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SEVENTEEN

I n January, the well-known London gallerist Paul Durand-Ruel buys two dozen of Manet’s paintings and quickly sells a sizable number to collectors.

édouard’s success invigorates him, and his high spirits warm everyone around him, especially Berthe.

Although she’s genuinely pleased that he’s receiving the attention he deserves, she can’t help feeling devalued, in his shadow, less than.

One afternoon when they’re painting together, Renoir tells Berthe, a little apologetically, that Durand-Ruel is in Paris and has acquired five of his oil paintings, including Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette , one of Berthe’s favorites.

Durand-Ruel plans to take them, along with Monet’s Impression, Sunrise , Degas’s The Absinthe Drinker , and others by Manet, Sisley, and Pissarro, back to his London gallery.

Not one of her friends, including édouard, has mentioned any of this to her.

Berthe attempts to appear happy at Renoir’s news, but her stomach churns with disappointment.

Durand-Ruel apparently forgot that Degas had asked him to consider her work, or, even worse, the gallerist had decided to ignore the suggestion because he has already seen some of her attempts and found them wanting.

It isn’t appropriate for her, as an unmarried woman, to approach Durand-Ruel on her own.

Nor is she willing to beg Degas to repeat his request or to ask édouard for assistance.

She still has some pride, diminished as it may be.

For two days, she wanders dejectedly around the house, unwilling to eat or leave the premises.

“I will not allow you to descend into a full bout of neurasthenia just because you are not selling as well as the men,” her mother announces. “If you do not begin to eat immediately, I’ll be forced to send you to Tante Désirée’s farm to fatten you up.”

“I won’t go.” Berthe cannot imagine anything worse than being with the perpetually disgruntled Désirée, her mother’s sister, who unfortunately is of similar temperament but without Cornélie’s flickers of humor and compassion.

And then there’s her horrid uncle, Gérard, who still wants her to sit on his lap.

Remaining here with Maman is also unappealing, but she’s not leaving Paris while édouard is in the city.

“You are a grown woman, Berthe,” Cornélie continues. “You cannot act as if you’re a child whenever something occurs that isn’t to your liking. It is unbecoming.”

“Unbecoming? Unbecoming to whom?” Berthe marches up the stairs to her bedroom and closes the door behind her. She throws herself on the bed and presses her face into her pillow, just like the child she isn’t.

She often feels as if she is handcuffed by what others say she must be, how she must behave, what is proper. Yet she is also a woman as she has never been before. Loved and loving, experiencing an awakening she never would have believed possible.

It’s difficult for them to find time alone, but when they do, édouard is magical, teaching her about her own body and about his, the pleasure excruciating.

She worries that even with the pennyroyal tea, Queen Anne’s lace, and cotton-root bark he told her to use, she might become with child.

But even this fear cannot curb her passion.

They speak of marrying, of being together for the rest of their lives.

But this is no closer to fruition than it was when they began.

The judgments of society weigh heavily on édouard, and despite his willingness to push some of the boundaries with his art, his need to stay within them is equally powerful.

The disapproval of their social circle and the possibility that this will endanger his career hovers, ghostlike, over their discussions, for Berthe understands édouard fears that a divorce and the following scandal will forever put the coveted Legion of Honor medal beyond his reach.

He loves her, of this she has no doubt, and she believes he wishes to marry her as much as she wishes to marry him, that his desire to have a child with her is heartfelt.

But his disinclination to declare their love publicly is troubling.

And now with Durand-Ruel’s dismissal of her work, Berthe feels even more defenseless against the tide of men’s choices that shape her future, her success, and her happiness.

The next morning, a note from édouard arrives, and her mother brings it up to her room, throwing it down on the bed.

Cornélie stands with her arms crossed over her substantial bosom, glaring down at Berthe.

“So this is why you have been making yourself miserable? Making your father and me miserable? Waiting for a summons from a married man? And a wastrel of one, at that.”

As Berthe and édouard have discussed the dangers of any messages between them being intercepted, she’s certain there’s nothing untoward inside the envelope. It’s strange that her mother hasn’t read it already, but Cornélie remains close by her bed as she opens it, which serves the same purpose.

Dear Berthe,

Paul Durand-Ruel came by my studio yesterday, and I showed him the two pieces you are working on.

He was most impressed and is excited to see more.

He would like to come to your studio and examine your other paintings.

I promised I would aid in finding a time that is acceptable to both of you.

He is leaving the city in three days and very much hopes you will be able to accommodate him.

As you know, Paul has purchased many works by those in our bande, and I hope this will be true of yours also.

édouard

Berthe jumps out of bed and waves the letter at her mother. “This is wonderful news, and now I must get ready for his visit.” She throws off her nightclothes and puts on her painting outfit. “Which ones, which ones?” she mutters to herself as she slips on shoes.

Cornélie takes the note and reads it. “This is indeed good news,” she says, her relief palpable. “Much better than I expected.”

Berthe hurries down the stairs, unsure whether her mother is referring to the fact that it’s an innocuous note, rather than the love letter she feared, or if Cornélie never expected someone of Durand-Ruel’s stature to be interested in her work. Most likely both.

NOW BERTHE IS a whirlwind of activity, even eating the meals Marie leaves in her studio, hoping this will give her the clarity of mind she needs to choose her best work.

Oils? Watercolors? Pastels? All three? The ones that are most like the others Durand-Ruel has purchased or those more uniquely hers?

She places all her finished canvases against the walls, some leaning on top of each other.

Young Woman by a Window . The Mother and Sister of the Artist .

Two Sisters on a Couch. Old Way to Auvers .

Young Girl with a Parrot . The Harbor at Lorient .

Or perhaps the new one she painted during Edma’s last visit, The Cradle , in which Edma is gazing at her newborn daughter, Blanche, through white gauze hanging over the crib.

If she shows Durand-Ruel too many, he’ll be overwhelmed.

But if she shows him too few, he’ll miss her breadth, both in content and style.

She frets, as always, that they are all too feminine, too uninspired, and make no statement whatsoever.

Still, she borrows easels from her friends, scatters them around the studio, circles for hours, switching and swapping the canvases, returning them to their previous positions.

Her paintings cannot be compared to those of édouard or Renoir or Degas or Monet, which is exactly what the gallerist will be doing.

Perhaps she should tell him not to come.

But she doesn’t, and Paul Durand-Ruel, a small but sprightly and well-dressed man, arrives the afternoon before he’s to board a ship for London.

Cornélie escorts him to Berthe’s studio and introduces them, then quickly returns to the house.

She leaves the doors between the two structures ajar despite the February wind blowing in at them.

Berthe is unsure how to act as he slowly moves from one painting to another, his hands clasped behind his back.

Should she follow along in case he has questions?

Ask him about himself and his gallery? Or remain in the background, pretending indifference?

She knows not to apologize for her lack of talent, which is what she would like to do, so she stands by the window, gazing out at the withered winter garden, while remaining aware of his every move, his every intake of breath.

Even though the studio is cold, she’s uncomfortably warm in her velvet gown.

Finally, he turns to her. “I have no interest in works that replicate the attributes of the past.”

Is he saying her paintings are too much like the past or that they are moving beyond it? She manages an innocuous nod.

He steps closer to The Cradle . “I see what you are doing here.” He points to the translucent gauze, which, while covering the cradle, also reveals the sweet face of baby Blanche within it.

She strains to grasp what he’s referring to. What has she done?

“And here.” Now he’s referring to the window beyond Edma, also covered by gossamer curtains. “How you’ve captured the play of sunlight, brighter close to the window and then radiating outward, changing as it touches the mother and changing even more as it touches the child.”

This is what she was trying to do, so it must be a compliment. “Thank you,” she says, hoping it’s the correct interpretation.

“And the loose brushwork, the quick strokes, your light touch with the broken colors.” He bows. “Magnificent, Mademoiselle Morisot. Magnificent.”

Berthe is dumbfounded. Even though édouard and the others have praised the painting, no one ever called it magnificent. And this from Paul Durand-Ruel.