With Violets (3 page)
Edma and I stop spinning, but my mind continues to whirl. The paintings, hung one upon the other on the studio walls, dance around me as I try to regain my equilibrium. I glance down at the crumpled paper in my hand, and I have the very unsettling sensation of the world shifting under my feet.
In a boudoir perfumed with Violettes de Parma, Edma and I chatter and share confidences. Giddy worries. Sudden panics. Trepidation born from silly designs.
“When Fantin called yesterday, he told me Emmanuel Chabrier played Saint-Saëns’
Danse Macabre
last week at the Manet’s
soirée,”
Edma says, breathless. Her eyes sparkle as she brushes my hair. She pauses and studies me in the glass. “What shall be your first words to Manet?”
In my mind, I have rehearsed the scene a million times, but put to the test, I cannot recall a single syllable.
“I suppose I shall say,
‘Bonsoir.’
”
“That shall certainly set his heart af lame.”
“If so, I would say he is too easily impressed.”
Edma sets down the brush. I know she can see right through my act. I pick up the silver hand mirror with trembling fingers and study my ref lection.
I close my eyes, draw in a shallow breath, and set down the mirror. There is the crash of crystal. My eyes f ly open, and I catch a perfume bottle just before it rolls off the dressing table. The stopper comes lose and liquid splashes on my hands. The sweet scent of violets f loods my senses and calms my rattled nerves.
Edma giggles.
I cannot help but laugh with her. Dear, sweet Edma, the one who knows me so well, sometimes better than I know myself.
As we tie laces, cinch corsets, smooth folds, and straighten bonnets, the mood is lighter than it has been in days. Hiding my desire like a gold ring tucked away inside a delicate ivory box, I perfume my dreams with what remains of the spilled violet water and still my unsteady hands with the sweep of satin gloves.
Finally, when there is nothing left to do save leave for the soirée, I check my ref lection in the hand mirror one last time. The pretty trinkets on my dressing table shimmer in the half light. One careless gesture will send the bibelots smashing to the f loor.
But this time, as I return the mirror to the table, a slow, deliberate gesture, my hand does not shake.
Entering the hall, she meets the wife . . . Words stick; does not manage to say anything. Presses hands together; stands hesitating.
Agitates moon-like fan, sheds pearl-like tears. Realizes she loves him as much as ever, Present pain never comes to an end.
—Anonymous, China
e
travel in the cold rain from our home on rue Franklin to the soirée on rue de Saint Pétersbourg. The foul weather does not dampen my spirits. Yet it takes but three
hateful words to ruin my evening: Madame Édouard Manet.
He is married.
It does not make sense.
Elle est une vache
. She is a cow. Inside the lavish drawing room, the distant rumble of thunder sounds as I gape at the profile of the fat, dowdy woman playing Chopin on the piano. Her hair, parted in the middle, is pulled back in a severe chignon. The style emphasizes a round face that seems to have swallowed up her chin and redistributed it in three tiers of gelatinous f lesh that dance as she pounds on
the keys. Her upturned nose is too small for her masculine face, and in conjunction with her pursed, thin-lipped mouth, she looked as if she smells a fetid odor. All broad shoulders, bosom and tree-trunk waist, she is a sausage stuffed uncomfortably into her gray silk dress.
This is Madame Édouard Manet?
I wonder if I have heard Madame Manet,
mère
, correctly.
Edma leans in and pinches my arm. I want to scream, but I do not.
Madame Manet,
la mère
. Madame Manet,
la vache.
Unfathomable. Obviously, there has to be something more to this relationship than beauty. I do not know why it throws me. I guess I thought a man whose very existence was built on aesthetics, a dandy in his own right, would surround himself with beauty in every facet of his life.
“Suzanne is a very gifted pianist.” Our hostess pauses as if to let us appreciate the melody drifting from the instrument. Madame Manet,
mère,
is petite with dark auburn hair and large, worried blue eyes, which swim like twin oceans across her angular face. Her narrow shoulders slope under her black mourn-ing dress, and her mouth turns down at the corners giving an air of downtrodden displeasure even when she speaks of the positive.
As she talks, my gaze drifts across the line of gilded crown molding to a large portrait suspended by a maroon cord. The canvas hangs in front of the mirror above the f ireplace’s intricately carved mantelpiece. The painting is of Madame Manet and a handsome gentleman, who must have been her late husband as I can see a marked resemblance to Édouard.
My gaze falls to the lush deep red Turkish rug stretch-ing the length of the parquet f loor. Reflected in the mirrored
walls, the lavishly furnished room seems af lame in tones of gold and red.
The tempo of the song increases, and I glance back at Suzanne. Her pudgy hands f lying over the keys.
Je ne comprends pas.
I do not understand how a man with such an eye can find anything beautiful in this woman, and it irritates me.
It must be a joke. But common sense dictates the high improbability of our hostess making a joke of her son’s matrimonial status. Never in my life have I so desperately craved inappropriate behavior in an elder.
Suzanne pronounces the final weighty chord, and two men standing near the piano applaud. She smiles demurely and immediately begins another song.
“The great composer Franz Liszt encouraged Suzanne to come to Paris from Holland to pursue her music,” says Madame Manet. “She and Édouard moved in with me after they were married.”
The comment buzzes like a gnat I wanted to swat.
“Was she the success Monsieur Liszt predicted?” I surprise myself with my irreverent tone. I cannot look at Maman.
Madame Manet lifts her lorgnette as if peering through my veiled words to the heart of the insult.
She tilts her head to the right. “But of course she was successful, Mademoiselle. She married my son.”
Thunder erupts, closer this time. Edma giggles a nervous little laugh. I am sure she intended to cover my rudeness by treating the exchange as folly.
I suppose I deserve the verbal slap, but I do not need my sister making excuses for me, spoken or implied. The stuffy room is closing in on me. I want to leave. I do not belong here.
It is on the tip of my tongue to ask for the return of my
mantelet so I might bid the good Madame Manet
adieu
, when I spy
him
across the room, standing just outside the far inte-rior doorway; an apparition under the chandelier’s f lickering, yellow candlelight.
From the tip of the knotted tie, peeking out from his tweed vest and buttoned-up waistcoat, to the smart line of his trousers, he is a startling sight.
Suzanne shifts into Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
.
Not as difficult as the Chopin, but even I must admit its beauty. She plays it f lawlessly. No doubt showing off her range.
I wonder how long
he
has been watching us, and whether he read the affront in his mother’s body language after my gauche comment.
The pull of his gaze promises to monopolize my attention, but I resist. After all, he is a married man. I do not care to f lirt or be f lirted with by someone who is otherwise attached. What is the point?
I focus on an arrangement of six landscapes hung on the wall between him and the piano.
Again, thunder roars outside, a clap loud enough to command attention away from Suzanne’s droning music. Everyone starts, but she does not break her rhythm. She does not even glance up at the commotion of newly arrived guests in the entryway.
Édouard moves toward us. I fold my hands into the pleats of my skirt so not to fidget. It is a foolish notion to think I could travel home alone in such weather. If I mention it, Maman and Edma shall not hear of it. And I cannot bear to spoil their evening.
“
Madame et Mesdemoiselles,
welcome
.
” He takes my mother’s hand and bows.
“Ah, Édouard,” says Madame Manet. “Please entertain the Morisots. I must greet our new guests.”
Manet straightens. “With pleasure.”
His mother ambles off toward three men, two of whom I know; Alfred Stevens, who has recently painted my portrait, and a waterlogged Fantin, who looks as if he has blown in with the storm. He spies Edma and turns the brightest shade of red I believe I have ever seen.
The third man looks rather sour. In fact, he emits all the joy of a wet cat. He seems quite disgusted as he roughs rain from his beard.
“I am so very happy you would brave such weather to join us,” Édouard says to Maman.
She titters and purrs an appreciative greeting, but by that time his eyes are already fixed on Edma.
“Who is this lovely young woman?”
Edma swoons. Like clay waiting for his warm hands.
I have the urge to pinch her like she pinched me earlier. Luckily, Maman takes charge. “Monsieur Manet, this is my daughter, Mademoiselle Edma Morisot.”
“Enchanté.”
He bows, but does not take her hand.
I am glad. And even happier when his attention shifts to me, his gray eyes like a stormy afternoon sky.
“You have already made the acquaintance of my youngest daughter, Berthe.”
“Of course.” He neither bows nor takes my hand, but his words are a warm embrace. “I have been anticipating this evening, Mademoiselle.”
Maman stiffens, and I can feel the air tense around her. From the corner of my eye I see movement. Madame Manet ushers the new arrivals to our huddle.
It is good to see Fantin and Stevens, who shifts a brown paper package from under his arm to his hands. The familiar faces take the edge off the evening. Buoyed by their company, I relax.
The third gentleman is named Edgar Degas. Another artist. I know of him. I have even admired his delicate pastels, but before this evening I had never had the good fortune to make his acquaintance.
“Mademoiselle, your portrait came out beautifully, if I may boast.” Stevens hesitates an instant, then hands Édouard the package. “Here, this is for you.”
Manet tears away the paper, revealing a small gilded frame. Probably something Stevens has painted as a gift for the occasion. Édouard’s mouth tightens and his jaw twitches.
Madame Manet glanced at it. Her eyes widen and she seemed startled, even slightly taken aback. Then she blinks and snaps into action.
“Allons. Allons.”
Come on. Come on. She motions Maman, Edma, and me to follow. “You eligible ladies must make the acquaintance of my younger, unmarried sons, Eugène and Gustave.”
As we exchange formalities, I feel Édouard’s gaze fastened to me the way eyes in a portrait seem to follow one around a room. Suzanne plays on without looking up, and Madame Manet points out a young man lurking on the far side of the piano. I had not noticed him until now.
“Léon is Édouard’s godchild. Suzanne’s brother.” She spat the words as if they left a bad taste in her mouth, but I was beginning to wonder if that was not just her manner.
The boy stood quietly leaning on the piano. He seemed to be reading music over her shoulder, but then I noticed him turning the pages for her. The two appeared content in their musical world, side by side in companionable silence, undaunted by the milling, chatting guests, who have made themselves quite at home by the time the dinner bell sounds.
Our hostess claps her hands. Everyone quiets and Suzanne stops in the middle of a stanza.
“Dinner is served. Please, let us go into the dining room.”
Degas and Madame Manet lead the procession. I think it sweet when Édouard offers his arm to Maman.
He is not at all living up to the image of the rebellious rogue who brazenly paints naked women purely for the shock value. I am not sure if the discrepancy in character—or the en-hancement thereof, depending on one’s viewpoint—disappoints or makes me happy.
Édouard Manet is proving to be a gentleman through and through.
Mannered. Sophisticated. Attentive.
Although, not so dutiful to his wife. I have not seen them exchange so much as a glance all evening. She may as well be a hired musician for all the attention he pays her. He may as well have been a single man. But he is not. He is married and far be it for me to question the strange ways of man and wife.
“May I have the pleasure?” Eugène extends an arm. I slip my hand through it, and we fall in line behind Edma and Gustave. I glance back and smile at Fantin, who trails alone behind us.
He clasps his hands behind his back and whistles.
“Oh, come here.” I offer my free arm to him, then cast a questioning smile to Eugène, who does not seem the least bit put out by my gesture.
Ahead, Stevens escorts Suzanne, and it dawns on me that we have met everyone except the one I am most curious about: Suzanne. I f ind it quite peculiar Madame Manet would make such an effort to sing her daughter-in-law’s praises and not present her once she had finished her musical performance. It seems incongruent.
Suzanne dutifully takes her seat at the extreme opposite
end of the table from where Eugène has deposited me. Madame Manet graces the place of honor at the head of the table.
Degas, to Madame Manet’s left and Suzanne’s right, sits angled away from the younger woman with his full attention trained on our hostess.
As we await the first course, Stevens, Gustave, and Fantin engage Edma in conversation. Poor Fantin, it is evident that he is quite smitten with my sister, but he seems to not know quite how to express himself.
I dare say, Eugène vies with Édouard in monopolizing Ma-man’s attention.
And there sits Suzanne.
All alone in the midst of the crowd, as if mute without the voice of her music. There is no doubt which Madame Manet is the lady of the household.
