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FIFTY-THREE

Ah, how lovely to find you once more, my dearest diary.

It is more than five years since I last wrote, and if I had not been organizing the contents of the cellar, it would probably have been at least another five.

For there you were, in a barrel of Maman’s dresses.

I have no idea how this could have occurred, but now that we have been reunited I shall resume our conversations.

There is no point in recapping the last years, as all is well.

Colette, at fifteen, has grown into a gracious and kind young lady with many prospects for a fine marriage.

Pierre and I both enjoy good health and remain residents of Maman’s house on Rue de Villejust, which suits us just fine.

I still miss Maman and Papa, although the years have softened, but not eradicated, the pain.

It is my immense joy to sit in Maman’s old studio, across from Papa’s “Party on the Seine,” remembering them both.

There is one distressing thing in my full and happy life.

It is that while Manet, Degas, Monet, Renoir, and the others are now the toast of the town, of the world, Maman is not.

I do not understand why her brilliant work has been pushed aside as if she were not as talented as her friends and fellow artists, all of whom considered her their equal.

In some instances, their better. She created just as many splendid paintings as the men, but none of this seems to matter, and my efforts to alter this turn of events have met with failure, which is a grave disappointment.

18 December 1920

I have come across some of Maman’s sketchbooks in a different storage barrel in the cellar, these full of drawings.

She did so many preliminary sketches, viewing a single scene from a variety of angles, striving to find the very best one for her final composition.

So different from Papa’s method of attacking the canvas.

20 December 1920

Cousin Léon came for dinner last night, and we had a lovely evening.

When I was a child, Tante Suzanne made certain that he and I remained apart, and our age difference allowed this easily.

But now that she is gone, we have grown quite close.

His wife, Elouise, and I do not have much in common, but I do very much fancy his son, Lambert, who is a well-respected barrister.

7 January 1921

The holidays this year were particularly merry, as Colette has a beau whom we like very much.

The Bernheims are an old French family of much distinction, and Samuel appears to be a fine young man.

We entertained the three of them at 40 Villejust, and we were entertained by them at their mansion close to the Champ de Mars, as prestigious an address as any in the city.

They are charming people, cultured, philanthropic, and very much involved in the arts.

Their art collection, mostly old masters, is beyond measure, and we enjoyed roaming their galleries.

The young couple appears quite in love, and our only reservation is that the Bernheims are Jews.

While we have nothing against the Jewish people, this is an unusual match for a girl of our social circle.

But Pierre and I have discussed it, and we will not object to the marriage if that is what Colette wants.

10 January 1921

The oddest thing happened today, and I do not know what to make of it.

I found more of Maman’s sketchbooks in another barrel.

Sadly, ones from right before she passed.

I was looking through them, reminiscing about how she tried so hard to teach me to paint, showing me her preliminary drawings to demonstrate how they shaped her final pieces.

How patient she was with my lack of natural talent, especially now that I know who my true father is.

I can only imagine what hopes she and Papa had for their only child’s artistic potential.

I was pained by this realization, but that is not what is odd.

It is some of her sketches. Interspersed with drawings for a number of her last pieces, “Portrait of Jeanne Pontillon,” “Boating on the Lake,” and “Woman with Child on a Boat,” were preliminary drawings for “Party on the Seine.” I suppose she and Papa could have been working together and he scribbled ideas in her book.

But Papa was not one for scribbling ideas.

He almost always went directly to the canvas.

I also recognize her strokes, the buoyancy of them, the colorful pastels she used for shading.

Even an unaccomplished eye can see the similarities between the drawings for “Party” and those for her other works, the way the light and shadows bounce off every surface.

Also the similarities between the sketches and the painting currently hanging in her studio with the signature of édouard Manet, the one I have loaned to museums and galleries as an example of Papa’s finest work.

11 January 1921

I woke up in the middle of the night and remembered a particular afternoon when Maman was teaching me to paint. She had handed me a sketchbook so I could more closely study her drawings for “Jeanne Pontillon Wearing a Hat,” and I realized that it was the very book I was looking at yesterday.

Even as I child with limited experiences, I recall being shocked by drawings of men I did not know who were clearly not of our class, and women wearing what I believed at the time to be “naughty” dresses.

I was astounded that some of the men and women were touching each other in an overly familiar way.

I did not fully understand then that a female painter in the 1890s was not allowed to depict men to whom she was not related, nor that for a woman to paint such an unruly scene composed of strangers would bring scandal upon her and her family.

But I do remember feeling uncomfortable with the drawings, sensing that somehow they were wrong.

I did not say anything then, but Maman must have sensed my distress.

She told me that she hadn’t begun a painting from the sketches but hoped to be able to one day.

And now these sketches prove that she did.

Is this why Papa claimed it as his? To maintain Maman’s reputation, and to protect me, while allowing an exceptional piece of art to be seen?

This seems the most likely explanation, but I wonder if there is another, less charitable reason.

No, that cannot be. Papa and Maman were very much in love, and he would never have done anything to hurt her or to demean her talent.

Yet he was nothing if not ambitious, and loath as I am to admit it, he did consider his reputation and artistic legacy above all else.

15 January 1921

I do not know what to do with my new knowledge about “Party.” I have spent many hours comparing her sketches to the painting, and I am certain it is her work.

If I were to disclose what I have learned, it might reinvigorate Maman’s standing as an exalted Impressionist, but it would also besmirch Papa’s name, marking him as a plagiarizer, if that is the correct term, and, as awful as it is to think, perhaps a thief.

And what of Pierre and myself? Of Colette?

Proclaiming a painting we own to be the work of one artist when it is the work of another?

The former far more famous than the latter.

Pierre suggests that we leave it be. He believes there will be a terrible uproar that will, in the end, mar Maman and Papa’s reputations, along with our own.

20 February 1921

When Papa died, he left Léon the paintings he had not sold or given away, and so I presumed Léon would be the best person with whom to discuss “Party on the Seine.” He recently established the édouard Manet Foundation, to which we have contributed generously, and Léon and I have had many conversations about the ongoing work on Papa’s catalogue raisonné.

We also have discussed the future goals of the foundation, including acquiring as many pieces of Papa’s as possible to display in its gallery, and Léon plans to do this by cajoling collectors to bequest their Manet paintings to the foundation in their wills.

Neither Léon, nor anyone else, is aware of my paternity, and he was not pleased with my hesitation to commit to giving “Party” to the foundation after my death.

I have no intention of doing so, as the painting will go to Colette, who loves it so.

And it will be hers to pass down to her children and then to theirs.

When Léon learns that my mother painted it, it should quiet his needling.

Against Pierre’s advice, I brought Maman’s sketchbook to Léon, anticipating a lively discussion on the best way to handle the matter.

This is not what transpired. I should have known I could not depend on a man who would forswear his given surname in exchange for that of Manet.

Nor one so overzealous in his adoration that he gave up a fine job in the civil service in order to create an homage to his idol, to whom he is not even directly related.

At first, Léon appeared receptive to the possibility that Maman had painted “Party.” He took her sketchbook and walked to the fireplace, ostensibly to see it more clearly closer to the light. And then, before I had any inclination of what he planned, he tossed it into the fire.

I remained seated, momentarily unable to understand what he was doing. Then I leapt up and grabbed his arm. “Stop it!” I cried, snatching a poker in hope of retrieving the book from the flames.

Léon shrugged off my hand and stood wide-legged in front of the fireplace, blocking my access.

“It is impossible that your mother, a woman, painted such a masterpiece. Especially when she never created anything like this before. These are frivolous studies of édouard’s work, clearly copies, and I will not have you causing difficulties for him or the foundation with your fraudulent accusations. ”

I tried to push him aside, but he is larger and stronger than I am. “You saw it. You saw it yourself,” I told him. “‘Party’ is a Morisot, not a Manet!”

He stepped aside with a slight smile on his lips, and we both stared at the blackened sketchbook as it crumbled into the ashes. “Suit yourself,” he said. “If you must go public with this preposterous allegation, please do not allow me to stand in your way.”