Her arm around his neck, her face joyous
And—“Lyddy. You must try to understand.”
xii.
As I stand now in the hot sun on the allée, contemplating May’s picture, I almost shake with sorrow and fury. I don’t want to give any of this up: May’s cheek, this light, the possibility of love. How can this be asked of me? I’m only beginning to understand how to live. And here is May, her life in full flush, a success now, and healthy, and boldly independent. And she will continue, for years and years, after I’m no longer here. She’ll ride her horse in the Bois de Boulogne, she’ll paint and visit galleries and go to the Opéra and to Versailles, and in the summer she’ll come back to Marly, or she’ll go to the Mediterranean and feel the breezes, watch the water turn color through a whole day, a whole week, and she’ll have her friends, and more than friends, for after Edgar Degas, she may love someone else, and embrace him in another garden, and even if I am a thought in her mind, a sadness, she will have happiness too. Her days glitter, round and new, like gold coins in a huge jar, filled almost to the brim, her only worry how to spend them.
May threads her arm through mine, and we walk toward the villa, my heart like hot sand. May carries her case of paints and brushes, and I carry my crochet hook and the blue shawl for Corabella, strangely heavy now for such a small thing.
“I have to live my life as it comes to me, Lyddy, I can’t be always waiting. You can’t know how it is.”
But I do, I think. I do.
Driving
then I’m in a garden at the abbaye, and I see May, painting a woman in a yellow dress, and I call to her but she does not hear me,
mai, 1881, Paris
i.
“But I can’t believe she would sell it.” Mother looks at me in astonishment. She’s come into my room, after breakfast. I’ve just begun Henry James’ novel, The American, and I put it down reluctantly.
“Well, it is art, after all. It’s a beautiful painting.”
This is the twentieth conversation I’ve had with Mother on this subject, ever since Moïse Dreyfus bought one of May’s family paintings, the one of Mother reading fairy tales to Elsie and Sister and Robbie last summer in Marly. Our household has flown into a whirlwind of emotion over this, like a hen house visited by a fox. Feathers fly everywhere. In a larger sense, I think, May’s recent success is the fox, or maybe May herself. The 6ème Impressionist exhibition, which opened in April on the boulevard des Capucines, has been a triumph, especially for May and Edgar Degas. She’s garnered excellent reviews, and has had offers on all eleven of her entries. People are saying she’ll never have to worry now about whether she’ll be able to sell her art, and at a good price too. “Too much pudding,” May says, daily, about all the praise and attention, but I know she’s delighted—more than delighted. Victorious.
“Yes, but Lydia, how could she sell her own mother, and her nieces and nephew?”
“She’s not selling you! She’s selling a painting of you! There’s a difference, I hope.”
“It’s a painting of my grandchildren and me. How could she possibly think of earning money for it, and losing it to someone outside the family?”
I sigh. How, indeed?
“At least she won’t be selling the three of you, Lydia.”
I picture those: the one of me holding the cup of tea, and the one in the garden at Marly, and another one, a profile of me on the green bench in the Bois de Boulogne, with my black bonnet and the red trim. I look sober in that one, my lips a tight line, as May poses me looking off into the distance, with my coat a swirl of crazed autumn colors.
“Well, she’s not selling them yet, at any rate,” I say.
“How can you say that! Surely she’ll never let those go.”
“But art isn’t made simply for one’s family. It’s for others to see too.”
“Yes, and I wish others to honor her accomplishment. But she must honor our wishes also. A portrait of her mother should be returned to her family.”
“I agree with you. I wish May would too. But she has her own point of view. She’s an artist. She wishes her work to be out in the world.”
“But it’s a betrayal, Lyddy. Surely you see that. She betrays me, and you, all of us, by sending our pictures into the marketplace like this. Who is going to care about such pictures as much as Mary’s own family?”
In the painting of Mother and the children, May shows them wrapped together in the beauty of the afternoon, the magic of the story. I have to agree, it’s hard to think of that little band hanging on a wall in Moïse Dreyfus’s house, adding to his collection. I had not realized the extent of May’s ambition.
Yet I have become aware, too, of how I have contributed to her success. The pictures she painted of me have brought especially high offers, and immense praise. When people think of her art now, they think of me, although they may have no idea who I am.
ii.
May is home this morning, a Sunday morning. We’ve been making plans with Mother and Father for our move to a summer house in Louveciennes in a few weeks. Our younger brother Gard will be coming to visit, and I can’t wait to see him.
“I have a new idea for you, Lyddy.” May says this hesitantly, as she pours herself another cup of café.
“Tell me.”
“A painting outdoors, in the Bois. With figures in a carriage.” She looks at me hopefully.
“With Bichette?”
May laughs. “Yes, of course, Bichette. The carriage must have a horse.”
“And—someone in the carriage?”
“Could it be you, Lyddy? I’m thinking of you, driving, with a little girl, and maybe Mathieu could be in it too, as the groom.”
I try to picture this. I’ve seen some unusual pictures of Edgar Degas’—fashionable people near a racecourse. May has painted her own horse only rarely. “Who would the child be? Do you have a model?”
May looks into her cup. “Well, I know of one.”
“Who is it?”
May looks at me quickly, her face flushing. “A little niece of Edgar’s. Odile. Odile Fèvre.”
“How old is she?”
“I think she’s about five. She has a hint of baby plumpness still, and honey-colored hair.”
“Her mother is Edgar’s sister?”
“Oui. Marguerite.”
“I thought Madame Fèvre had moved to South America?”
“Buenos Aires. She and Henri moved there two years ago. She’s just visiting now, with her children.”
“How many children does she have?”
“Five. Odile’s the youngest.”
“And will Odile come with her mother?”
“I think so, usually.” May’s flush deepens. “More café?”
“Thanks, yes.”
As May pours the café into my cup, she studies my face. “So—will you pose for this one, Lyddy?”
The cup feels hot in my hands. I breathe in the fragrance, as I think about how I yearn to pose again, especially with this child. It’s a kind of hunger. Yet I’ve been more under the weather than usual.
“My health has been so uncertain,” I begin.
May interrupts me. “I know, Lyddy, mais—” She pauses, then adds, looking away, “J’ai besoin de toi. I need you. It’s as simple as that. The picture I conceive of has you in it. Most of my pictures do, these days.”
I look at May quickly, my eyes stinging. I am surprised, and moved, by her sense of such necessity. I realize suddenly that she must wonder, as I do, how much time I have left. And I realize too that I would regret each day I refused her. To refuse to pose is a form of betrayal. I study May’s anxious face.
“And if I become sick while you’re trying to paint me?”
“I’ll figure out something. I’m very resourceful. Let’s not court disaster, anyway, Lyd.”
I taste the café, and add some milk, as I contemplate the difficult walk down five flights of stairs, the ride to the Bois, the long hours posing, the ascent, onc
e more, of stair after stair. And I contemplate, too, the day I won’t be able to rise from my bed.
“D’accord, May.”
“Can you begin tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Oui.”
iii.
This morning Odile comes to the Bois with her mother. May and I wait with Mathieu in a quiet part of the park, to the side of a gravelled allée. To our right is a stand of trees, and to our left, a large open lawn. A short drive would bring us to the café, and the lake, where children throw bits of bread into the water and sail their boats. May and I used to go there often on summer evenings for ices, with Louie Elder and other friends—May Alcott too, so pretty and happy. Colored lights threaded through the trees, above the noisy crowd.
Here, though, on this allée, all is quiet. Swallows skim the grass, and I spot a hawk too, soaring above the meadow. I wonder what it sees, with its sharp eyes: a mouse, a snake, a family of partridges?
The sun grows warm, and as I sit in the carriage I hold my white lace parasol over my head. May walks restlessly along the lane, shading her eyes now and again, looking for Madame Fèvre. Mathieu stands by Bichette, holding the reins and looking quite grand, in the black silk hat and frock coat May has borrowed for him, his ears sticking out, his fair face freckled.
After a while, a cab comes along, with two horses. The driver slows as he nears us, and in a moment a woman in a sherry-colored dress steps out, and then a little girl. The child wears a pink and white summer dress with short sleeves, and a black straw hat. Her hair tumbles in waves down her back, the color of taffy. May rushes to greet them. I see her bend down to talk to the little girl. The girl holds her mother’s gloved hand in her own bare one, and they walk toward me.
iv.
Posing in the carriage next to Odile, I think about how she has, not an ordinary beauty, but something more inward. She makes me think of Elsie, although Elsie would never sit still for an hour at a time. I discover something touching in this child’s politeness.
May is talking to Marguerite, in French.
“Will you stay in Paris for the whole summer, madame?”
“I hope so, mademoiselle. I have missed Paris.”
“And Buenos Aires? Do you like it there?”
“Buenos Aires is unusual. It’s pretty, in parts. And Henri has found much to do, with all the new building.”
“Your husband is an architect?
“Oui.”
“And your children—they like it too?”
“Do you like our home, in Buenos Aires, ma petite?” Marguerite asks her daughter.
“Oui, bien sûr, maman. I love my room there, and my parrot. And I love our orange tree.”
Woman and Child Driving, Philadephia Museum of Art: The W. P. Wilstach Collection.
“You have an orange tree in your garden?” I ask, wishing I could turn my head to look at her.
“Oui, mademoiselle. My parrot often sits in the orange tree. He says, ‘Buenos dias,’ and he calls for me when I’m not there. He opens his beak wide and cries, ‘Odile! Odile!’ He does not cry for my sisters, oh no, that’s certain.”
“Keep still, Odile! Mademoiselle Cassatt is painting a picture of you, remember!”
“Your parrot speaks Spanish?” I ask my companion.
“Oui, mademoiselle, Spanish and French. I am going to teach him English too.”
“Better learn English yourself first, ma chérie,” Marguerite says, laughing.
“Oncle Edgar will teach me English, and then I will teach it to my parrot.”
“I’m teaching myself English,” pipes up Mathieu. I had forgotten his presence behind us, on the back seat, facing backwards. “I am going to America one day,” he announces.
“And what will you do in America, Mathieu?” May asks.
“I’ll stay in a hotel in New York, and then I’ll go all across the country, to San Francisco, mademoiselle.”
“You’ve been thinking about this a lot, I see!” May says, and I can tell she’s smiling. She likes Mathieu. “And what will you do in San Francisco?”
“I’ll gaze at the Pacific Ocean!”
“And you will be happy?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Very happy!”
“Ah, lucky Mathieu, to have such a dream!”
v.
I am aware of the day’s warmth, and of Odile’s shoulder touching my arm. My arms ache as I hold the reins and the whip. I wish I could take off my hat and my scarf.
As I pose, I wonder what people think of us, as they pass in their carriages or on horseback. When the allée is quiet, I can almost imagine that we’re in West Chester, or at our beautiful old country house, Hardwicke. Looking at the lawn out of the corner of my eye, I can dream that it’s the first meadow behind the house, where Aleck and I would ride. The bois, too, could be the woods around the rim of the pastures, dark and inviting, where we explored, playing wild Indians. Clouds begin to enter the sky, at first just white ones, then tinged with gray.
“I hope it doesn’t rain,” May says.
When the sky whitens and the sun vanishes, the air begins to feel like cotton, thick and full. May tries to engage all of us in conversation, but her voice sounds oddly distant, and I am tired. Odile has become as quiet as a pond.
Odile moves slightly on the seat, and sighs.
“You must sit still, Odile,” her mother says.
When Batty barks at something (tin tin tin), the child starts, and out of the corner of my eye I can see that she’s turned her head to look at him. Then she says, in a small voice, that her head has an itch.
“Alors, take care of your head, then,” her mother says, “but vite, vite! Mademoiselle Cassatt is painting an important picture.”
“May I see it, mademoiselle?” Odile asks. I can tell she’s removed her hat in order to scratch her head.
“Bientôt,” says May.
The clouds cover the sun completely, and the trees bend in the suddenly cool breeze. I shiver, even though I’m wearing such a heavy dress, with a jacket, and my bonnet with fur trim, my long gloves.
“Perhaps the child is cold, May?” I say.
“I’m almost done for the morning,” May says. She adds, “Are you cold, Odile?”
“Oui, mademoiselle, un peu.”
“Well, just a little more, and then you can chase Batty. Do you like dogs?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
When May releases us, Odile jumps off the carriage, and Batty runs to her, barking. She bends down to him, and lets him lick her face. Mathieu stretches, and takes off his top hat, loosens his collar. Marguerite smooths Odile’s hair, and gives her a kiss, and in a moment we squeeze back into the carriage, laughing, and Mathieu drives all of us to the café, for pâtisseries. It’s like a holiday, with Batty on my lap, May’s canvas and paints stuffed under the seat, Odile on her mother’s lap, and Mathieu, his silk hat cocked rakishly off his forehead, driving us through a tunnel of trees as the sun begins to shine again, in dappled patterns, on the allée.
vi.
On the second day of our posing in the Bois, the sky burns blue, and the sun shines with summer strength.
I am sitting in the carriage, fanning myself, with Mathieu behind me, when Odile arrives at our spot with her Oncle Edgar. She skips at his side, and when she says “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” to me, she smiles. She laughs when she sees Batty. Turning to her uncle, she asks, “May I give him something I saved from my breakfast?”
Edgar glances, amused, at May, and says, “Better ask Batty’s mistress.”
Odile shows May a tiny strawberry, half mashed from being held in her hand.
“Of course!” May says. “Batty adores strawberries.”
“I thought so.” Odile nods. “My dog adores them too.” She tosses the strawberry into the air, and Batty catches it neatly in his mouth, eyes glittering.
“Now let’s see about your hand, ma petite.” Edgar draws a handkerchief out of his pocket, and rubs her hand briskly. “You’re full of surprises, aren
’t you? I had no idea you’d been holding that strawberry in your hand all the way from the hotel.”
“We’re only staying in the hotel for one more week,” Odile confides to May, “and then we go to my Tante Thérèse, and after that to the seashore, for the air.”
“How splendid,” May says, setting up her paints. She drops a brush, and Edgar bends to pick it up. As he hands it to her, slowly, the breeze stills, and the grass seems to shimmer with heat. The lawn, with its running slope, surrounds these two figures with green-gold. May stands close to Edgar, the hem of her blue skirt almost touching his cane. I feel bereft, suddenly, or as if I have become a spirit merely, my flesh melted away; I gaze at my sister and Edgar, and I know I am outside the picture.
In another instant, Edgar calls to Odile, and holds her hand as they walk to the carriage. Mathieu jumps onto the carriage behind me, and Edgar says “Up we go!” and lifts Odile into the air, her pink dress fluttering like a banner.
As he places Odile on the seat, smoothing her dress, he glances at me, and, as quickly as a cat’s paw on a meadow, something passes between us, in this bright air. He looks at me as if he knows me, as if he has discovered what I know, and also what I desire.
vii.
As we pose, and white clouds sail across the sky and then vanish from my sight, I grow hot in my dress.
“Lyddy!” May’s voice startles me.
“Yes?”
“You look half asleep, and Odile too.”
“I am sleepy,” agrees Odile.
“Can you think of a story to tell, Lyd? I’ve forgotten the book of fairy tales I meant to bring.”
“I can’t think of a story, May.”
“Then Monsieur Degas will have to think of one.”
“Oui, Oncle Edgar! Tell them about your journey to Italy, when you were little. Tell them about how you learned to swim, in the stream outside of Naples, and how your brother Achille fell in and almost drowned.”
Lydia Cassat Reading the Morning Paper Page 7
