Josée found me huddled on the sofa when she returned. “Augustine! What has happened?” She knelt in a graceful movement and took my hands in hers.
I shook my head.
“Tell me,” she urged.
I poured out the whole sordid tale, half-afraid she would recoil in disgust. She said nothing when I finished but got up to bring me a glass of water. Her face was grim as she sat down by my side.
“Don’t be angry with me,” I begged.
“Angry at you? Why should I be? No, it’s that pious Théo taking shelter behind the sanctity of marriage.” She turned to face me. “The truth is, he has been having an affair with his uncle’s young wife. She gave birth to Théo’s child last year. He really loves her. Only he can’t talk about it because of her situation.”
“You mean – after all he said about dishonoring––”
“Yes, and for two years now.”
“That hypocrite! Taking the high moral ground to make me feel ashamed, when all the time––” I was spitting mad. “Why didn’t I know? How do you know? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s an open secret and the family relationships make it even more awkward, so he never talks about it.”
“Then how do you know?”
She shrugged. “People tell me things. They know I don’t betray confidences.” She smiled at me. “As I will never breathe a word of this conversation to anyone else.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Do you think he would tell––”
“Antoine?”
“No, I’m sure he would not – he has too high a regard for my husband’s feelings,” I said ironically. “I was thinking of Delacroix and his other friends.”
Josée considered and shook her head. “No. He would not want it to get back to Antoine. Nor would he be very successful in playing the role of the young man of outraged virtue. I’m sure he’ll let the matter drop.”
This proved to be true. On the few occasions we met, we were formal and polite to each other. He did not accept any more invitations to dinner at our home, though he and Antoine would sometimes meet at a restaurant.
It was my first and last attempt at taking a lover.
Chapter 10
Paris, 1819-1822
Unhappily, I had to abandon my painting. After having a group of landscapes accepted for the Salon again in 1819 and seeming well on the way to modest success, I was like many other women claimed by family duties. For once it was not Antoine’s demanding mother – she achieved much more satisfaction from laying exclusive claim to her son’s attention, in order to complain the more loudly that I was ignoring both of them. It was my own that needed help.
Maman had not done well in the years following Papa’s death. Her eyesight began to fail, though she was only a little older than Antoine, whose vision stayed keen until the end. Ordinarily I, as the eldest daughter, would have taken her into my home, but Antoine and I were already caring for Maman Madeleine. So it fell to my sister Pauline and, nominally, my brother Henri to help her. This situation was not without its problems.
Pauline had married the year after me, in 1810. Her husband, Jacques Carbonnet, was the son of a family friend and an agent de change like our father. He had a clubfoot and a pronounced limp, so that he could not be conscripted; he was cheerful about it, recognizing the advantages it gave him in a war-mad world, when he otherwise would have been no woman’s first choice. He admired Pauline and wanted to marry her despite his parents’ misgivings that he would inherit our mother and brother as part of the marriage. His parents had made prudent inquiries of the notary and found that our mother’s portion of Papa’s estate would not come with her but had gone to me. This only made Jacques feel closer to my sister, as he himself was a younger son. He, too, had been second choice until his brother went into the army.
Pauline was grateful for his interest. I had been the favored sister who had married well; Henri was the only son, while she had too often found herself taken for granted. Soon Pauline and Jacques had three children, none of whom inherited their father’s condition. She loved being a mother, something I wholeheartedly envied her. Antoine got on well with Jacques and enjoyed playing with his niece and nephews.
Pauline shared the Dufresne family artistic talent. In her case it took the form of designing and executing elaborate embroideries, work for which she did not need a studio but could do at home. Moreover, embroidery was a raised and tactile art form that our mother could feel with her fingers even after the colors had become indistinct shapes. After finishing two sets of table linens, drapes, and other domestic items, Pauline made a dress for herself. The dressmaker who later restyled it exclaimed at the fineness of the stitching and inquired if she would be interested in working for her, apologizing profusely lest her spontaneous offer have offended someone so clearly a bourgeoise, not a working-class seamstress. Pauline accepted for the dual pleasures of having her talent acknowledged by someone outside the family circle and earning her own money. She did not tell Jacques, who would have been appalled to have it thought that his wife needed to “take in sewing.” Maman, who now lived with her, and Henri and I were so accustomed to seeing her embroidery, we never noticed that this parade of garments came and went unworn by any of us. Had Henri suspected that she had a supply of francs to “lend” him, he would have laid claim to a share of it. She converted her earnings into gold coins whenever she could and kept them among her embroidery silks in a beaded purse she had made herself. She took them out to look at and count now and then when her spirits were low. The gold was her personal insurance against hard times. So well did she keep her secret that I did not learn of this until years later, long after the seamstress had retired.
Henri was sixteen, feeling newly grown-up and important, when he stood in my father’s place to sign my marriage contract. A year later he served as witness for Pauline as well. He lived with her and Jacques until he gained control of his inheritance at twenty-one and moved to lodgings after their first child was born. The baby’s crying got on his nerves, he said, as did, I imagine, the fact that his mother’s and sister’s attention had been diverted from himself to the newcomer. If there was no one to look after him in lodgings, at least it was quiet. His fifty thousand francs of capital earned two thousand francs a year, enough to keep him but not enough to support a family or contribute to our mother’s support.
When the ten-year-old Henri had visited the Salon of 1804 with the rest of the family, he had been impressed by the art he saw there, but even more by the acclaim and admiration and accolades given to the artists. He did not understand the hard work that must go into one’s practice to earn them. He studied painting with a succession of masters who acknowledged his talent but deplored his laziness. Unlike Géricault, who had pursued a rigorous course of personal study in the galleries in the Louvre, Henri took it for granted that his renowned brother-in-law would help him achieve artistic fame and fortune. Gros, having seen many young men of ambition come and go over the years, made introductions for him with an air of taking no responsibility. His friends gave him work, I could see, mostly to oblige Antoine. Henri congratulated himself on the launch of his career not by getting down to work but by getting drunk, an omen of what was to come. He did not have the discipline to produce a steady stream of paintings. However, two or three clients liked his work well enough to ask for further pieces, so that his painting earned enough for him to claim he made his living from it.
Henri was generous in compliments and gallantries but guarded about the substance of his life. He always said he was working hard but privately we women doubted it. We predicted that marriage would be the making of him and shook our heads in humorous dismay as we despaired of any sensible young woman taking him. He fell in love from time to time with actresses and spurned the shop assistants and friends’ younger sisters who openly expressed their admiration of him. He grew quite friendly with one of the female students at the master’s atelier, but she worked hard, had ambition for hersel
f, and made him see his excuses for what they were.
Maman was blind to all these shortcomings even when her eyesight was still strong. Henri was her adored son. One day he would surely be an artist of note, and she praised his talent loudly at a dinner party at our house that included not only Girodet but also Denon and David. Even Henri looked abashed in such august company and blushed at his plate, not daring to meet their eyes. After a painful silence, David raised his glass to salute my mother and said mildly to Henri, with only a little of his habitual stammer, “You are fortunate indeed, young man, in the loyalty of your family.” I stole a glance at Maman Madeleine as he said this. She sat mute with a virtuous look that proclaimed she had no need to boast; her son had already proved his worth. My exasperation with my mother overflowed into a longing to smack my mother-in-law as well. I rang the bell for the next course and talked brightly of lamb roasted with rosemary. After that we were careful to invite Maman and Henri only when we were en famille.
My relationship with my brother and sister was complicated by Maman’s gift to me of her share of Papa’s estate. The four thousand francs a year earned by my dowry became part of the Gros family income managed and invested by Antoine and Maman Madeleine. As a result I rarely saw cash in hand from it: my lament to Josée that I had very little money of my own was genuine. However, I arranged that the income from Maman’s contribution would be paid to my sister for our mother’s support. It was only fair, I thought, and I carried my point over the objections of my mother-in-law, who reminded me of it every time I complained of being short of cash. Maman’s money had become mine and in turn my husband’s; as a result, the income from it became a gift from Antoine to me and thence to my sister for our mother’s upkeep. In this process the income had gone from a right to a gift, with a sense of obligation on both sides – an uncomfortable situation. While Maman still had some income from the dowry she had brought to her marriage, she was now largely dependent on her children. That and her deteriorating eyesight led to a great deal of self-pity that no amount of loving words could lessen.
The brunt of our mother’s care fell on Pauline. No one expected Henri to take the responsibility; in our experience, young men needed looking after, not the other way around. Too, as Maman grew older and physical infirmities set in, she needed a woman to help with dressing and bathing and going to the toilet. The less she could do, the more short-tempered she became. Servants can escape but daughters can’t.
I was surprised to receive a note from Pauline in April 1820 saying that she wished to call on me “for a private talk.” Maman Madeleine was entertaining a group of friends that afternoon, so I suggested we meet at Galignani’s café instead. It was one of the first warm days of the spring and it would be a pleasure to sit in the sunshine in the garden. I arrived first, and as I waited for her I realized with a pang of conscience how long it had been since I had visited to see Pauline instead of Maman or talked with her as we had as young sisters. Her life was wrapped up in a happy marriage and a growing family. With no children and only a lukewarm relationship with my husband, I could not follow her down those conversational paths. It saddened me now, how much we had drifted apart, for all we saw each other often. Her arrival in a charmingly embroidered dress of deep blue saved me from further unhappy thoughts.
“Pauline!” We embraced. She smiled but it was clear she was troubled. Could it be something about her own health? I shivered. When the waiter came, I ordered coffee and an assortment of cakes that I knew would please her.
“Pauline, what’s the matter?” She gulped and shook her head, fighting back tears. I took her hand, squeezed it hard, and waited.
“Tine, I think – I’m certain – Maman is going blind.”
Relief that Pauline was all right flooded through me, before the impact of her words hit home in a second cold wave of shock. Both her hands now gripped mine, and some of the tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks.
Of course, the waiter chose that moment to return. Pauline released my hands to fumble in her bag for a handkerchief. I poured a cup of strong coffee, added hot milk, and put it and one of the cakes in front of her. “Eat this, you’ll feel better. Then tell me.” I took just coffee myself – I had no appetite. Pauline must not have had breakfast or lunch, I decided, and said as much when I put a second cake on her plate. She nodded and made short work of it and a third before putting down her fork and accepting a second cup of coffee. She looked better now, more resolute, ready to face the crisis. She smiled her thanks.
“Pauline, what makes you think so?”
“Little things – at table, she always runs her fingers over the utensils before she uses them, as if to make sure of what they are. Sometimes she asks the maid what’s in the serving dish even as she looks directly at it. Once, when Jacques asked her to pass the saltcellar, she couldn’t seem to find it, and one of the children had to help her. Then last night, I asked her to hand me the gold thimble that was on the table next to my chair. She peered at the tabletop closely, said, ‘I don’t see it,’ and groped with her hand like a blind woman until she found it, carefully felt it to identify it, and held it out to where she thought I was. That’s when I knew.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ve known for some time but didn’t want to acknowledge it, so I wouldn’t need to face it. But now I have, and I do.”
“We do, Pauline. And Henri. It’s not fair for you to have to face this alone.” Even as I said it, I realized just how much she had already coped with by herself. I paid over Maman’s money and made the occasional visit. Henri had long since lived on his own but visited his mother, we knew, all too rarely for her liking. It was Pauline who took care of her day in and day out. A sharp glance from my sister implied that she had read my thoughts.
We both fell silent. I ordered more coffee and wrapped my hands gratefully around the warmth of the cup. The day no longer seemed as sunny as it had been.
Blind. As a painter that condition had always had a particular horror for me. To live in darkness with only the memory of colors, to lose one’s skill with hand and brush, to never again see a landscape, a fine horse, the face of a loved one (one can feel the contours of a face, but not the color of the eyes), a skyscape of scudding clouds, the heart-stirring sight of a troop of hussars on horseback, nor all the beauties of Paris, its buildings, gardens, and river: those were the things I should miss. To walk hesitantly, groping one’s way, or be led everywhere by a guide, helped in so much you were once able to do for yourself. To be pitied by fellow artists with whom you once strove side by side. To have no diversion from your own thoughts and self-pity at the end of the day.
“Poor Maman!” I exclaimed, shuddering.
My sister gave me a surprised, slightly censorious look. She, I knew, would not be taking an emotional inventory but thinking along the practical lines of running her household, taking Maman’s condition into account as she would the addition of another child or the need to hire a new cook. My squeamish imaginings were a luxury she could not afford to allow herself, and it was plain she had little patience for people who did.
“What can I do to help you, Pauline?” My offer was sincerely given. I was unprepared for the bitter outburst it provoked.
“Take Maman to live with you, so I can be the one with the luxury of visiting her from time to time. Don’t ‘help,’ Augustine, take the problem over, take it away from me! Since you married I’ve had eleven years of taking care of Maman, and Henri too for five years of that, and I’ve a family of my own now. You don’t have any children––”
“Pauline!” I was shocked and frightened. I had had no idea such bitterness lurked beneath the surface of my practical sister so adept at coping. Her accusations stung, especially the taunt about having no children of my own. Had a stranger said such things, I would have lashed back. But this was a beloved sister who was feeling the strain of a burden about to be doubled, who clearly needed respite.
“Pauline.” I said her name low and firmly, to bring her
back to the present – the garden café, the sun, the presence of others at the tables around us. “Pauline,” I repeated, “look at me.”
She turned her head, brought her eyes into focus, and realized what she’d just said. “Oh, Tine, I never meant it to come out like that! I know how much you’ve wanted children and tried for them! Don’t hate me, Augustine,” she begged.
In reply, I dipped my handkerchief into my water glass and wiped her teary face, making soothing noises as I did so. How many times over the years must she have done this for a child? It brought back memories of our mother doing it for us, soothing away hurts and troubles. I would need to take Maman’s place, I could see, in taking care of my sister. When Pauline was calmer, I told her, “I can’t change the past, but I can help, starting now and going forward.”
We sat quietly for some time absorbing the impact of the news when we were approached by a pair of slightly tipsy hussars in dress uniform who offered to cheer us up, saying two such pretty ladies should not be sad. Before we could recover from our surprise to decline their offer, the waiter and manager came over to hustle the men out: “This isn’t the Palais Royal!” Pauline and I collapsed with giggles: here we were, old married women of thirty and more, being approached as pretty young things. It broke the tension of our serious discussion and brought a smile to our faces whenever we mentioned it in the months to come.
I signaled the waiter for two glasses of wine to calm my sister and put color in her cheeks and warmth in her stomach, as well as – I must confess – to give myself courage. Maman was not easy to deal with at the best of times. I had been glad to leave her care to Pauline, but I, too, was her daughter and should share the responsibilities.
An Artist in her Own Right Page 15
