Page 57

THIRTY-SEVEN

I t is now the depths of winter, but Berthe has the sketches she made over the summer, both from the park and along the Seine, to aid her return to that time.

Her clandestine painting has evolved into a crowded and merry gathering floating down the river in a brightly colored boat.

She can almost hear the laughter and smell the honeysuckle as she brings it to life.

She’s thrilled to be creating an animated scene of ordinary Parisians enjoying themselves as well as by her audacity in doing so.

She’s placed herself at the boat’s railing, alone and turned away from the revelers.

An enigmatic figure, lost in her own joys and sorrows, a touch off-center in the composition, no larger than any of the other occupants on the boat, yet clearly primary.

This solitary woman looks out at the far bank, unseen on the canvas, directly at the viewer, the river rushing by at her feet.

Berthe labors for days to create an expression that reflects her own turmoil of conflicting emotions.

And although she recognizes the arrogance of it, she also wants to illustrate a more universal truth: that as much as we may desire to stand alone, we are part of a community whose strictures shape us even when our backs are turned against it.

The way she must keep this painting secret so no shame will fall on her daughters.

How her freedom is manacled by the reigning dictates of decorum.

And then there’s édouard, whose fear of social excommunication renders him unable to grant her greatest desire, to be his wife.

She’s making small steps toward her ambitions for the painting, and while it’s almost complete, much remains to be done.

One afternoon, when she’s painting alone in édouard’s studio, he arrives in one of his states.

The Salon’s decision on submissions for the 1895 exhibition will be announced within weeks, and, as always, he has worked himself into a frenzy.

“It will all be for naught if I’m rejected!

” he declares as he strides across the large room. “It will be the end for me.”

As much as she loves him, these tirades have grown tiresome, especially since his imagined rejections rarely take place.

She cannot understand why he carries on like this year after year.

It’s pointless and, she’s beginning to believe, self-indulgent.

Even so, she appreciates that he’s in real despair, and she wants to soothe him.

“Don’t worry, my darling, your work is extraordinary, and the Salon will have no choice but to recognize it, as they always have. ”

“Last year was last year, and this year is this year! One has nothing to do with the other.”

Berthe puts down her brush and reaches over to hug him. He allows this, but his feverish body is too agitated to remain still. He turns from her and mops his face with a paint-covered towel, leaving a streak of blue across his forehead that accentuates the crazed blue of his eyes.

“édouard, you must take yourself in hand. You are going to make yourself ill,” she says, surprised to hear her mother’s words coming from her own mouth. Ah, Cornélie.

“I am ill.” He circles her easel half a dozen times, flings his arms in the air. “Ill with trepidation. Ill with a foreboding of disaster!”

This turmoil is only going to escalate, and she has to contain it before he does himself actual harm.

“I’m so relieved you’ve come at this very time,” she says.

Hearing the false ring in her voice, Berthe tries to sound more sincere.

“I’ve been struggling and need your help.

Can you please take a look at this? I can’t seem to get the folds of the skirt of her dress right.

Or the flapping of the awning. Tell me what I’m doing wrong,” she says, although she has no problem with either the skirt or the awning.

édouard enjoys nothing more than to be the expert, to come to the aid of a poor damsel in distress, and he’s oblivious to the disingenuousness of her words.

He moves closer to the painting. “Your masterwork,” he says, taking it in.

He has often called it this, proclaiming it to be her greatest achievement, far better than anything he could ever accomplish, that he wishes it were his own work.

But this time, there is a bite to his words, as if it’s no compliment at all.

“Thank you,” she replies, hoping she’s misinterpreted his tone. “You know how much your encouragement means to me.”

He looks at her, his eyes focused and intense, yet almost unseeing, then he snatches the palette from her hand and seizes a brush from her easel. Before she can stop him, he lunges at the canvas. “I will show you what needs to be done!”

Berthe grabs his arm, but he shrugs her off. “Stop it!” she cries.

He seems unable to control himself, frantically attacking the painting.

First, he goes after the short staccato strokes she used to create the vibrations in the skirt of the dress, enlarging them.

He adds yellow to one of the shades of blue she used in the boat’s awning.

He laughs maniacally, and Berthe is almost afraid of him.

Even more than that, she is afraid for her painting.

She lost one to fire, and she will not lose another to hubris.

Fury fuels her, and with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she wrests the palette from his hand and throws it to the floor.

She pushes the canvas off the easel and howls as if she’s been stabbed.

édouard stands completely still, deflated, stares at her in confusion. “But, but you asked me to help.”

“I asked you to tell me what was wrong, not to fix it!” She drops to her knees, takes in his strokes obliterating her own, and is further enraged. “You’re an artist, édouard. How dare you ruin another artist’s work? You are an arrogant and insufferable man.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry, Berthe. I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry or if you didn’t mean it.

” She stands, holding the painting away from him, stymied over what to do next.

She can’t leave it here, as she doesn’t trust that he won’t continue to deface it, nor can she bring it home, where the girls or the staff might see it.

Aimée was quite upset when she found the preliminary sketches last month, even if the child appeared confused as to why.

How upset would she be to discover her mother had lied to her and that the painting was almost complete?

“Please forgive me, my love. You know how I get in these moods and don’t—”

“You defiled my picture, and thus defiled me. For this there is no forgiveness.” She returns the canvas to the easel and puts a drop cloth over it.

“I cannot take this with me now, but I will arrange for it to be removed as soon as I can.” She narrows her eyes.

“I trust you will not inflict any more damage, although after your behavior, I fear this may be a foolish assumption on my part.”

“I won’t touch it. I promise you. But you can’t leave until we’ve talked this through. Until—”

“I can, and I will.” Berthe picks up her coat and puts it on. “As I’ve told you before, talk means nothing. It’s actions that have meaning. And yours have spoken loudly.”