Katherine Keenum (38 page)

“M. Bouguereau is encouraging Jane Gardner.”

“Yes, but he won’t marry her. Says he won’t put an end to her career. And if the husband is
not
an artist, well, it’s that much worse. Berthe Morisot had to absent herself from that Impressionist show you went to: had a baby, couldn’t paint for a year. I don’t know of a single woman artist who has gotten away with putting her work ahead of her husband’s interests, and most of them simply disappear. Your Miss Cassatt knows enough to stay free, and for that matter, so does Lucille Dobbs.”

“Sometimes, the best thing that can happen is to be jilted,” said Miss Steadman. “I was engaged once to a most respectable young man, a desirable catch.”

“You’ve never told me that!” said Amy.

“It was a long time ago. On the eve of our wedding, he came weeping to me with the old story: He had Found Another. My parents were all for forcing the poor lump to carry through on the engagement—
fulfill his contract
was the way they put it. He probably would have, too—I can’t see so conventional a man’s simply leaving a girl at the altar.”

“People would talk,” said Jeanette.

“Exactly. To make a long story short, I gave him his release. I think I was secretly relieved even at the time. Certainly, a few years later when I spotted him looking decidedly second-rate on Oxford Street, I realized what a close call I’d had.”

“Whatever else he may be, Dr. Murer is not second-rate,” said Jeanette.

“No, he didn’t look it. But if he’s not, Miss Palmer, he deserves more than second best from any woman who lays claim to him.”

“But so does one’s work,” insisted Amy.

“Oh, I agree,” said Miss Steadman. “You owe it to yourself to respond to the call you hear loudest.”

*   *   *

Before bed, Jeanette stood at the window, brushing hanks of her hair their nightly hundred strokes. “Cousin Effie, tell me about Polycarpus.”

Silence. “What do you mean?”

“What was it about him you first noticed? What was he like?”

“Well, he . . .” Effie hesitated.

“How did you meet?”

“He came for his schooling at Papa’s little school.”

“So you grew up together?”

“You might say. Well, no, we didn’t. He was from a farm family and a couple of years older than me. When he got big enough to do real work, his father said a farmer didn’t need schooling and made him quit. Polycarpus was smart, though; and sometimes if he got his chores done early enough, he would walk over to read with Papa in the evening. He planned on reading law someday.”

“And did he?”

“Yes indeed and paid for it himself. You see, he inherited a farm from an uncle on his mother’s side when he was eighteen. It was a sorry place, and his pa wanted him to sell it right away to put whatever he could get for it into the home farm. But Polycarpus said it was
his
and he’d get it in good working order and sell it for enough to apprentice himself to a lawyer. That made old Mr. Bock so mad he called Polycarpus a bug-eyed, ear-flapping mooncalf, born a fool and likely to die one.” Effie shook her head.

“But did Polycarpus make a go of the farm?”

“Oh, yes. He started by selling off some acreage for capital, and in a couple of years, he turned that place right around. I don’t know that he could ever have made a good living off it, not enough for the two of us; but he sold it for what he needed to pay his apprentice fees to Mr. Douglas in Utica with some money left over to invest. We thought we had a bright future.”

“And then the war came?”

“And then the war came.”

Jeanette laid her hairbrush on the windowsill and came over to sit beside Effie on the bed. Having been only a small child during the fighting—a child whose adjutant-major father had come safely home—Jeanette had always regarded the Civil War with the uncomplicated patriotic piety of everyone else in Circleville, and secret boredom. Now it began to feel personal. The war had hurt Cousin Effie irremediably. Edward Murer had been wounded, too; she knew that, though he never talked about it when they were together. It occurred to her that he knew a lot more about her than she did about him.
Jeanette
, he had said on the platform.
Till the end of the month
, she had answered.

“When did you know you were in love?” she asked, softly. “How?”

Effie knew what lay behind the question; nevertheless she seized the chance to speak aloud memories that had never interested anyone else before. “It was late one winter’s afternoon when I was about fifteen. Polycarpus came over to read Emerson with Papa. I happened to be near the front door.”

“Just happened to be?” Jeanette gave Effie a playful poke with her elbow.

“I don’t remember now. Well, maybe I do.” Effie glanced down bashfully and then looked at Jeanette sidelong. “Sometimes, you know, you have to put yourself in the way of chance. Anyway, Polycarpus came in all muffled up against the cold, but the way his eyes lit up when he saw me—well, I worshipped him from that moment on.”

“It gives you the shivers for somebody to look, really look and see you, doesn’t it.”

“Just hollows you out—no, it’s like you’re smooth and whole and glowing from the inside. And when you’re together and both feeling that way, you forget all the rest of the world. That evening, Polycarpus asked Papa to let me join them reading and it changed how Papa thought of me, too. He had called me his little housekeeper ever since Mother died when I was eight, but now he saw that I was growing up and let me take over teaching the little bitties their letters. When I turned eighteen, Polycarpus asked him for my hand. Papa said I was still too young, but that didn’t stop an understanding between Polycarpus and me. We knew we’d have to wait years and years while he was clerking in any case. I felt so alive; I took it for granted then that the world was a happy place to live in.”

“He made you happy, and your being together made all this possible for me,” said Jeanette. “I’m here because of him.”

“Yes, you are. When Polycarpus went into the army, he left his affairs in good order and good hands. Mr. Douglas in Utica took care of everything when he was killed. And then Papa died suddenly, too.”

“Oh, Cousin Effie.”

“It was a hard time. If I’d been older or stronger, I might have tried to keep up the school, but I couldn’t have taught the older boys. Besides, I was grieving too sore. So I went to the Hendricks. Cousin Matthew used to give me a monthly allowance and call me an independent woman, but we all knew I was really living on his charity.”

“Aunt Maude made you feel that way, you mean! You earned your keep ten times over in that household, Cousin Effie.”

“Oh, well.”

“You did!”

“I did my best. But what I wanted to say was that at the back of my mind, I always knew Polycarpus meant for me to live out my dreams even if he wasn’t there to share them. And when the day came that you wanted to act on yours, I knew my day had come at last. I don’t think Polycarpus ever gave one thought to Paris, France, while he was alive, but his smile was broad in heaven the day we decided to come.”

“Oh, Cousin Effie, you think about him a lot, don’t you?”

“No. It’s been a long time since I thought about him all day, every day. Years. Life goes on, and there’s plenty to occupy a person’s mind.”

“But it made a difference that he loved you!”

“All the difference in the world. Deep down inside I’ve always known I was worth something because Polycarpus Bock loved me. We are made to love and be loved, Jeanette, lots of different ways; but when two of you are in love, well, then there’s a wholeness.” Effie looked out beyond anything in the room. “Now we see in a glass darkly, but then face to face. We can’t look on the Lord in this world; we aren’t strong enough to meet His gaze. But He sees us and loves us, and if we are lucky enough to meet His reflection in the flesh, then we know each other as truly as Adam and Eve did, that’s my belief. When I die, Polycarpus will be there waiting for me, and we’ll go before the Lord together.”

Jeanette sat very still.

Effie came back to earth. “You’re going to have to decide about Edward Murer, Jeanette.”

Clasping the back of her head, Jeanette bent over her knees. “Amy says I have to decide about my career.”

“It comes to the same thing.”

“But why?” cried out Jeanette. “Why can’t I keep on with my lessons and spend time with him, too?”

“You can for a while, but not many men want platonic friendships forever, not with the woman they love. And a man of Dr. Murer’s standing won’t like his wife’s name in public either, which it would have to be if you were an artist amounting to anything. And furthermore—no, hear me out, Jeanette—children come along.”

“So can nursemaids.”

Effie sighed. “I suppose—though I think one day you’ll be surprised to find out how tenaciously children take hold. And besides children, there are also the social obligations—the calls, the dinners, the committees.”

“Not for Edward. He’s not like that. And certainly not if we stayed in Paris.”

“Paris, too. If Mrs. Renick didn’t see to that, General Noyes would. But the main thing is, a wife can’t give her whole mind to her work the way you girls do. Her husband has to come first.”

“Oh, why is everybody putting the cart before the horse? It’s not as if he’s asked me to marry him!”

“Do you want him to?”

Jeanette felt an impulse to shout, No! and put an end to the conversation. For a moment, she said nothing. Effie waited.

“I don’t know, Cousin Effie. When I’m with him, I feel happy and excited and proud. I’ll put off anything then,
anything
, to be with him a little longer. You’ve seen that. All the same, when I’m up in the orchard, or back in Miss Reade’s studio, when the painting or the drawing is going well—that’s the best feeling in the whole world. I forget everything else, it’s so right. And I never question whether it’s what I’m supposed to be doing. It never, ever feels wrong to be trying, even when the work goes badly.”

“Jeanette, let me ask you one thing, and I promise not to scold or to tell anybody else: Has Edward Murer ever kissed you?”

“No! Of course, not!”

“Then I’d say, you don’t yet know what’s the best feeling in the world.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

A Walk in the Tuileries Garden

A
lthough Cornelia advised against it, Edward stayed in town through August. With the theaters closed and the fashionable set gone, seats were readily available at any restaurant or café. For recreation, he had the parks, his club, and museums. And any time he could face it, there was M. Artaud’s steamy fencing hall, which stayed open for the young office workers who sweltered through the month to keep the slow business of commerce and government running while their superiors went on vacation.

He needed few outside stimuli. Germany had loosened up his brain and recalled him to the pleasure of exacting experimentation. From glazes, he considered moving to the problems of unstable colors in printers’ inks but turned instead to a lifelong concern of his own, the chemistry of herbal medicines. Botanical drugs had always been his primary stock-in-trade, yet plants of the same species varied widely in potency, depending on where they were grown and when they were harvested. If he could analyze compounds known to be effective and establish standards for their strength and purity, he could bring consistent quality to the production of pharmaceuticals.

He could perform his experiments anywhere supplies and equipment were obtainable—in Cincinnati, most obviously. What made Paris special was the Jardin des Plantes with its superb library and records. The plants that interested him were grown there by experienced gardeners and curators who kept careful records and were generally willing to respond to inquiries. In June, he had begun attending one of its series of weekly lectures, which followed the natural calendar, not the social, and lasted until September. From a set of specialized questions, his interests opened out into the whole realm of botany, the bibliophile’s pleasure in old herbals, and Charles Darwin’s more radical reading of the book of nature.

He went for a long weekend in Normandy and took Marius, Jr., on a fossil-hunting expedition to Etretat. Back in Paris, during the week when Marianne, his cook, and Gaston, her husband, were gone on vacation, he led a simple bachelor’s life, eating all his meals out. He spent a good deal of time reading on a bench in the Parc Monceau. He walked regularly. And one afternoon on a walk in the Tuileries Garden near the end of the month, he saw Carolus-Duran coming toward him.

Now, there’s a man unaccustomed to being alone, he thought. Duran might like to walk a dog by himself in the country or kick up leaves in a sun-dappled lane; but from the way he kept watch out of the corner of his eye, Edward guessed that he considered going unnoticed in the city a waste of valuable time. Not wishing to presume or perhaps not wishing to lose the unobserved observer’s sly sense of superiority, Edward would have passed without speaking had M. Duran not met his eye with a momentary glance, a look almost of recognition. Edward tipped his hat.

At the signal that he was known, Carolus-Duran let his shoulders fall back, his chest expand; the sun shone on him more brilliantly. All amiability, he paused to exchange commonplaces. After reminding him that they had met at the Renicks’ garden party, Edward congratulated him on his medal at the Salon. Carolus-Duran expanded further.

“Come,
monsieur
,” he said, turning Edward around. “If you have the time to see one of the strangest sights in Paris, the light is perfect.”

He led the way toward the jagged western façade of the Tuileries Palace, talking all the time. Edward knew from his many walks in the garden that, from a distance, the palace shone at sunset with an illusory gilded splendor; in a soft morning mist, it appeared to float dreamily; in cold, gloomy weather, the burned-out, looming hulk made a man shudder. Today, as they approached it under the midafternoon sky, it was frankly a wrecked building.

“This was called the Salle des Marechaux,” said Duran, planting himself and Edward at one of the tall ground-floor windows. “Look straight across.”

Inside, the floor was heaped with old plaster dust and stone rubble. Overhead, a few studs projected from crumbled walls at each level, and rows of broken columns mapped out destruction. Yet in a glowing patch of blue sky through the rectangle of the window opposite, a tiny Victory drove her team of four horses atop the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel.

“The Commune created an ironic frame for that vestige of lost Bourbon glory,
n’est-ce pas
?” said Duran. “It was Ernest Meissonier who perceived the strange emblem and painted it from this vantage point. He was a colonel, you know, Meissonier, during the 1870 war. He was crushed by the defeat, but as befits a high-ranking officer and a supreme warrior of the brush, he found a way to make permanent art of tragedy and hope. The art of myself and my enlisted friends was far more ephemeral.”

“You were in the war?”

“
Oui, oui!
I served in the National Guard, in Paris, for the duration of the siege.”

“So you saw the palace burn.”

“
Non, monsieur.
That came later. For three days in May, the fire raged. The smoke was visible for miles, they say—but not all the way to Belgium. No, I did not see it. When the National Assembly betrayed Paris and surrendered to the Prussians, I had had enough. On the very day of the ceasefire, I obtained my passport. I took my family to Brussels. The tenth of March.” Duran pursed his lips, and his eyes narrowed to a burning glare. It was clear that much more could be said, but a wave of his hand dismissed old bitterness. Laughter returned to his face. “What a company we were, the Seventh! Every man an artist—painters, sculptors, engravers, a few musicians. Guard units were enlisted by neighborhood, you see, and who else but artists live in the
quartier
Nôtre-Dame-des-Champs?”

The Neuner’s thousand Germans from Over-the-Rhine could hardly compare, thought Edward.

“One of my best friends, a sculptor named Falguière—we had gone to Italy together one carefree winter in our youth—”

“The best place in the world to pass a winter.”

“The Mediterranean—how I love it! You, too, I perceive. The warmth, the color, the soft fragrances, the beautiful women—but not,
hélas
, during the winter of ’70–’71. That winter, Falguière and I, we were together again day after day, in the frozen mud of Bastion 84 on the ramparts, facing out to the Prussian encampments. It was grim, gray, cold as death—the tedium, the boredom, the endless waiting—it is the worst of war.”

At the all-too-familiar note of a veteran’s war nostalgia, Edward sensed a comic anecdote coming and moved to quash it. “Not quite.”

“Ah,” said Carolus-Duran, giving Edward a shrewd look. “No, that is true. The worst is the fear when it comes, or the horror of finding a friend’s corpse on the battlefield. For me it was a painter named Regnault—such a talent. You, also?”

“I lost count.” Of the comrades he had lost, of the men he had killed.

“
Mon dieu
,” said Duran, soberly. “Your American Civil War. I had forgotten. How long did you serve?”

“All four years.”

“
Merde.
You must have seen death to sicken the soul. You were wounded?”

Edward tapped his leg with his cane.

“It was my hand,” said Duran.

Edward gave a start. “That would have cost the world much more than my leg!”

Duran shrugged. “It healed. But four years, you say.” He shook his head.

“Not all of it was spent fighting. I was captured. I sat out the last year in a camp for prisoners of war.”

“
Mon dieu
, we read of the cruelty. Then you, too, know what it is to go hungry. Once when I was young and ill, I almost died for lack of food. Only the generosity of a friend who discovered me famished in my bed saved my life. I cannot imagine your misery.”

“You were about to tell me about your friend, the sculptor?”

Duran struck a defiant pose with his arms crossed over his chest. “
La Résistance
,” he intoned, and then went on: “One day in early December, snow fell and quickly piled deep. Someone threw a snowball; his infuriated victim threw one back. Soon, snowballs were flying everywhere until someone cried out,
Attention!
He proposed that we build snow sculptures instead. From that moment, some of us were demoted from combatants to auxiliaries. We rolled and carried blocks of snow while the professionals took command. Several statues were completed, but the triumph belonged to my good Falguière. A colossal nude astride a cannon, with her arms crossed and indomitability carved into her face. Right by the guardhouse we built her. Ah, she became celebrated. Nearby companies came to salute her; civilians made expeditions out to see her. She put heart into everyone. But then,
hélas
, she succumbed to the laws of nature—she melted. Not so our resolve, but in the end we, too, lost.”

“It is difficult to see so now,” said Edward, turning his back on the ruins to swing his cane around the garden, the Place de la Concorde, the restored Rue de Rivoli. In the distance, the first Napoleon’s Arc de Triomphe presided unequivocally over prosperity.

Duran squinted into the sun at the golden-stoned symbol of France’s glory. “You would never know that the Prussians paraded in the Champs-Élysées to spite the people of Paris,” he said.

“We read that afterward, people burned bonfires to purify the street.”

“True. And then they burned Paris. Well, it has been rebuilt, and all reparations paid. Nevertheless, what a waste!”

“In America, my side won—for all the good it did. Since then, the politicians have betrayed our cause and returned power to the losers.”

“Glory and folly, it is the story of man.”

Profound and banal, it is the way of the French, thought Edward. But in spite of himself he liked Carolus-Duran. “I wish I could have seen your
Résistance
,” he said.

“Gone without a trace—but not quite. Félix Bracquemond was one of us. He made an engraving of her.”

“Bracquemond? He exhibited work at a show I saw in May.”

“The so-called Impressionists? Bravo,
monsieur
. Not many Americans have heard of them, much less gone to see them. You must tell me what you thought.”

“I admired Bracquemond’s work. In America, I regularly saw more prints than paintings and felt I could comprehend him.” A shy eagerness came into Edward’s voice. “Mme. Renick told me that you also know Claude Monet.”

“A genius.”

Edward was favorably impressed by the way Duran spoke without hesitation or jealousy. All the same, tact dictated that he not overpraise one painter to another’s face. “His treatment of light . . .” he began, and left the thought open-ended.

“He makes you see it as it appears in nature. It was as if the room were filled with sunshine,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Exactly!”

“Monet is interested in physical sensation, in the impression that light makes on the eye at a particular moment as it hovers in the air and bounces off objects. We all learn from him. But most of the time when we look around us,
monsieur
, we focus on this or on that, not on everything equally.”

“On a glimpse of Victory in a distant sky.”

“You flatter me—but it is true, is it not? If I bring greater finish to Mme. Renick’s face than to her sofa, her husband will pay a handsome fee for the portrait. Am I venal?
Non, monsieur.
For I also give M. Renick a study of the lady’s character, of her generosity, of her little vanities, of what she reveals about herself over time and in her tastes. Monet is a visionary who believes that one day the world will acknowledge his genius, and so it will. But during the siege, when I saw my wife, my mother, my sister, my daughter—my little daughter,
monsieur
—go hungry, I vowed they would never go hungry again. I, too, enjoy experimenting with new techniques, but I am no prophet; I do not feel compelled to follow methods to their logical conclusion when they can be adapted to paint beautiful pictures that living, breathing people wish to buy.
Carpe diem.
When one has endured the night,
monsieur
, it is neither foolish nor wicked to embrace the day.”