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FORTY-TWO

Ah, my dearest diary, it has been more than three years since I last wrote, and there have been so many changes.

But one thing that has not changed is how much I miss Maman.

Everyone is always telling me that time heals wounds, along with many other clichés that are not true.

A day never goes by that I do not think of her and wish she were still with me.

Only Oncle édouard understands this. He pines for her too.

Oncle has been very kind to me, and I am certain if it were not for him, I would have died of grief and loneliness long ago.

Isabeau moved into an apartment in the city with two older Manet cousins soon after Maman left us, and I assumed I would remain at Maman’s, which is my home, and continue at the Legion School as a day student.

I am spending the summer with M. and Mme Renoir in Bretagne.

Maman’s artist friends have been very generous, so I know how much they cared for her, which makes me happy.

Last summer, I was with M. Monet and his family and the one before with M.

Pissarro and his. M. Degas does not have a wife, so it is not proper for me to stay with him, but he visits me often at school and takes me on painting outings.

My aunts invite me to their houses for all the holidays, and Oncle spends as much time with me as he can.

He has taken over maintenance of Maman’s house and often brings me home to visit my bedroom and spend time reading in the same chair Maman did.

Sometimes we paint in her studio, but often I start to cry and we have to leave.

I think he may have given Isabeau money, because he told me the house is now all mine.

30 September 1898

I fear I am going to be a much less dependable journal writer.

Between schoolwork and social activities, I have very little free time.

Now that I have had my debutante ball, I am invited to more events than I can possibly attend.

Oncle is my most frequent companion, but M.

Degas often accompanies me when Oncle is not available.

M. Degas has a sharp wit and is quite amusing.

Last night, I went to a cotillion at the Palais des Lumières with Oncle.

It is on the Champs-élysées, and I believe it is the most exquisite ballroom in all of Paris.

Dozens of chandeliers are suspended at different heights and scatter rainbows of colors everywhere.

It was like being inside a jeweled box. Oncle said I was as beautiful as Maman and joked that my red hair was his contribution to my stunning appearance.

We laughed because this must be true, as Father’s hair was dirty blond.

23 October 1898

I fear I have none of the family talent, a squandering of the Manet and Morisot names.

I was at Oncle’s studio today with M. Degas and M.

Renoir. Oncle is not as interested in light as the other Impressionists, but M.

Degas was once again trying to show me how to catch the light, and I was once again failing.

M. Renoir showed me how he does it differently from M. Degas.

But I was unable to imitate his method either. I believe there is a connection between the eye and the hand that does not exist in me. I also believe that Maman and Oncle wanted so badly for me to be an artist like them that they convinced themselves I was and tried to convince me too.

25 October 1898

It was a beautiful fall day today, and Oncle and I went to the park across from the house to paint.

I used to paint with Maman here, and it made me melancholy to be there without her.

But Oncle was so determined to teach me how to create depth and texture with brushstrokes that I had no time to miss her.

All I had time to do was to be frustrated.

He kept telling me to be bold and confident, but then counseled me to keep my strokes tight and deliberate.

This seemed contradictory and confused me.

Some of the leaves had begun to turn red and orange, and I tried to paint them and follow his instructions, but every leaf I depicted came out flat.

He painted the same leaves I had, and his leaves jumped off the canvas, fully formed, with veins and a midrib, so real it looked as if I could reach out and touch them.

I tried, dear diary, I tell you I did. I did not want to disappoint him.

Finally, he put his arm around me, kissed my cheek, and said I was just tired and we would try another day.

I told him I would enjoy that. But as much as I love being with him, this was not the truth.

I am not only failing him. I am failing Maman.

15 June 1899

Once again, it has been months since I last wrote, but I did warn you that this would most likely be the case.

I have wonderful news to share. Oncle has been given the Legion of Honor medal!

This is one of the most distinguished awards in all of the country, bestowed by the president, who makes the final decision.

It is a national order of merit for outstanding contributions to France.

Oncle is proud, and so am I. He is especially pleased because he has now achieved what his father had many years earlier.

Grand-Père Auguste was also a recipient, although Grand-Père received his for work in the national judiciary, not for art.

It is even more wonderful because Grand-Mère Antoinette is still alive and was able to witness this triumph for both her husband and her son.

Although the medal is usually given for many years of contributions, which Oncle has surely accomplished, there is no doubt in anyone’s mind that his latest success at the Salon is what convinced the president to make the appointment.

In the spring, Oncle displayed his masterpiece, “Party on the Seine,” to great acclaim, and it was awarded one of the Salon’s highest prizes.

I believe this painting may be his best, and apparently many others agree, including the president of France.

For me, it is especially dear because Maman is the central figure in the composition, and Oncle used a style more like hers than his own, a sign of respect and admiration, I am sure.

He has had many offers to purchase it, but he will not sell.

He told me the painting is his final tribute to Maman, and he will not part with it.