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Story: The Lost Masterpiece
THIRTEEN
T he Franco-Prussian War is a devastating blow to the country, but it’s even more so for the city of Paris, which by September is completely surrounded by the German army.
Smoke fills the streets, along with bursts of heavy cannon fire, but the French refuse to surrender.
In retaliation, the enemy initiates a complete embargo of goods to starve the capitol into submission.
Unfortunately, this is a success, and the siege ends with a capitulation in late January, just weeks after Berthe’s thirtieth birthday.
The terms imposed are a humiliation to the proud country, barely endurable.
France must pay an exorbitant war fee, turn over Alsace and Lorraine, and recognize the new expanded German empire, which is particularly galling, as stopping Germany’s consolidation of power was the reason the French went to war in the first place,
As food slowly returns to the stores, everyone is grateful to eat something other than moldy bread.
But as is true of the rest of her compatriots, Berthe is infuriated by the government’s inability to protect its people.
It’s well-known that casualties are high, yet the family has received no news of those who have been in battle.
Berthe’s brother, Tiburce, is somewhere at sea, as is Edma’s husband, Adolphe.
édouard is in the National Guard’s artillery, Degas in the infantry, Renoir in a regiment of the cuirassiers. The list goes on.
Any hope the Morisots had that now that the fighting had stopped things might improve is quickly destroyed.
It is announced that France must submit to German occupation until a treaty is fully ratified by both sides, with the German army to quarter in Paris immediately.
The soldiers not only billet in the Morisots’ house but also in Berthe’s studio, and she frets endlessly about her men at war.
With the exception of her brother and brother-in-law, who have served before, most of her friends are artists, not soldiers, with neither the skills nor the temperament to be fighters.
During the siege, the Germans closed post offices and train stations, along with severing telegraph connections, so she hasn’t heard from Edma since Christmas.
At last, a letter from her sister gets through by carrier pigeon, heralding the arrival of a healthy baby girl named Jeanne and giving assurances that both mother and child are doing well.
Berthe is also still recovering from a return of her neurasthenia, the usual combination of lack of energy, lack of interest in food, lack of interest in life.
This has perpetuated a considerable weight loss that has thrown her mother into fits of anxiety.
Berthe also suffers from an ongoing despondency, brought on by her isolation and fears.
This last is being called “siege fever,” as many in the city are experiencing the same condition, but she, Cornélie, and Dr. Aguillard know it is not only the result of the political situation.
It’s in Berthe’s nature to fall into recurring blue periods.
After nine months of war, siege, and occupation, the Germans return home in May and France is free of occupiers.
But now the country is beset by internal strife, with a battle brewing between the left-wing Paris Commune and the right-wing French government.
Fighting once again erupts in Paris, which quickly turns brutal and bloody, and the Morisots finally flee the city.
They take up residence in a small house in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and everyone’s health and spirits improve in the countryside.
The family’s morale rises further when they learn all their men have survived and are safe, far from the battles underway in the capital.
Berthe’s brother, as well as Yves’s husband and Edma’s husband, should be home within a month.
édouard sends a telegram informing the Morisots that he, Degas, and Renoir will soon be relieved of their duties and hope to return to Paris in the fall.
Although Berthe is delighted with this news, she wishes édouard had sent along a more personal note, something just for her. Three days later, a letter arrives.
My dearest, dearest,
I am much relieved to hear that you have left Paris and can only hope you are safe and happily painting in Saint-Germain.
My mother tells me she has been assured of your safety, but I will only believe this when I hear it from your lips and see it upon your face.
Until this is possible, a letter by your hand will have to be my comfort.
I have received a promotion to lieutenant, and am currently under the command of our friend and fellow artist, Ernest Meissonier. We joke that before he was painting war scenes, and now he is directing them, but neither of us are able to laugh at this irony.
A catastrophe has befallen our country, and I have had the misfortune to experience it at close range.
I shall not tell you the appalling details of war, as they will be as upsetting for me to set down as they will be for you to read.
Suffice to say, I am now moving toward mending the blows to my body and mind, although the dark turn of sadness I have been suffering is not lifting as rapidly as I would wish. The nightmares linger also.
My Berthe, I miss you beyond measure, and I will not be complete until we are reunited.
With love and devotion,
Your édouard
Berthe carries the letter in her corset, careful not to tear the pages with each rereading and repositioning.
She wishes she could respond with the same loving words he has written to her.
But she must send her return missive to his mother’s address, as he has none, and therefore her own tone must be much more discreet.
There are no guarantees that Antoinette, a well-known meddler, will be able to keep herself from reading its contents. Most likely she will not.
Dear édouard,
I cannot convey how happy I am that you and our dear friends have survived this ordeal.
I, too, am looking forward to a reunion, either at one of our mothers’ soirees or with our bande in your studio.
I pray this will happen soon. After all you have endured, I dare not compare my suffering to yours, but I also have had a “dark turn of sadness,” as you so eloquently describe it, complete with nightmares.
I daresay we shall have much to discuss of this and many other shared interests when we are able.
Yes, we are all safe in Saint-Germain, although the house is small, and we are close enough to Paris to hear the cannons.
If the wind is right, or perhaps wrong, we can smell the smoke from their fire.
After our bitter fight against the Germans, it is heartbreaking to know that these current hostilities are brought on by our own against our own, brother against brother.
I am plagued by thoughts of the horrible things men are willing to do to each other in the name of country.
But as April has opened its skies and all is in bloom, I try to believe in the promise of rebirth and the possibility of the reemergence of our life of one year ago.
A life we so foolishly took for granted.
In this vein, I have begun painting again, plein air, which allows me to be in the sunshine and out of our tight accommodations.
I fear I am very unpracticed after so many fallow months.
My attempts are those of a novice schoolgirl, but it is better to be failing than not painting at all.
I am working in watercolor and striving to capture the spontaneity of the moment with both my composition and brushstrokes. Thus far, I have not achieved this.
That is all the news from here for now. Please write soon and tell me all of yours. My best to your mother.
Berthe
WHEN THE FRENCH government defeats the Commune and is back in uncontested control of the country, the Morisots pack up and stagger home.
But Paris is a ghost of itself: stores and restaurants shuttered, streets full of holes, mounds of rubble from fallen buildings in every quarter.
Much of the city’s heart is destroyed: the Palais des Tuileries, the H?tel de Ville, the Préfecture de Police, too many other structures and monuments to count.
The Morisots’ home and Berthe’s studio have been ransacked, but both still stand.
It is as if her parents have aged ten years.
They’re suddenly old, barely able to think or take any action beyond sitting in the few remaining chairs, with their heads bowed.
Even her father cries. Berthe does her best to help them put things right, but she’s as devastated as they are, and all she wants is to crawl into her bed and stay there.
Again, the role of dutiful daughter falls to her, and with help from Marie and Rémy, they make the house livable, although she knows its past grandeur will take years to regain.
Even Tiburce’s homecoming does little to cheer them.
Berthe hasn’t seen any of the other artists, as they come to Paris for short trips, rushing to pick up the pieces of their lives sundered by the war, and then quickly escaping.
She heard Degas was in town, but then he left for London.
Monet goes between Holland and England, Renoir is in America, and Sisley is in Rome.
édouard is still in the Basse-Pyrénées with Suzanne and Léon, so it’s his mother and his brother Gène, who, along with their servants, aid in the restoration of the Morisot household, as Tiburce, Maman, and Rémy help the Manets.
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