentive, makes him write more frequently, nearly every day, as a matter of fact.
As I sit at the breakfast table, I see another of his attempts at correspondence lying beside my plate.
He has sent twenty-eight letters since I have been at Edma’s. I pick up this latest one and hold it for a moment, unopened. Seeing my name scrawled in his bold, familiar script a dreaded sense of compression grips my chest.
Why is it that he does not want me when he can have me, yet tries so desperately to win me the moment I resolve I am finished with him.
And I am.
I am
finished
with him. It is as simple as that.
“What does Manet have to say today?” Edma asks, then bites into her brioche. Her gaze lingers on the letter.
I place it on the table and sip my coffee. “I don’t know. I have not opened it.”
She looks up at me expectantly. “He has written you nearly every day for the past month.”
“He has.”
She bites into her bread again. Chews. I stare out the window at Marie, Edma’s maid, who is hanging bed linens out to dry on a clothesline that runs parallel to the house.
“Is it about business? Perhaps he wants to introduce you to his dealer?”
“Perhaps.” I take another sip of coffee. My stomach is too upset to consider a bite of food. “When Jeanne awakens, shall we go back to the meadow so I can work on the painting?”
“That is fine.” She nudges the note with her finger. “But aren’t you going to open it?”
The truth is I cannot. Not sitting here with Edma. She would expect me to read it to her and how would I explain? If this letter is anything like the others he has sent . . . declara-tions of love, remorse for having fallen out of my favor. The content is so familiar it would surely raise Edma’s eyebrow.
Possibly even both of them. “You’re still involved with him.”
She states the words matter-of-factly, as one would say “the coffee is cold” or “it is raining outside.” Still, they catch me off guard. I stare into my cup.
“He is my friend, yes. If that is what you imply?”
The words feel like a lie and raise my ire to a burning level.
What kind of friend deserts another in such a dire time?
I am not good at deception. And I know I will do myself a disservice to say too much.
“Then if he is just a friend, why does he write to you every day? Even Puvis, who has announced his plans to discuss his intentions with Maman and Papa, does not write you on a daily basis.”
“I do not write to Édouard.” My words are a sharp knife slicing through the thick air.
“Exactly.”
It is warm in the house. The table is next to a window with an eastern exposure that intensifies the heat. As does Edma’s grilling me. I pick up Édouard’s letter and fan myself.
“If he were your friend, as you claim,” she says, “you would feel compelled to write to him on occasion. And you have not written him a single note.” She reaches out and touches my hand. “Oh, Berthe, what are you doing? Puvis is in love with you. Do not ruin this chance.”
I pull my hand away and tuck the letter into the folds of my skirt, out of her line of vision.
“Ruin what?”
“Your chance at marriage.”
I pick up my cup again, resisting the urge to let my sister anger me.
“I have had no proposals. Even if he does speak to Maman and Papa, they will never accept him. You know their feelings.”
“Yes, but he is so obviously smitten with you.”
I set down the cup with a thud. “Edma, since you have married, you have become as bad as Maman when it comes to selling me to the highest bidder. The part that angers me the most is that you have never once asked me if I am in love with him.”
She dabs at the corners of her mouth with a
serviette
. “Which one gentleman should I inquire after, Berthe? Manet or Puvis?”
I glare at her. At least she has the decency to look away, down at her half-eaten roll.
“Oh never mind,” she finally says. “It is obvious.”
I spend the morning in my room. We do not go out to the meadow, but it is just as well. The time alone working on the canvas from memory softens my mood. Even in my rage, I have mind enough to realize I do not want this visit to end poorly. I do not want to run home in a fit of temper as I did in Lorient. I do not want to say things to Edma I’ll later regret. After all, her concern holds a grain of truth—that Manet himself has proven to be an unworthy candidate for my devotion.
Maybe
unworthy
is too harsh a word. I would like to think he would have behaved much more reliably had circumstances been different. Alas, he is married, and whether he married Suzanne out of love or pity, the woman obviously has a hold on him that runs deeper than his feelings for me. That is the point I will hold firmly in the forefront of my mind.
I slip my brush into a jar of linseed oil. The red paint dis-perses in the oil like blood in water. I pick up his unopened letter and deposit it in the trash. Édouard and his scattered whims are not part of my new plan for my life.
I shall make a name for myself as an artist. That name will be my own, not that of a man I do not love; not that of a man I marry for the sake of becoming someone’s wife.
By noon Edma and I make amends, but it is too hot to paint in the meadow. We sit outside in the shade of the willow tree, fanning ourselves while little Jeanne toddles about in the tall, wispy grass.
“Are you in love with Puvis?” Edma asks.
I sigh, but am not put off by the question. It has been hanging between us like a curtain begging to be pulled back.
“I admire him and appreciate his steadfast friendship, but if Monsieur Puvis wants to ask for my hand in marriage, I’m afraid I have given him the wrong impression. You are the one who has helped me realize this.”
We sit for a few moments in companionable silence, but I can feel my sister’s disappointment although she does not voice it.
The white sheets hung to dry that morning by Marie, f lut-ter in the faint breeze. Edma and I tilt our chins up to catch the gentle wind.
“Give it time,” Edma says. “Emotions are still running high after the terrible year we have just spent. The world is upside down.”
I nod. “But when it is right again, I do not expect my feelings to have changed. Don’t you suppose Puvis is so anxious to marry because he feels the need to attach himself to something stable, something normal and familiar after the events of this year? Every letter he’s written talks about the war causing him to take stock of his life.
“I hesitate not so much because I fear he will change his mind after life resumes, but because . . . because I do not possess the feelings for him a woman should possess when contemplating marriage.”
Edma nods and traces a seam in the quilt we are sitting on. “Maman and Papa would be glad to hear that.” My sister
seems a bit def lated, but acts as if she is trying to come to terms with my revelation. “You know how they disapprove of him. So you see Maman is not willing to marry you off to just anyone.” She smiles and imitates Maman’s voice: “I will not
settle on just anyone for you. He must be respectable, a man of means—preferably a businessman or politician.”
I make a face at Edma, and she laughs.
“Oh, Berthe, it is not that I am trying to marry you off.” Jeanne toddles over and plops down on the blanket next to her mother. “I simply want you to know the happiness I have found.”
I squeeze her hand.
“But Edma, you are making a life with the man you love.
It is not an arrangement born out of middle-aged necessity.” She gazes at me, and I can see the wheels of her mind turning. For a moment I fear she will bring up Édouard again. “So it is not necessarily marriage that you are against?”
“Of course not.”
She nods as if she has just fit another piece into a complicated puzzle. She starts to speak again, but the rattle of a carriage off in the distance distracts her. We both shade our eyes against the glare of the unrelenting sun to watch a driver coax horses to a stop in front of Edma’s house.
Two handsomely dressed men disembark.
“Messieurs Manet!” Edma calls as she gets to her feet.
My breath lodges in my throat. I want to run—far, far away—but instead, I sit there, rooted to the earth like the giant willow I am sitting beneath.
“Bonjour!”
Édouard calls. He throws his arms wide and laughs as if he has just delivered a magnificent joke.
Eugène doffs his hat and waves. It will be nice to visit with Eugène. I have grown quite fond of him. His brother, however, is another matter entirely.
My sister meets them halfway, but I stay with Jeanne, who holds out her little arms for me to pick her up. I do, grateful for the diversion.
As they draw closer, shock courses through my body at
how thin Édouard has become. His cheeks are hollow and his once robust frame is but a spit of what it was.
I draw baby Jeanne to me and bury my face in the downy softness of her hair to avoid looking at him.
I hear Edma say, “What a lovely coincidence. Berthe and I were just talking about you.”
“Berthe, why didn’t you tell me the Messieurs Manet were coming today?” I detect a certain glint in Edma’s eyes that warns of mischief. Pure mischief.
I pick up the painted fan Degas had given me and fan myself. “
Moi?
How was I supposed to know any better than you? The Messieurs Manet are popular gentlemen. I cannot keep up with their social schedules.”
Édouard shifts, and I sense a bit of discomfort beneath his affable exterior. He clears his throat. “Did you not receive my letters, Mademoiselle? I sent word of our plans, but it is possible the correspondence has not yet arrived. The mail is still unpredictable. I do beg your pardon for barging in seemingly unannounced. I hope we are not intruding.”
Surprisingly, he makes no attempt to leave.
Something about his presumptuousness galls me, or maybe what bothers me is the part of me that I have taken care to bury deep inside is singing at his presence. Realizing this, I am the one who fidgets.
No. No, this will not do at all.
“Come to think of it,” I say, “a letter did arrive this morning. I have been so busy with my work that I have not had the opportunity to read it.”
It gives me great pleasure to let Édouard know I am not hanging on his every word.
He raises a brow. “Does work keep you from answering my letters?”
A beat of baited silence paints the room with nervous tension. I silently vow not to be the one who breaks the quiet.
“Work certainly occupies her thoughts, as does a certain Monsieur Puvis de Chavannes,” says Edma, with a dreamy look on her face.
I dart a narrowed glance at her. What is she doing? Édouard stiffens and Eugène’s head snaps in my direction.
All eyes are on me, and Edma’s dreaminess has changed to a wicked smile. I am stunned for the first few seconds my sister commences leading Édouard down the false path, but seeing how mention of Puvis’s name visibly gets under Édouard’s skin, tingles of excitement skitter through me.
“I shall hint at a piece of news I am sure my sister won’t mind me sharing.”
Eugène’s gaze shifts to Edma, but Édouard stares at me. “There could very well be an
announcement
soon. All I will
say is that it has to do with there being a certain addition to the
family.” She giggles impishly and covers her mouth. “Oh, but it is much too soon to talk, and I have already said far too much.” Edma gets up and walks over to the window. The Messieurs Manet slump dumbfounded in their chairs. I want to laugh out loud. I want to leap up and hug my sister for telling such impious tales—even if I have absolutely no intention to
