‘To tell you the truth, I’d much rather go second class,’ she said. ‘You meet more interesting people. The people in first class are insufferable bores.’ She made a note of my cabin number and handed me back the ticket. ‘I’ll write to my booking agent and make sure we’re in the same cabin. I’m sure you don’t want to make your first Atlantic crossing with a stranger.’
I thanked her for her understanding and pointed to her basket of flowers. ‘They look lovely. Where are you going?’
She tilted her head and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come with me and find out?’
I was surprised when we took the omnibus to Asnières-sur-Seine, which was on the outskirts of the city. I wanted to ask Florence where we were headed, but we were surrounded by a group of chattering young women loaded up with parasols and picnic paraphernalia and it was impossible to have a conversation. When we got off the omnibus, Florence led me towards a trail along the river. The picnickers, to my relief, strolled off in the other direction.
‘It’s good to have peace again,’ I said, enjoying the cushioned sensation of walking on grass. ‘At least my ears have stopped ringing.’
Florence laughed. ‘Claude told me that you’ve played the harp for shows at the Théâtre de l’Oeuvre and that you’ve written a few stage plays. I’ll give you a letter of introduction to my friend Marguerite Durand for when you come back to Paris. I have a feeling you will like each other.’
I was flattered. Marguerite Durand was a celebrated actress and a woman of elegance and style. She was famous for walking her pet lion on a lead along the Champs-Élysées, but was also editor of the feminist daily paper La Fronde, which I suspected was how Florence knew her.
‘I agree with a lot of feminist ideals,’ I said, ‘but not the ones about marriage. I’m a romantic at heart.’
Florence raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Marriage and love are not synonymous, Emma. In fact, they are antagonistic to each other. Love can only truly be love if it is given freely. French marriage laws are draconian — they turn women into powerless and property-less slaves. Nothing undermines a woman’s spirit or destroys her health faster than marriage.’
All of Claude’s and Florence’s philosophising about the subject of marriage and commitment meant nothing if you died alone, I thought. ‘But wouldn’t marriage to a good man keep a woman safe?’
Florence shook her head. ‘Marriage is a dreadful insurance policy! One of the greatest social problems among poor women is being deserted by their husbands. Rather than being shackled to a man, it would be much better for women if they had more choices about how to live their lives and received equal pay for their work.’
We came to a stretch of land near the river and walked on through a set of stone gates that were still being constructed. Inside the park, adjacent to a gravel path lined with oak and plane tree saplings, were a dozen or so small headstones. A garden of hawthorns and lilacs had also been started.
‘Le Cimetière des Chiens,’ explained Florence. ‘It has only recently been opened; the statuary and the sign are yet to be placed. It was founded by Marguerite and another friend of mine, Georges Harmois, a lawyer and animal advocate. My little dog, Babou, was among the first to be buried here.’
Now I understood the picture of the King Charles spaniel in Florence’s studio and the pot of flowers next to it.
‘How touching,’ I said surveying the miniature graves. ‘A cemetery for pets.’
An epitaph on one of the stones caught my attention: The more I know people, the more I love my dog. I remembered Grand-maman’s dog, Léon, and cat, Bisou, who had been my childhood companions. When they passed away, we were too grief-stricken to consider putting their bodies in the garbage, which was what the City of Paris expected residents to do if they had nowhere to bury them. Fortunately for us, one of Grand-maman’s friends allowed us to make graves for them in her country garden.
Florence crouched down near one of the tombstones and placed a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums on it. ‘I saved Babou from a vivisector the first year I came to Paris. He travelled with me back and forth across the Atlantic several times. I was ready to leave Paris a couple of years ago, but Babou was already old and I didn’t want to take him away from his home in his last years. He was a true Parisian dog.’
My gaze drifted to the epitaph on the tomb next to Babou’s: One would have thought he was human . . . but he was faithful! The loyalty of animals and the untrustworthiness of humans seemed to be a theme in the cemetery. Could there be some truth to it? With another human you could never be sure that what they were saying was actually what they were thinking. Animals were transparent in their sentiments.
Florence sighed and brushed her fingers over Babou’s headstone. Then she placed the remaining flowers from her basket on the surrounding graves.
‘I’ve often agonised over what might have been Babou’s fate if I hadn’t rescued him from the vivisector,’ she said. ‘I can’t fathom how an intelligent, educated man is able to torture innocent animals in the name of research. I cry when I imagine all those poor dogs begging for mercy and licking the hands of those so-called men of science.’
I shuddered. I hated walking past slaughterhouses and hearing the bone-chilling cries of the cattle and pigs inside. Once I’d seen a beautiful old mare being dragged into a knackery, her legs trembling in terror and her hooves covered in the blood of the horse that had been slaughtered before her. The sight still haunted me.
Florence shook her head. ‘I’d like to believe that with enlightenment all of us can become finer human beings, but I’m convinced that some people are born . . . empty. As if their soul is missing.’
‘It would be very frightening to look into the eyes of someone like that,’ I said. ‘It would be like staring into an abyss.’
A nagging doubt rose in my mind as I recalled Caroline and a particularly terrible argument between her and Grand-maman.
I’d known since childhood that my sister resented the fact that I had survived the yellow fever that had killed our parents. ‘Maman wasn’t weak like you, Emma,’ she told me. ‘But you were sick all the time and you sapped the life from her. It was you who gave her the yellow fever, you know. You were the first one to catch it.’
When I told Grand-maman that I was to blame for my parents’ deaths, she was furious with Caroline. ‘How can you say that to your sister!’ she scolded her. ‘What a thing to tell a child!’
She’d stared at my sister as if mystified by her nature, but if she’d hoped to reach Caroline’s heart, she’d failed.
I shook off the strange feeling. No, Caroline was selfish and not very compassionate, but she was nothing like the men Florence was talking about. Caroline wasn’t evil. She would never take deliberate pleasure in destroying another living creature.
The day before my departure, my friends gathered in the café to wish me farewell. I would miss them over the coming months, and was grateful again for Claude’s kindness in introducing me to Florence. A pleasant rapport had sprung up between me and the American artist, and at least I would know someone in New York other than my sister and her family. Florence was already in Le Havre, visiting a friend, and would meet us on the ship the following morning. I had an inkling that crossing the Atlantic with her would be anything but boring.
‘Have you heard about Marcel and Julie?’ Sophie said. ‘It seems things aren’t working out as Marcel planned. He’s finding it difficult to sell his work now that they are back in Paris. Julie is going to get as big as a whale and still be sitting at her easel.’
Nicolas tittered. ‘Perhaps Marcel will take care of the child after it is born so Julie can concentrate on her painting!’
‘Why not?’ said Belda. ‘Do we have to base our relationships on convention or public opinion? Why can’t we arrange ourselves as we are most suited?’
‘I agree,’ said Claude, glancing at me. ‘My parents are happy together despite marriage, not because of it.’
His comment irritate
d me. On the train to Le Havre later that afternoon I asked him what he’d meant by it.
He rolled his eyes. ‘Not this again? How many times can I tell you that I love you and I’m here for you? How will marriage make that any different? Marriage makes people rigid. Love is a plant. It can’t grow if you stifle it.’
‘I don’t want to be lonely all the time, Claude. It’s tiring always relying on myself. I don’t even know if you will be waiting for me when I get back from New York. What if you find someone else while I’m away?’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘What if you find someone else in New York? Is it marriage you want — or me? If you are lonely with me now, marriage will not help, Emma. Nor will having children. You are asking me to fix something only you can solve.’
We spent our last night together in a quaint pension near the port, but instead of making passionate love we turned away from each other and lay in bed in obstinate silence.
Perhaps Claude was right. There was an emptiness deep inside me that only I could fill. Despite all the things I told myself about accepting the fact that Caroline, my blood sister, had never cared for me, the pain of her rejection had left a scar. Perhaps I didn’t believe that anyone would be faithful to me unless they were tied to me in some way. On my own I wasn’t enough to keep them by my side.
And what would happen if Claude never changed his mind about marriage? What would I do then? Resign myself to an insecure, childless existence the way I’d resigned myself to the fact of Caroline’s selfishness and abandonment of me?
Florence met us in the steamship’s great saloon, which had the atmosphere of a hotel lobby. Businessmen lounged at tables smoking and reading the daily papers, while in another corner a middle-aged woman wearing a hat that was a mix of feathers, flowers and frills drank champagne with a group of younger women. Mothers pushed babies in perambulators, and nurses assisted elderly people in wheelchairs. Florence was the only person in the second-class saloon accompanied by an animal, but I had seen some of the first-class passengers boarding earlier with French bulldogs and Pomeranians.
Minette sat in her cane carrier and regarded the goings-on around her with a nonchalant air.
‘I wish I had her confidence,’ I said, sticking my finger through the carrier front to stroke her chin.
Florence put her hand on my shoulder. ‘This ship is solid. It is built for the heaviest of seas and we will all be quite safe. Look, here comes the captain now.’
A grey-haired man in a tailored double-breasted blue coat with gilt buttons and a cap with gold laurel leaves on the peak was walking up the gangway accompanied by his equally smartly dressed officers. The distinguished, efficient air of the men inspired confidence that we were in capable hands, but I hadn’t been worried about the safety of the voyage.
Claude understood. He took my hand and smiled. ‘Write to me often, Emma. That way you’ll know I’m always there with you in spirit.’
He took a package wrapped in brown paper from his coat pocket and handed it to me. I opened it and found a red journal with gold-edged cream paper. Claude had written an inscription from Thomas Browne on the inside cover: All the wonders you seek are within yourself.
‘Thank you, my love.’ I was even sorrier now that our last night together had been wasted in an argument. ‘Before we know it, I’ll be returning to you, and I’ll have many stories to tell.’
He embraced me and whispered in my ear, ‘My greatest wish is that you discover who you are without me, Emma. So that when you return, you will know whether a life with me is what you truly want.’
The ship’s bell rang. ‘All ashore!’ the steward called. The guests stood up and began farewelling the passengers.
Claude turned from me to Florence. ‘I wish you both a safe and happy voyage. You’ll look after Emma, won’t you, Florence?’
‘Of course I will,’ she told him.
My heart tore as I watched Claude disappear with the others down the gangway. Perhaps going to New York would bolster my self-reliance and help me face my insecurities once and for all. Maybe then I would be able to accept that what Claude and I had was complete.
The ship’s engines burst to life; the vibrations hummed through the floor. The passengers in the saloon moved out to the promenade deck to wave goodbye to the crowd of well-wishers on the port.
I scanned the hundreds of people onshore, all waving their handkerchiefs and hats. How would I ever spot Claude among them? Then I saw him, hoisting himself up a post and raising his hand in farewell. The parting gun fired, giving me a start, and the ship glided away, slowly and ponderously at first, then gradually gaining speed.
I fixed my eyes on Claude for as long as I could. Rather than being excited that I was setting out on an adventure, I was overcome by sadness.
EIGHT
I had been angry that Caroline hadn’t arranged a first-class passage for me, but when I entered the second-class library later that afternoon my indignation subsided at the sight of the varnished mahogany tables and velvet-upholstered chairs. The bookshelves were well supplied with works by American writers, including Emily Dickinson, Henry James and Mark Twain.
Later, when Florence and I went down to the dining room, we were served a delicious mushroom soup and potato and leek pie, followed by peach compote.
‘I’m sure they’re not eating better than this in first class,’ said the man sitting opposite to us to his wife. ‘All that green turtle soup and pâté de foie gras won’t help their stomachs tomorrow when the seasickness sets in.’
The man turned out to be an engineer on his way to New York to work for an electricity company. When he learned I was making my first trip to the city, he was quick to reassure me: ‘New York is the hub of invention and ingenuity. It never stops evolving. The streets are lit with electric lamps; and while it’s costly now, I believe that soon every household will have a telephone.’
Florence introduced me as a writer and I was flattered that the woman next to me, a music teacher, had read some of my short stories.
‘Emma Lacasse!’ she said. ‘I’ll have to write to my sister and tell her that I met you. Are you going to write more stories? Is that why you’re going to New York?’
‘In a way,’ I answered.
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘I look forward to many more tales from you.’
I had been gradually building up a body of work but I was hardly famous. To meet someone who treated me like a luminary sent a wave of pleasurable excitement through me. Perhaps Caroline hadn’t been trying to belittle me by sending me a second-class ticket; perhaps she’d anticipated I would enjoy myself more among educators and musicians?
Then the man next to Florence explained that he was a valet on his way to serve in a wealthy household and I cringed at my naïve optimism. Why did I keep trying to find excuses for Caroline?
Florence and I had begun an affinity of friendship in Paris, and it was to be cemented by the challenges of travelling by sea. Our cabin was narrow, with a built-in bench on one side, a double bunk on the other, and a washstand with a mirror in-between. Along with Minette and her sand tray it was a cramped space, but something about Florence made it easy to be cheerful in her company despite the circumstances.
‘I’ll take the bottom bunk,’ she offered when we returned from dinner and changed into our nightclothes. ‘I sometimes get an idea for an article in the middle of the night and I have to get up and write it down. That way I won’t disturb you; nor will Minette when she jumps up and down from the bunk.’
It amused me that despite our limited space, one of the first things Florence did was hang up her washing line ready to receive her inspirational notes.
‘Does that system work for you?’ I asked, watching her from the top bunk. Minette jumped up next to me and curled against my side.
‘I’ve used it for years and it keeps me productive,’ she answered, picking up Minette and placing her back on the bottom bunk. ‘If I don’t pay attention when the muse s
trikes, she might move on to someone else.’
Florence switched off the electric light and we settled down to sleep. My body was still swaying with the movement of the ocean. A few moments later Minette leaped back up next to me and snuggled into the crook of my arm. I nuzzled my head against hers and caught a whiff of her fishy, but not unpleasant, breath.
‘Is she with you again?’ asked Florence. ‘That cat has a mind of her own. She doesn’t appreciate that I had to pay for a ticket for her to cross with us.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I said, rubbing Minette’s cheek. ‘I like a cat’s nature. They’re loving and graceful but they don’t give in to anyone else’s control.’
‘Well, as long as you’re sure you don’t mind,’ said Florence, making the bunks shake as she rolled over. ‘I’ve always said only someone with a sensitive nature can appreciate a cat. That’s why artists and writers adore them!’
When Florence said that her washing line technique worked for her, she was telling the truth. I soon learned that no matter what we were doing, she could plonk herself in a deckchair and scribble down a few sentences. On top of that, she talked to everybody, and somehow arranged it so we were given a tour of the bridge, where we met the captain, engineer and the navigating officer. Then, when we returned to our cabin, she wrote a piece about it in half an hour that flowed beautifully: For the days we are at sea, the captain is the ruler of a small city . . .
But it was her story of the stokers that I liked best. The piece had me tugging at my collar as I read about the claustrophobic working conditions in the bowels of the ship: While my companions and I travel in comfort, let us not forget we do so thanks to the backbreaking work of the stokers whose conditions are hot, dirty and dangerous . . . Her description of the heat — like being boiled alive — had me squirming. The details were too real for her to have obtained them second-hand.
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