by Elise Hooper
May’s scissors hovered over the collar piece she needed to cut. She doubted her sister’s enthusiasm.
THAT EVENING AFTER Marmee was in bed and Father headed outside to catch the last of the long day’s sunshine for his daily constitutional, May found Louisa sitting in the parlor, setting up a round of solitaire.
“Here, deal me in for a game of rummy,” May said, sitting down across from her and rearranging the small table to sit between them.
Louisa picked up all of the cards and shuffled before handing the deck out to May to cut it. May picked a spot in the middle of the deck and handed half of the cards back to her sister. Louisa finished her shuffling, dealt the cards, and placed a card—the ten of diamonds—faceup between them. The two sat back to survey their hands, but May’s distraction was such that she couldn’t focus on her cards.
Louisa frowned as she looked at her hand. “I’ll take . . .”
“Louisa, I’ve saved up enough to return to Europe. I spoke with Marmee about it earlier, and she says I should go,” May said in a rush. She watched as her sister’s lips vanished into a straight line.
Louisa placed her cards on the table facedown and said coldly, “You can’t leave. Can you not see how Marmee’s health is suffering?”
May closed her eyes briefly, trying to summon the calm she needed to address her sister. “I’m well aware of Marmee’s deteriorating condition. I’m the one who has been here for the last year caring for her. I feel terrible leaving her, but she insists.”
“You’re doing this to get back at me for going to New York, isn’t it?”
May gasped. “No, I’ll admit I wasn’t pleased when you left, but your absence taught me to be independent. I’m not trying to get back at you at all. This is for me. So I can make something of myself.”
Mottled red splotches rose up Louisa’s neck and spread across her cheeks. “Of course this is for you. Everything is always for you. Do you realize you may never see Marmee alive again if you leave now?”
May shrank back from her sister. She folded her fan of cards with shaking hands and blinked back tears. “That’s a dreadful thing to say.”
“Well, it’s all true, and you know it. Marmee’s hiding her disappointment, but your departure may be the final thing that actually kills her.” Louisa’s dark eyes flashed in anger, and she stood, pushing at the table in front of them so that the cards spilled over the edge and scattered across the floor. “I’ve had enough.”
In shock, May watched Louisa sweep out of the room. She knelt down, gathered up the cards, and stacked them into one neat pile. At that moment, she hated her sister, partly because she feared Louisa was right. What if this was the last time she saw Marmee?
THE FOLLOWING DAY May knew Louisa was avoiding her. When she entered the dining room from the kitchen, she could see the back of Louisa’s brown dress swishing out the doorway ahead of her. The hot, airless rooms of the house did little to assuage the tautness of her nerves. On Louisa’s way out of the house to the train station in the afternoon, she brushed past May in the kitchen without saying a word, her knuckles white as seashells as she clasped her valise. Neither sister spoke a word.
May spent the next several weeks in silent agony, watching her mother for any sign of worsening. Each fumbled word, pause, and stumble, each time Marmee struggled to climb the stairs, May held her breath awaiting all of her plans to crumble, but the old woman held steady and continued to talk about the upcoming trip to Europe with enthusiasm. May booked passage on the China and considered sending a letter to Louisa before her departure, but abandoned the idea after staring at a blank piece of blue-lined paper for almost an hour without writing a word. Was she supposed to apologize? Thinking about her sister left her innards in knots and her thoughts muddled. She placed the paper back into a drawer and continued packing. Perhaps leaving the bad blood between them to cool was the right tactic.
Three days later, from the deck of the China, May searched the crowd looking for Louisa, but her sister never came. She knew Anna had told Louisa of her sailing date. Determined not to let Louisa’s absence ruin her excitement, May waved and called to her family with forced merriment. She brushed at her damp eyes and flourished her handkerchief at Father, Marmee, Anna, Freddy, and Johnny. She blew kisses and watched the frothy water churn below as the boat pushed away from the docks. Her family members grew smaller and smaller in the distance. I’m never returning home at anyone else’s behest again. Never again. She looked up at the gunmetal-gray sky and the gulls circling overhead—they were her witnesses to this vow.
Chapter 27
September 22, 1876
Paris, France
Dear Violet,
I cannot believe I’m finally in Paris! The inside of my poor forearm has a black-and-blue spot because I keep pinching myself to make sure this isn’t a dream. You would adore it here. Men and women clad in smart suits and chic gowns spill out of the cafés at all hours of the day and night. The constant parade of people is sublime. I’m living in the ninth arrondissement with Alice Bartol, who has been in France since I left England. She found us a lovely little apartment, and I have a cozy room, complete with a balcony overlooking a small courtyard in which all of the neighborhood cats seem to congregate for daily meetings. My only complaint about the city is that everything seems to cost three times what I anticipated.
Upon my arrival, Alice insisted we go to the Louvre so I could obtain a copyist pass. We walked along the boulevard des Capucines to take in Monsieur Garnier’s newly completed opera house. I cannot even imagine the army of artists needed for such an undertaking—every square inch of the building is covered in statues, medallions, and columns. When we arrived at the Louvre, I could scarcely believe its scale. The National Gallery in London looks positively provincial by comparison.
I’ve begun to take classes at Monsieur Krug’s atelier—one of the few studios in the city open to women. For one hundred francs a month, we can attend up to three sessions with live models and have critique sessions from a number of the city’s leading master artists. The cost is a bit more dear than I expected, but there are no other alternatives. Apparently men can pay about half that because the private ateliers are in competition with the free government-run schools—it’s all terribly unfair, but I try not to dwell on it.
My daily routine consists of waking in the dark and bolting down a hot mug of chocolate and a delicious flaky butter roll before walking to Monsieur Krug’s. At that hour, the streets are full of young men carrying paint cases and sketch pads to their schools and studios, and I cannot help but feel proud to be among the few women who brave this career. There are about thirty other women at Monsieur Krug’s, mostly Americans and Englishwomen. Monsieur Krug is kind enough—I think—he offers up his critiques in a deluge of French, all underneath a shaggy mustache covering his mouth, so I barely understand him. (Fortunately my French is improving daily.) We work until about five o’clock at night, and then Alice and I return to our rooms and have a simple supper, followed by a few rounds of dominoes before bedtime. If I’m lucky, the cats in the courtyard have all gone home, otherwise I’m treated to the sounds of catfights until I fall asleep.
We would have some grand adventures if you were here, but I’m sure you and Mr. Keith are thriving in San Francisco. Please, include some watercolor studies of your new home in your next packet of letters so I can get a taste of your surroundings.
Your loving friend,
May
It was at Monsieur Krug’s studio that May first saw the photographic realness some of her classmates were able to achieve with charcoal and pastels. At the end of each afternoon, the women would browse around the studio from one easel to the next—they called this the “walk and gawk” portion of the day. One afternoon, a rough charcoal portrait propped up on an easel stopped May. The face on the paper looked at her with perplexed eyes and an uneasy expression. Charcoal lines bristled at the edge of the subject’s head, implying action and immediacy. Frowning, M
ay hurried back to her easel and regarded her work.
“Reveal more personality through your lines,” Monsieur Krug said, coming up alongside her, his hand stroking his chin. “Yes, you have a head, but no personality.”
“But I don’t know anything about the model. How can I do that?”
“You must look at her. Really look. Knowing where to put eyes on a face is not enough. What do those eyes tell us?” Monsieur Krug took a step forward toward May; his black eyes bore down on her. “If you hope to get work onto the wall, you must really look at your subjects.”
May glanced at the wall. Each week Monsieur Krug selected several pieces of exceptional art from the class and hung these sketches and paintings on the back wall of the studio. So far, May had yet to have any of her work displayed on it. Cash prizes were awarded to students whose work he selected. The weekly contests motivated the women to try new techniques and produce many studies in the hopes that prolific output would result in more in-depth studies; these final pieces could lead to a piece of work that might be worth entering into Paris’s prestigious Salon show. Several weeks earlier, one of Alice’s landscapes won twenty francs and the honor of prominent display on the wall. She made a show of spending the prize money on some new shoes with Louis Quinze heels. May wished she had some extra money to spend on supplies at the art supply store on rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. Spending money on a pair of skimpy shoes made in Paris seemed foolish. Everyone knew shoes made in England lasted twice as long.
Monsieur Krug leaned in closer to May and she could smell damp leather. “You will have something ready for the Salon’s deadline in March, yes?”
“I’ll try.” She looked down at her knuckle where some black paint clung to her skin and picked at it with her other hand before returning his gaze.
“No, no, no trying. You must do it. Having a piece in the Salon is what launches careers.” He narrowed his eyes, as if taking her measure.
May nodded hesitantly. She almost missed Boston, her students, and her comfortable sisterhood of artists.
SINCE ALICE WAS supported by her father and never worried about money, she always had a diversion in mind for them, and May willingly obliged her, while ignoring the persistent voice in her head urging her to work. On weekends, the two women crisscrossed Paris and its environs by train to explore all the charms the area offered. Each of these excursions left May hastily entering expenses into her account ledger, though she tried to keep her eyes from lingering on the shrinking dollar amount she’d pencil in. Jane Gardner’s description of her ascetic early days in Paris, working at all hours without taking breaks for amusement, lingered in May’s memory and left her with a tightness deep in her belly. She needed to support herself. Asking Louisa for money was no longer an option.
On a cool November morning, Alice suggested taking the train to Longchamp to see the horse races, but May begged off, blaming a headache. She knew she wasn’t ill, but she felt heavy and flattened. She decided to walk to the seventh arrondissement where the recently deceased Monsieur Oppenheim’s art collection was on view for sale. Though her destination was almost an hour’s walk from rue Mansart, she hoped the activity and cold wind, bellowing along the wide boulevards and over the Seine, would revive her.
The previous day she had received a letter from Anna describing a new series of books Mr. Niles planned to publish in the spring called the No Name Series in which famous writers could pen anonymous stories. Louisa, taking full advantage of the promise of anonymity, was writing a daring Faustian tale of cruelty, seduction, and betrayal she entitled A Modern Mephistopheles. To ensure complete anonymity, Anna explained she would rewrite the story upon its completion so the publishing assistants would not recognize Louisa’s handwriting and leak the writer’s true identity when it went to press. Marmee added a brief note describing the thrilling wickedness of Louisa’s story. The two of them sounded jubilant about the new project. No message from Louisa was included in the envelope. The two sisters had not exchanged a word, written or spoken, since the argument in the parlor and an emptiness hollowed out her chest when May pictured Marmee, Anna, and Louisa all back in Concord, joined in merriment at their daring antics. She shivered. Her fashionable but thin navy blue velvet jacket had been a poor choice for the blustery day.
Relieved to get out of the cold, she entered the building housing the art show. The reflection of her white face in the opulent gilt mirrors lining the walls prompted her to pinch her cheeks as she rode up the elevator. When she entered the Oppenheim family’s private apartment, the tightness behind her eyes loosened at the sight of two Meissonier paintings of military scenes immediately in front of the doorway. His richly adorned officers and their beautiful horses were so lifelike the horse flesh practically rippled over the taut muscles of the creatures.
May stepped backward to take it all in and bumped into another woman.
The woman turned to regard May. “You’re American.” It was a statement, not a question, not an accusation.
“Yes. You are, too?”
“I’m originally from Pennsylvania but have lived here for several years now.” The woman, tall and handsome in a decidedly unbeautiful way, introduced herself as Mary Cassatt. Recognition flashed through May for she knew Miss Cassatt was one of a handful of women whose work had been consistently shown in the Salon over the years. Many women at Monsieur Krug’s held the Philadelphian in high regard. Unlike the self-taught Jane Gardner, Mary came from a wealthy family, and part of her upbringing consisted of studying at the Academy of Art in her hometown. May introduced herself.
“I’m here on my own. Seeing all of these lovely horses makes me wish for my own back in Concord.”
“Where are you living now?”
“In the ninth arrondissement.”
Mary smiled. “Are you game for a walk? I’m on my way out and have a little time before I must be somewhere at two o’clock. I’d like to show you something.”
Although May had just arrived at the show, she could not pass on the opportunity to spend time with Mary Cassatt and agreed easily.
A frigid wind whipped their cheeks as they crossed the Seine by the Allée de Castiglione and strolled through the Jardin des Tuileries where May could see the long gray buildings of the Louvre in the distance through the leafless pollarded trees. They crossed the vast square of the Place Vendôme, and May pulled her collar higher in an attempt to stay warm. Where were they going? Mary led her to rue Laffitte in the heart of the ninth arrondissement and stopped to point at some framed pastel sketches in a large window.
“I’ve become increasingly drawn to these and feel compelled to visit my framed friends several times a week,” said Mary.
Reluctantly, May pulled her gaze off the parade of women strutting by in sumptuous furs to study the three drawings in the window. One showed a ballet dancer bending over awkwardly to adjust her slipper, the second showed a row of ballerinas stretching, and the third showed a woman leaning against a table, posed with her hands out and head tilted in mid-conversation.
“These are for sale? They look unfinished.”
“They’re done and, yes, they’re for sale.”
May leaned in and looked closer. The women’s faces were barely sketched in with features, yet they radiated a sense of boredom and cynicism. How did the artist achieve this? Was it through their slouching postures? No, it was more than that. May leaned in until her nose practically rested against the glass.
Mary laughed. “You’re intrigued?”
“Well, yes. I have a distinctly voyeuristic feeling as I look at these, but can’t put my finger on why.”
“They feel very true, very real, don’t you think?”
May tilted her head. “Yes, but they’re so unposed. So sketchy.”
“They’re different.” Mary trained her eyes on May, sizing her up.
“They certainly are.” May said slowly. “I’m unaccustomed to seeing people posed so informally. These feel spontaneous.”
“Y
es, exactly. This spontaneity interests me.” Mary Cassatt turned back to the glass and continued to stare at the drawings, seemingly forgetting May stood beside her. After a few minutes, she looked around the street and at May as if she had lost track of where she was. “I should go. If you like, please visit me in my studio and we can talk more.” Mary pulled a slim silver monogrammed case out of her handbag, flipped it open, and handed May an elegant cream-colored calling card with her name and address printed in a graceful font along the front of it. Holding the card in her hand, May watched the woman glide down the boulevard toward Montmartre and vanish into the crowds.
Chapter 28
Spring approached and the work in Monsieur Krug’s studio intensified as the upcoming Salon exhibition deadline neared. While portraiture and heroic historical scenes reigned supreme as the most desirable genres, they were also the hardest to execute. May decided to capitalize on her existing strengths and focus her efforts on a small still life. She assembled an assortment of yellow and green apples on a table in a corner of their drawing room on rue Mansart, adding a jug and bottle of Maraschino wine to the composition as an afterthought. The apples appealed to her New England roots. She spent a little over a week painting every evening after dinner, building up her layers of paint to create rich jewel-tone colors, while Alice attended concerts and shows with other friends.
May arrived at Monsieur Krug’s one morning to find Monsieur Muller, one of the other master teachers, in the studio offering critiques. She ran back to the apartment to retrieve her still life and arrived back at the atelier out of breath. These sessions took on the gravity of life and death sentencing with the Salon deadline hanging over them, so no one noticed her dishevelment; everyone’s attention centered on the various pieces put forth for critique. Messieurs Krug and Muller stood in front of May’s painting and discussed it in rapid French.
