With Violets Read online

  A NOVE OF TH E DAWN OF btPRESSION ISM

 

  E L I Z A B E T H R O B A R D S

  I

  With Violets

  ����

  Elizabeth Robards

  They will become painters.‌

  Are you fully aware of what this means?

  It will be revolutionary—I would almost say catastrophic—to your bourgeois society.

  Are you sure you won’t curse art, because once it is allowed into such a respectable and serene household,

  it will surely end by dictating the destinies of your children.

  —Joseph Guichard

  Contents‌

  Epigraph ii

  Chapter One

  WHEN I awoke, I did not know I would make… 1

  Chapter Two

  “I CANNOT believe you met him,” my sister Edma laments as… 9

  Chapter Three

  WE travel in the cold rain from our home on… 17

  Chapter Four

  “YOU insult my daughter and offend me with your crass… 30

  Chapter Five

  ANTICIPATING Édouard’s arrival on Tuesday causes

  time to stand still. 43

  Chapter Six

  NO sooner has Édouard invited us to his studio on… 51

  Chapter Seven

  OBSERVATION is a powerful tool. Generally if I trust this… 68

  Chapter Eight

  THE next morning, I awake feeling as if my youth… 80

  Chapter Nine

  I ARRIVE at his studio the next morning, alone, as I… 90

  Chapter Ten

  I STAND trembling behind the screen afraid to move, afraid to… 96

  Chapter Eleven

  IMPULSE draws me to Édouard’s studio. I have not seen… 107

  Chapter Twelve

  I try to pretend Edma is merely away on holiday… 117

  Chapter Thirteen

  Édouard dropped by today, but I was not at home… 129

  Chapter Fourteen

  MAMAN excuses us from the Manets’ after-Salon soirée

  claiming a… 141

  Chapter Fifteen

  LIGHT the color of amber glass reflects off the lone… 154

  Chapter Sixteen

  A FULL moon hangs high as Édouard walks me back to…

  162

  Chapter Seventeen

  I HAVE been back in Paris two days and have not…

  168

  Chapter Eighteen

  I AM grateful for evening’s darkness. It hides everything

  but the… 178

  Chapter Nineteen

  AFTER Édouard and Eugène leave, I have much to do… 194

  Chapter Twenty

  FINALLY, the trains are running again. Edma sent us a… 211

  Chapter Twenty-One

  IF we begin again, it will end. It has become… 229

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  DAYS later, Édouard’s words still reverberate in my heart. I… 242

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ÉDOUARD is as bold as the blue violets he sends… 255

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I LOVE to paint in the garden beneath the chestnut…

  267

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I HAVE received a nasty note from your friend Manet,” says… 283

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Oh, it was indeed a strenuous day, when I ventured… 291

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eugène tells me this is the day the mail goes… 306

  About the Author Credits

  Cover Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  ‌

  PAR IS —1868

  W

  hen I awoke, I did not know I would make his acquaintance that afternoon. As I opened my eyes and set

  my bare fe

  et on the cold f loor, I had no idea a simple meeting

  would shatter my existence and refashion it into a world I would scarcely recognize.

  If I had known, I might have chosen differently. Alas, it is effortless to retrace one’s steps and spot the turn you should have taken.

  What is not quite so simple is to opt for the safe route and spend a lifetime out of harm’s way pondering what might have been.

  I have seen him in the Louvre. We have exchanged glances. Polite nods. Single words. No more. It isn’t proper because we have not been formally introduced.

  I cannot help but notice him. His fine clothes and fair hair set him apart from any man I have ever laid eyes upon. He commands attention and compels the beholder to drink in his being. A masterpiece who speaks to the soul.

  It happens weeks later, as I study the Italian painters,

  copying Rubens with my friend Rosalie. I hear men’s voices echoing behind us. Indiscernible, only tones and inf lections, patterns of speech reverberating like a symphony of color in the nearly empty musée gallery. One timbre dark and rich as umber shadows. The other, vibrant as vermilion.

  I do not have to turn around to know. I had memorized his voice, his gestures, as he copied the Italians and the Spanish.

  The manner in which he attacked his brushwork—painting. Stopping. Retreating. Studying. Stepping forward to begin again. Then, as if he sensed me watching, he would momentarily abandon his dance and glance up, his gaze snaring mine like a mesh net. He would smile, nod. Before I could summon the grace to look away, he was lost again in Tintoretto.

  I should have felt ashamed for staring so brazenly, but I did not. Odd that Propriety would drop her weighty baggage now, prohibiting a look at him.

  The murmur of voices stops, all is quiet save the rhythmic

  tap, tap, tap of shoes and walking stick on the parquet f loor.

  The conversation resumes, not ten feet behind us, muted by veiled whispers.

  Rosalie paints in oblivion. How I envy her calm.

  Chewing the wooden end of my brush, I fix my gaze upon the bare breast of Rubens’s water nymph, determined not to falter in the face of this contingency.

  I’m glad I wore my green dress, although it is covered by the frightful gray painting smock. Of course, I shall not remove the cover-up. Nor will I preen and primp like an idiot. I will act natural, as if his footfalls are not sounding directly behind me.

  Rosalie murmurs. The sound washes over me in cobalt waves. I plunge the tip of my brush into the vermilion, swirling it around so the lovely brashness coats the bristles. I dab at the water nymph’s nipple.

  “Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles.”

  I tighten my grip on my palette.

  In my peripheral vision, I see Rosalie whirl around. Too anxious. “Bonjour, Monsieur Fantin.”

  Moistening my lips, I kept my gaze upon my canvas, wait

  five beats, then turn, as if I have just realized we are no longer alone.

  “Bonjour.” My voice sounds cold and thin, an icicle melting under the brilliance of spring sunshine.

  “Mesdemoiselles, may I present Monsieur Édouard Manet.”

  I press my thumb into the edge of my palette until my hand begins to tingle.

  “Monsieur Manet, I give you Mesdemoiselles Rosalie Riesener et Berthe Morisot.”

  “Bonjour.” He bows, quick and proper, over his silver-tipped walking stick. “I am quite familiar with Mademoiselle Morisot’s work. I have often enjoyed it at the Salon. I am a great admirer.”

  His words resonate in the musée’s great gilded hall. Admirer? Of moi? I had no idea he even knew my name.

  Is he teasing me?

  His smile appears genuine, but if I ponder his words too long, I sense a hint of mockery in the upturned corners of his mouth.

  “Merci.” I fight the urge to retreat. I am not goo
d at conversing with men. Words never come easily. Maman berates this fault. She says people will think my silence proud or sullen. Still, I would rather remain mute than spew nonsense.

  Oh yes. It is best the meeting came as a surprise, that Monsieur Fantin gave me no notice of the introduction. You see, I am of a mind to create monsters in my head. Not that I think Monsieur Manet a monster.

  Au contraire.

  Although, the sheer magnitude of his persona frightens me as much as it thrills me. I admire his freedom, his sincerity, his willingness to explore and express what is real, what is true. He is at once terrifying and glorious. And breathtaking.

  A true master.

  He steps closer, walking around to the working side of my easel. “What have we here?”

  My throat tightens, and I believe I understand how Eve felt in the garden when she realized the full magnitude of her nakedness.

  It is just a painting, Rubens’s Queen’s Arrival at Marseilles. I tilt my chin to meet his gaze.

  His eyes search my face, and his lips, curve into a pleasing smile. “Beautiful.”

  Mon Dieu, he is bold. I have heard tales of his exploits, but who was to know how much had been embellished. He is not a bohemian. For all appearances, he is a proper gentleman, if not a dandy.

  My gaze shoots back to the water nymph’s lush form. I feel Monsieur Manet watching me, a casual assessment. Yet, I sense the man is fully capable of consuming all in his possession.

  If I were prone to blush, it would happen now. Thank heavens my body does not make a habit of betraying my emotions. Of all my strengths, I am grateful for containment.

  I take a deep breath. The smell of linseed oil calms my rattled nerves. I touch the tip of my brush to the ocher paint intending to deepen the shadow under the nymph’s breast, but as the brush strokes the f lesh-colored curve, the vermilion bleeds through. The resulting orange-tinged streak resembles a grue-some, bleeding gash.

  Monsieur Manet’s mouth is pressed into a straight, measur-ing line. “Why do you mix those colors?”

  A claustrophobic tingle courses through my limbs. “Mon-

  sieur Manet, I beg your pardon, but I cannot work with you peering over my shoulder.”

  “Excuse me, Mademoiselle. I, too, could not work under such conditions.”

  If I have offended him, he is too much of a gentleman to make an issue of my faux pas. Surely, he will bid me adieu and take his leave. I feel sick at the thought of confessing to Maman that I had finally made the acquaintance of the great Édouard Manet and succeeded in affronting him in less than a quarter hour.

  Yet he lingers. “Perhaps I might offer one suggestion?”

  I say nothing, which he must mistake for acquiescence. He steps closer, our bodies a breath apart. As bold as you please, he plucks my brush from the palette. Long, clean fingers sweep my thumb. A tingling glow spreads across my breasts and throat, and I step back to create space between us.

  Unaffected by the familiar contact, he simply loads paint onto the brush. I am relieved he does not look at me. For if he had, I fear he might have seen a gaping idiot staring back; a girl rendered stupid by the touch of a man.

  Rosalie and Fantin abandon their conversation and observe Manet at work. Awestruck, I watch him heal the wound I have inf licted. Even Rubens could scarcely have done better.

  I have been studying this painting for weeks. Yet as I watch him transform my ugly blunder into perfection, it is as if I am seeing it for the first time.

  Rosalie sends me a quizzical glance.

  But I do not stop him. How can I make her understand when even I do not?

  In the presence of the old masters, with the gaze of the water nymphs raised to the heavens, and a disapproving Maria de’Medici staring down upon us, I must resemble a servant, obediently holding the palette for her master. A girl thoroughly consumed by the power of genius.

  He finishes. Thrusts the brush toward me, looking quite pleased with himself.

  I reached out to reclaim it, but he does not let go. To my horror, he gives it a little tug, pulling my hand, brush and all, toward him. His eyes sparkle like two shiny gray pools.

  “Yes, beautiful, indeed,” he mutters.

  My mouth is dry. “Monsieur, you are bold to take such liberties. I am not your student.”

  “Mademoiselle, I do not take students under my wing. I am far too busy with my own work to accept the responsibility of fostering another’s creative whims. Even if I did, you are much too accomplished and your reputation far too superior for me to make such base assumptions. Please forgive me if I have offended you.”

  Still holding the brush, he takes my hand in his and bows. This time there is no playful tug. Just my small hand consumed by his, rugged and large.

  His skin, touching my skin. Purely.

  Honestly.

  A strange sensation winds its way down my spine and blossoms in my belly. I draw my hand from his and placed it on my middle, trying hard to breathe. It is as if someone has cinched my corset so tightly it has stunted my breathing. A fever brews and spreads to my face and extremities, pooling in delicate places of which proper ladies should not take notice.

  “Mademoiselle? You do not look well. Sit down, please.

  Let me help.”

  His hand is at my elbow now. I let him escort me to a wooden bench in the center of the gallery, where I sit.

  “Berthe?” Rosalie kneels in front of me, the cool backs of her fingers pressed to my cheek. Her touch helps me focus and reminds me of all I have heard about the purported effect the

  illustrious Monsieur Manet wreaks on the fairer gender. How his quick mind and clever wit captivate both men and women.

  I am furious with myself for acting like such an imbécile. Je ne suis pas une femme légère. I am not a silly woman. I should be immune to such base nonsense, especially concerning a man who surely has as many mistresses as he has controversies swirling around him.

  “I must have caught a chill.” Yes, that’s it. “Rosalie, we should call it a day. I have exhausted myself.”

  “Certainly. I will gather our belongings.” I sit for another moment.

  “Please allow Monsieur Fantin and myself to see you home safely.”

  “That will not be necessary.” I stand, feeling stronger. “Mademoiselle, it is our duty,” says Fantin.

  I shake my head and silence him with a wave. The last thing I need is to arrive home with two men in tow. That would make it impossible to salvage a shred of dignity.

  “As you wish, Mademoiselle,” says Monsieur Manet.

  He and Fantin exchange a glance. I walk to my easel to relieve dear Rosalie of packing my paints.

  Manet lingers as I wipe the wet paint from my palette, taking care not to get the remnants on my hands. I wrap the wooden board in a cotton cloth.

  “I fear I am leaving you with a most unfavorable impression,” he says.

  “Non. I am simply exhausted. For that, you cannot blame yourself.”

  “Then you will give me another chance to improve my standing?”

  “I am afraid I do not understand, Monsieur.”

  “I would like the opportunity to present myself in a better manner.”

  “As you wish, Monsieur.”

  I drop the brush into my bag, then slip out of the gray smock and smooth the bodice of my dress.

  His gaze traces my motions. “Very well, then.” “Very well.”

  He motions to Fantin. “Au revoir, Mesdemoiselles.” “Au revoir, Messieurs,” calls Rosalie.

  The two men walked away. But as they reach the gallery door, Manet turns back to me and tips his cane. “To second chances, Mademoiselle.”

  Chapter Two

  ‌

  There are certain people whom one loves immediately and forever.

  —Unknown

  I

  “ cannot believe you met him,” my sister Edma laments as we paint side by side in our studio. “The one day I do not

  go to copy and Fant
in brings Manet around for introduction. I shall never forgive him.”

  If she has expressed her displeasure over missing the introduction once, she has bemoaned it a million times since I met Manet not even twenty-four hours prior. Edma and Maman hang on every word, begging for details until they are satisfied they have drained me of all I might offer.

  Usually, Maman accompanies my sister and me to our copying sessions, but yesterday Edma chose to forgo the Louvre in favor of receiving Adolphe Pontillon, who has been calling on her these days more often than I care to acknowledge.

  Given a choice between art and romance—well, to Maman there is no choice when romance is concerned. She and Edma stayed home to entertain Adolphe, and I went with Rosalie for the morning.

  I do not know who is more distraught over missing the excitement. But at least my mother has dismissed her disappointment with a simple, “To think of all the hours I have sat in that wretched musée. I turn my head for a moment and voilà! ”

  Maman and Papa are good sports. While most parents insist

  daughters of marriageable age not approach a hobby such as painting, as more than a f leeting fancy, mine indulge.

  “The talent you and your sister possess brings your father and me great joy. Not as great as the day you shall marry, but in the meantime, it shall suffice.”

  I know there would come a day when she and Papa expect me to lay down my brush and give my hand in marriage. For the time being, Edma’s blossoming relationship with Adolphe seems to def lect attention away from my utter lack of interest in the men who come courting.

  In the studio, Edma lets loose yet another misery-laden sigh. I blend emerald into the leaf of the still life I’m painting. “I cannot help it if you had better things to do yesterday than attend to your copy studies.”