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TWENTY-FOUR

She rarely writes letters anymore, particularly not to Edma or Yves, both of whom she’s been unable to completely forgive for their complicity with Maman.

Most of the time, she stares out the window or reads, currently Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species , which her mother believes is improper material for a married woman.

“Would it be equally improper if I were unmarried?” she asks during one of her mother’s many visits. She had believed that the one benefit of her marriage would be that she’d no longer live in the same house as her mother, but Cornélie is here so often it sometimes feels as if she still is.

“That’s not the point,” Maman argues. “You’re no longer young, and you should be spending your energies on having a child, rather than reading about how we are the same as monkeys.”

“That’s not what he says.”

“Not what Gène says?” her mother asks, clearly upset by the prospect that Berthe won’t produce offspring. “He doesn’t want a son?”

“Not what Darwin says.” Berthe launches into an explanation of the theory of evolution, hoping this will steer Cornélie away from the topic of children.

It’s not that Berthe doesn’t necessarily want to be a mother.

It’s just that she avoids Gène’s advances as much as is possible, both because the act is unpleasant and because it begs comparison to her times with édouard.

She retires to her bedroom early in the evening or remains in the parlor with her book until well after he has gone to his own room.

She always closes her door, and when Gène knocks and she doesn’t respond, he leaves her in peace.

Cornélie interrupts her Darwin discussion. “You must take charge of yourself and your life, Berthe. You are as thin as you have ever been, and I’m concerned about your health.”

Berthe can’t resist a smile. “At least you don’t have to worry that I’m too thin for any man to marry.”

“You are, and always have been, my difficult daughter.” Maman throws her hands in the air, but the corners of her lips curve slightly upward. “I cannot believe I’m suggesting this, but maybe you should start painting again. At least you eat when you’re painting.”

After the independent exhibition, she pledged to stop painting, to never put herself in a position to be ridiculed like that again, but she’s been feeling the itch.

“Degas told me the same thing. The bande is still meeting at édouard’s studio, and he claims everyone wants me to return, that the idiots deriding the exhibition are just that, and shouldn’t be taken seriously.

Then he told me I’m too good a painter to give up so easily.

‘Get back on the horse’ were his exact words. ”

Surprisingly, Cornélie doesn’t disagree with Degas’s assertion of her talent. “I’m sure Gène would make a room for you if you asked.”

Berthe does this, and Gène, always eager to please her, hires workmen to convert an unused space that opens onto the garden into a studio.

Within a month, it’s ready. It’s spacious, with a fireplace and a tall wall of windows facing north.

Rémy brings her art materials and paintings from Maman’s, and even Berthe has to admit that it is quite satisfactory.

She even lets Gène into her bedroom in thanks for making it possible, as an appreciative wife should.

When he asked her to marry him, Gène promised he wouldn’t interfere with her desire to paint, that he believed she was serious and gifted and he wanted her to fulfill her promise.

At the time, she was so disconsolate over the marriage that it wasn’t a particularly compelling argument, but now she’s grateful for his willingness to back her socially inappropriate desire to be a professional artist. There’s no doubt he’s attentive to her every comfort, and obviously it isn’t his fault he’s not édouard, but even with these understandings, she’s unable to warm to him.

She had always assumed, given her sisters’ experiences and those of many of her other married acquaintances, that to be both a wife and an artist was impossible unless she were to marry another artist as passionate and driven as she was.

And even then, she had questioned whether her work would be considered less than her husband’s in the eyes of the world.

With Gène, this will never be a problem.

He has no profession aside from that of a tinkering painter, and he spends his days at one of his many clubs or in bed with a migraine.

When she begins to paint again, she’s much out of practice and tires more easily than she did when she was working daily.

But she perseveres, and by the end of the first month, the brushstrokes begin to flow more naturally.

She’s producing nothing of merit, to be sure, but at least it’s a start.

She’s loath to admit it, but Cornélie was right.

Her mood has lightened, and she’s begun to gain weight.

Renoir and Monet stop by to see her studio, and after complimenting her new atelier and her half-finished paintings, they try to convince her to join them in a second independent show.

“We think our next step should be an auction rather than an exhibition,” Renoir says. “And we can’t do that without you.”

“We are in dire need of your diplomacy and the brilliance of your painting to make it work,” Monet adds.

“What makes you believe the reaction to an auction won’t be the same as it was to our exhibition?” she asks.

“It’s a different setting and should draw a more serious audience,” Monet explains.

“They rejected our paintings because they aren’t what they’re used to looking at,” Renoir continues. “People don’t like change, and the only way to make our work more familiar is to keep showing it. Make it less of a threat to whatever they feel threatened by.”

“If you have the stomach for the scorn,” Berthe says. “Which I’m not certain I do.”

“What’s the alternative?” Monet asks her. “If we don’t stand up for ourselves, it’s the same as declaring failure.”

COLLECTORS WHO WANT to refresh their holdings are selling artworks to other collectors at auctions held at the H?tel Drouot, and Renoir suggests they participate in the next one, which will take place in late March.

Berthe has returned to édouard’s studio, but, afraid to be alone with him, only on bande days, and it is there that she and the five other original committee members agree to the auction.

Unfortunately, many of the other artists they collaborated with at the exhibition are too dispirited to join them.

But Durand-Ruel is excited by the prospect and helps develop the catalogue, writing a gushing introduction, which notes that the painters are “achieving with their palettes what poets express with their words.”

Gène, as he promised, helps with the framing and the plans for transporting Berthe’s paintings to the auction site.

He even acquiesces, although with much consternation and fussing, to talk to his family about her choice to use Morisot instead of Manet on her work.

On the designated Sunday, while dining after church at Antoinette’s, he clears his throat a couple of times, flashes Berthe a slightly panicked look, and then says to the collected family, “Berthe, uh, Berthe and I…”

Smiling with anticipation, they all turn to him, then to her, expecting, Berthe presumes, that he’s about to announce she’s with child.

She picks up her napkin and touches it to the corners of her mouth, places it slowly back on her lap, smooths it nervously.

She hadn’t foreseen this would be their assumption, although she should have.

And their disappointment when this is not the case, especially Antoinette’s, will make them even less likely to accept what he’s actually going to tell them.

“We, uh, we’ve been discussing what name she should use on her paintings for the auction,” Gène continues, tapping his fork on the tablecloth, a slight tremor in his fingers. “She, we, feel it would be best if, as an artist, just as an artist, she continues as Berthe Morisot.”

Stunned silence greets this announcement, and Berthe doesn’t look at anyone.

“But, but she’s a Manet, now,” Antoinette sputters. “She is no longer Berthe Morisot. She’s Madame Eugène Manet. A distinction of which I know she is proud.”

“That is true, Maman,” Gène says. Then he takes a deep breath and adds in a rush, “Berthe believes, and, and I agree with her, that her work will be confused with édouard’s. Or worse, assumed to be his.”

“I find it difficult to believe you would consent to such a thing, Gène,” Antoinette declares. “She is your wife and, as such, must carry your name. In all circumstances.”

“Berthe will always be a Manet,” édouard says before Gène can respond.

“But she’s been painting as a Morisot for over a decade.

So not only would two Manets simultaneously showing artworks be problematic, but if she were to make this switch, it would confuse her many devotees, both here and in London.

Perhaps even hinder recognition of her enormous talent. ”

For once Suzanne speaks up. “It is not your concern what name she does or does not use, édouard. This is between your brother and his wife.”

Berthe carefully concentrates on buttering a piece of bread. She longs to look at édouard, to thank him with her eyes, but she’s afraid if she were to do so, their connection would be revealed. Although it seems Suzanne might have already guessed.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Maman,” édouard continues, ignoring Suzanne. “Even as I wish Berthe would exhibit with the Salon rather than participate in this auction, I believe it is best for her to continue the use of her maiden name.” Berthe can feel his gaze on her, but she doesn’t return it.

Antoinette sighs dramatically. “How can a poor mother battle two grown sons?”