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FORTY-FOUR

Today was Oncle Gustave’s funeral. I did not know him well, but he is my uncle, and it was only proper I attend.

Pierre is in London on business and could not accompany me, so Oncle édouard offered to take me in his carriage.

It has been almost a year since M. Degas confirmed my true paternity, but I have said nothing of this to Oncle.

M. Degas explained that he had overheard Maman and Oncle discussing it when they were unaware he had come into the studio.

He never told them, or anyone else, what he knew, which is quite amazing for a man who delights in gossip, particularly if it is risqué.

I take this as a sign of his deep respect for Maman.

I told him I appreciated his silence, and that I would keep mine.

Although I long to discuss this with Oncle, I recognize it is better this way.

I fear if he and I declared to each other we were father and daughter, even privately, we might inadvertently give ourselves away and spark even greater speculation about our relationship.

Just as Maman and Oncle sparked with theirs.

I understand that Maman’s reputation and the Manet name must be preserved at all costs.

Yet it pains me not to be able to share our bond.

When Oncle arrived, I was pleased to see he was alone.

Suzanne and Léon were going separately. He was very upset about Gustave’s death, both because he has now lost his two brothers and because Grand-Mère is still alive and had to hear of yet another son’s death.

A Manet cousin is bringing her in a special carriage that is able to hold her wheelchair.

On the way to the church, Oncle was nostalgic and told tales of his boyhood and the tricks he and his brothers had played on Grand-Mère, referring to Father as my father.

The funeral was as dark and dreary as the weather, and it was disagreeable to stand in the mud and rain at the graveside.

Oncle raised his umbrella over both of us and put his arm around me to keep me warm.

Tante Suzanne wore her usual scowl. Poor Grand-Mère was ashen, but she held her head high and did not cry.

She is, as others have noted, made of iron.

My cousin Léon, who for most of my life has ignored me, walked along with us as we were leaving the cemetery, and he was surprisingly loquacious, dare I say even funny?

He is much older than I am and is not actually my cousin.

He is Tante Suzanne’s brother, but was raised in Oncle and Tante’s house after his mother died.

Oncle and he are close, and that must be why he decided to be cordial to me.

Dear diary, I do not know why I said what I did once we were inside the carriage.

It was unplanned and completely unexpected, especially to me.

Perhaps it was Oncle’s solicitousness. He asked the driver to bring me a towel to dry my hair and then requested another to cover the seat so the sogginess of my dress would be better absorbed.

He pressed me close to fend off the damp and cold.

I rested my head on his shoulder and told him I knew he was my father.

He froze for a moment, then said in a wavery voice, “Oh, child, if only that were true.”

I sat up. “Monsieur Degas told me it is.”

“Edgar knows nothing of this.”

“There are many other signs.” I pointed to my hair and stared into his eyes, begging him without words to acknowledge me. To claim me.

He bowed his head, kissed both of my hands, and pressed them over his heart.

When he finally looked up, his expression a mix of longing, sorrow, and happiness, not dissimilar to Maman’s expression in “Party,” he said, “My darling, darling daughter, your mother and I wanted so much for us to be a real family. If only she were here with us now.”

I told him maybe Maman was. Then we promised each other that this would be our secret, one we would take to our graves.

15 October 1906

It is with unbearable sorrow that I tell you, dear diary, that Oncle, Papa, did indeed take our secret to his grave, for he passed yesterday.

Grand-Mère has now outlived all three of her children, and I am a true orphan, as bereft as any has ever been.

We had just begun to revel in being father and daughter, even if we had to do this surreptitiously.

I lost my desire for painting six years ago when I realized I did not have the talent, but this past summer Papa enticed me to start again.

I returned to his studio, although it was more to be near him than to paint.

M. Degas, M. Renoir, and M. Monet all still work together there, annoying and encouraging each other as they always have.

I still have little talent, but this does not bother me as much as it once did, and I was happy just to play at it rather than work at it.

Papa was thrilled I was enjoying myself, and I know he was also thrilled to be with me, sharing our knowledge with no one, even, ironically, M.

Degas. We often found ourselves smiling at each other, something I now remember Papa and Maman did all the time.

Which I suppose is why there were so many rumors.

Pierre, as always, is wonderful, and my darling Colette has been of great help, although she is too little to understand.

She toddles toward me when she sees me crying and puts her tiny chubby hand on whatever part of me she can reach.

She tells me not to be sad and that she will kiss my boo-boo and make it go away.

If only this were possible. The cycle of life yet again.

24 October 1906

I am not going to speak of the funeral. I will now take comfort in my husband and child, and I will never paint again. It would be far too painful.

5 April 1915

I must smile as I reread my last entry, for I am painting once again after almost ten years.

And this is why I am writing to you, dear diary, after such a lengthy pause.

I have now begun to sit in front of “Party on the Seine,” Colette by my side, she with her crayons, and me with my pastels, just as I did with Maman, in this very room, and it would be my greatest pleasure if someday Colette were to do the same with her own child.

I am teaching her as Maman and Papa taught me.

She is using the first easel Papa made for me when I was her age.

I have lent “Party” out for a few Impressionist exhibitions and a one-man show of Papa’s work, although only in Paris.

There have been requests from many far-flung places, which I refuse because I can’t bear to part with her for the amount of time required.

And now that I’m painting “Party” with Colette, I plan to turn down further entreaties, as I have turned down all offers to purchase the painting.

For I do so love to see my daughter’s face fierce with concentration as she tries to draw her grandmother’s black curls, which are so similar to her own.

She is ten now, something I have difficulty believing.

It is impossible that so many years have passed.

If only Maman and Papa were here with us, the family painting together.

But maybe they are not as far away as I fear.

Often they feel very close. Especially Maman.

1 May 1915

Unfortunately, both M. Pissarro and M. Sisley are no longer with us, but I still see M.

Degas frequently. M. Monet and M. Renoir less so, but at least a few times a season.

They are now all extremely successful, their work in enormous demand, and are often in London or Brussels or New York City for exhibitions.

They are fêted throughout France, as is Papa, who is renowned as the Father of Impressionism, even though he never exhibited with the bande.

It is marvelous that after all those years of hard work they are finally receiving the acknowledgment they deserve.

But I am sorry to tell you, dear diary, that Maman’s acclaim is nowhere near theirs.

Yes, there are still sales to collectors and a few to museums, but it is Manet, Renoir, Monet, and Degas who are considered the great Impressionists.

The very men who sought Maman’s advice and worked with her for so many years are exalted, while she is diminished. Dare I say forgotten?

I discussed this with M. Degas, and he granted it was a problem.

He talked with the other artists, and they all agreed to speak highly of Maman’s work to gallerists and collectors, to encourage her inclusion in exhibitions.

Their efforts have resulted in additional shows and a smattering of sales, and I can only hope this is the beginning of a change.

12 September 1915

The strangest thing happened today as Colette and I were copying “Party.” Colette was drawing the girl on the boat wearing a large red bow in her hair.

Papa painted this bow with a series of staccato stokes that have little definition at the edges.

Loose and flecked with light, more like Maman’s than his, and it is clear that her work had a strong influence on him.

I smiled at my daughter and picked up my pastels, glancing at “Party” to get my bearings.

As I did, it seemed as if Maman turned her head toward me, lifted her hand from the railing and pointed at Papa’s signature.

I blinked, looked over at Colette, who appeared to notice nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, right before my eyes, Papa’s signature vanished and Maman’s replaced it.

I knew this was a quirk in my eyesight, which has always been less than ideal, but nevertheless I asked Colette if she saw anything unusual about the painting.

She looked up for a quick moment, glanced distractedly at “Party,” shook her head, and resumed her coloring.

Then I asked her whose signature was at the bottom.

Clearly exasperated and focused on her own work, she told me it was Oncle édouard’s, just as it always had been.