I Always Loved You

by Robin Oliveira

  To Katherine and Lydia, the awkward engagement of arms and elbows and pats on the hand appeared a Degas painting, truthful in its inelegance, redemptive in its ungainliness. Mary took a seat beside her father, a place she did not usually choose, and through glassy eyes gazed at the disarranged papers. She took a deep breath. “But what do we do with all of these?”

  Robert shrugged. “Cut out the good reviews, send your brothers copies, and burn the rest. Don’t say a word about the poor ones to anyone, and I won’t either. I’ll tell your brothers you triumphed. The bad reviews no longer exist. And let’s go away. Let’s travel this summer. You’ve worked hard for two years. What do you say? You’ve traveled with Lyddy and your mother. Now let’s you and I go on a trip.”

  “My work—”

  “Aren’t you tired? Couldn’t you use a break? Let’s travel to Switzerland. Perhaps we could go to Italy, too. You can introduce me to all your artist friends in that little Italian town you love so much. It’s time I learned a thing or two about your gypsy life.”

  A life he had refused to finance and one she’d had to hide from him in order to preserve the tenuous ties that bound them.

  “I don’t want it to appear as if I am running away.”

  “From your excellent reviews? The only ones that exist?”

  Her father’s face betrayed no irony, no mockery, no unkindness. Having just performed the fatherly miracle of replacing her pain with pride, he now managed to alter their history and make her believe that a daughter and father could reconcile, given enough understanding.

  “I would love to,” she said.

  “You’re sure, Mary?” Katherine asked, before she was able to stop herself. The tectonic shift in the family geology felt to her as ominous as if the ground really had moved. She could not imagine the two of them traveling together, not with their history, no matter this reconciliation.

  Robert eyed her with a dull stare. “What would she not be sure of, Katherine?”

  “Only that she is more tired than she thinks. We could get a house in the country, couldn’t we? Isn’t that what Parisians do?”

  “Go to the added expense of renting a house somewhere else just so we could stare at one another all summer long like last summer?” Robert said.

  “Traveling is tiring,” Katherine said. “Mary just said she was tired.” She would not ask again for Mary’s opinion, would not put her daughter in the position of having to refuse her father, not after she had already agreed to his plan. Oh, Katherine thought, why do I always make myself the mediator? Because it was the future she saw, the future she feared, as all mothers do.

  “Either would be lovely, wouldn’t it?” Lydia said, and with the mild question performed the healing ritual incumbent upon her role as the pliable daughter. No one had thought to include her. Had anyone asked, she would have preferred a long journey, like her father, rather than a country house, preferably a journey with an undefined end, fine vistas, and beautiful hotels. She couldn’t remember the last time she could think of undertaking such an adventure. Tired as Mary might be, her concerns were not doctors and medicines. Hers were only the perpetual questions of familial nuisance; Lydia alone knew what a privilege those were.

  Mollified, Katherine relinquished her worry about Mary and turned to the maternal task of reading Lydia’s mind. “Perhaps you and I could plan our own little trip this summer, Lyddy. We’ll find somewhere beautiful to stay. Would you do that for me? So we won’t be so bored, you and I, cooped up in Paris?” She didn’t mention how happy she was to have this opportunity to take Lydia to the south for the waters. Her ever-present fear for her daughter’s health rarely had the opportunity for so practical an outlet, hampered as she was by Robert’s needs. It was one thing to have lost one child, but it would be quite another to lose a second. How quixotic grief was. Decades later, and the memory of her lost son, Robert, could still cause almost unbearable pain.

  “We’ll all be gypsies,” Robert said, rising, putting an end to the endless feminine tangle of parsing feelings and ascertaining accord. How he longed for his sons, for the plodding masculine practice of reason and sense. “Will Anna and Mathilde never announce luncheon?” he asked, and stalked out of the drawing room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Degas wiped his face with his napkin, bid adieu to Jean Louis Forain, whom he had found bolting his food in a corner and who could not stop complaining about his unfair reception by the critics, left payment for his abstemious noontime salade et soupe, and trudged the two and a half blocks from the Café de la Rochefoucauld to his studio to gather his paints to take with him to the home of his latest client. The studies for the newly commissioned portrait had not gone well; the woman he was painting had insisted on examining the sketches for approval, which, unsurprisingly, she did not approve. Without being direct, she implied that she wanted Degas to correct with his paintbrush her many years of gustatory overindulgence. After suffering all her comments, Degas said that he understood her completely, then barred her from examining the work in progress, which he had covered with a tarp tagged with a telltale string should she dare remove it. The portrait, he would make certain, would convince no one of her imagined asceticism. That he might not be paid when she confronted her true self on the canvas did not concern him; he would not lie in art, not for the concerns of petty vanity, and especially not for money. Dodging the beastly concierge, Degas unlocked the door to his rooms, thinking that later his commission could hire Renoir if she was displeased; that man would prettify anyone for enough coin.

  The magnificent sum of 439.50 francs was each artist’s share of the earnings from the entrance fees for their exhibition after repaying Caillebotte, who had regained his full investment along with his own artist’s share. Degas was delighted with the financial success, for it reinforced his belief that they might one day conquer the ridiculous barriers the Salon erected around art. Despite the malevolence of the press, le tout Paris had come to the Avenue de l’Opéra, and the astonishing accumulation of francs had enlivened them all. This was the first time they had realized money from their exhibition, and Degas felt vindicated, for they would have incurred a dreadful loss had they tried to compete with the Exposition Universelle last year. The monetary exoneration was especially sweet too, because Cézanne and Renoir, those two traitors, were already fuming about losing out on the profit, though Renoir hardly needed it. He had made a huge commotion at the Salon with his portrait of Madame Charpentier and her two small children, which had earned him a thousand francs for his efforts. All winter long, he’d been toasted at their Monday salon, where he was their new pet, rendering Édouard Manet, who had long been the center of their attention, more than a little jealous. Claude Monet had been particularly delighted with the proceeds. Portier was sending him a draft for the full amount and they all hoped that the money would be of some help. Monet was said again to be on the brink of ruin and to be begging for francs from anyone he could find.

  For Degas, the exhibition had been even more profitable. Caillebotte, for all his harassment about Degas’s tardiness, had coveted one of the largest paintings, the Portrait of a Dancer, and was now making noise about purchasing it. Durand-Ruel was interested in another, a pastel, Aria After the Ballet, but so many of Degas’s other articles had been commissioned or purchased beforehand that most of his work had not been for sale—not even the fans, whose owners had despaired of lending them for the exhibition but had finally given in. Mary had claimed the sole available fan before the exhibition had even opened. Still, he had made good money and could continue his devotion to the Opéra and to the Cafés de la Nouvelle-Athènes and de la Rochefoucauld without ration, a prospect that pleased him immensely.

  Do you love anyone, Edgar? Anyone at all? Mary’s question came back to him now, as it had multiple times a day since she had uttered it. He woke with that question and went to sleep with it. He was glad Portier was in charge of the finances so that he, Edgar, was not obliged to correspond with or visi
t Mary, because he would not be able to endure it. Her question enraged him. Of course he loved someone. He had adored his father, and despite the financial grave into which he had flung his son, he remained in Degas’s heart as the man who had bequeathed to him the gift of an inordinate love of the Opéra. And he adored his sisters, too, whom he did not see often enough. And despite the complicated entanglements his brothers had fallen into—bankruptcy for René and a petty, ridiculous crime of passion for Achille—he loved them, too. As to Édouard and the conversation Mary had objected to, women never understood the ribbing men conducted with one another. Oddly, though, Édouard had said nothing to him that night in return, when a year ago he would have pounced. Edgar was beginning to fear for his friend, who lately was looking quite ill, though he didn’t believe it possible that Édouard could be as doomed as everyone said. Half the men in Paris were suffering from one form or another of any number of ill-gotten diseases. When Edgar pressed, Édouard revealed nothing, neither confirming nor denying the lascivious rumors of the cause of his discomfort, which made Edgar even more worried. But that did not mean he would spare his friend a good joke when it made itself available.

  What Mary had meant, of course, was whether or not he loved her. From a kiss to love, in one evening. Did she understand nothing about men? Had she not spoken in such accusatory anger, he might have been able to answer her, for he had begun to wonder himself if what he felt for her was love or some other stirring not quite love but more than common affection. Why not love her? Why not say it? What had quickened when he had kissed her had at least been lust. But he was not a romantic man. He never lied about that. Knowing Mary was to know more of himself, an astonishing development at his age. Few knew him as she did, and fewer loved him, of that he was more than certain. Right now he could not even name a woman other than Mary whom he could tolerate for longer than a few minutes. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps he was too harsh, or too crude, or too truthful for a woman to tolerate, none of which had ever mattered until now.

  He could not remember why he had come into his studio. He turned in a circle, trying to recall what it was that he had wanted. His newest project was hidden under a sheet toward the rear of the studio. This—what would he call this latest? a sculpture? a confection?—was different from anything he had ever attempted, and therein lay its scintillating challenge. He was having to make up the technique as he worked. He had already incurred so many disasters that he had been reluctant to speak of it to anyone. Not even Mary knew what he was doing.

  Not even Mary.

  Ah! His paint box. He retrieved it and locked the door, hurrying down the stairs to the lobby, his footsteps echoing on the iron stairway, forgetting that the lurking portier would pounce on him the moment she heard him to waylay him with some trumped-up complaint, like her last about the stultifying odor of turpentine emanating from his rooms. He was nearly across the lobby when she appeared like a hunchback from the shadows, waving an envelope she had pulled from her apron pocket.

  “Monsieur Degas. I am not your postier.”

  “What are you squawking about?”

  “You have had a visitor. Some man. I told him I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I was eating where I always eat. Direct my visitors there, you worthless woman.” He seized the envelope from her hand and hurried out the door.

  The letter was from Félix Bracquemond. Before the exhibition opening, he had offered to help Degas with printmaking, which Edgar had lately resolved to perfect and which Mary, before all this occurred, had said that she, too, wanted to master. Plans had bubbled forth. They could publish a journal! Prose and poetry and prints! They could appeal to Zola, to Mallarmé, to anyone to give them stories and poems and essays! The prints could illustrate the prose, or not. They would sell the journal in bookshops. Did Mary want to collaborate? Yes, she did. Overhearing, Caillebotte offered to underwrite the journal. An idea had become reality in one evening. But now Edgar had no idea whether or not Mary even wanted to see him, let alone conspire together on a project.

  This letter was a welcome excuse. He needed one. To visit Mary without an excuse would suggest that he intended to answer her question. To visit her with Bracquemond’s offer would suggest intent of another sort, one far less dangerous.

  Happy now, he flagged down a fiacre to ferry him to his appointment to paint the hideous woman who believed that she could dictate the terms of her portraiture.

  Chapter Thirty

  Before Mary embarked on her trip with her father, she attended the Paris Salon. Once again, Abigail Alcott Nieriker’s submission to the Salon had been accepted. She had painted a portrait of a beautiful young Negress, a yellow scarf covering her hair, her white blouse slipping from one shoulder. To Mary’s eye, little, if anything, distinguished it from the many other portraits in the exhibition, but Abigail was pleased with herself and it had received a special commendation.

  “Of course, compared to your triumph, this is nothing,” Abigail said, taking Mary by the elbow and promenading with her from the “N” room to the concession, where they took a table near the windows that looked out onto the palace gardens. The day was Paris-gloomy—rainy and gray and damp—but they ordered a pot of tea and settled in. Since both Mary and Abigail worked every day, and since Meudon was fifteen minutes outside Paris by rail, their visits were now unhappily infrequent. Mary had not even traveled to Meudon to see Abigail and Ernest’s new rooms. Now Abigail was talking on and on about decorating and the scarlet curtains she had ordered and the antique furniture she was coveting and the recent acquisition of a too-grand Louis XIV mirror that took up one entire wall of their parlor. Hers was a far easier life than she had ever lived or expected to live. Best of all, she said, she was free to do as she pleased, and what she was pleased to do was paint, which she did all day when she wasn’t walking along the river or writing at her new desk. She couldn’t believe that life had turned out so well for her. She was married to a man she loved, she painted all day, and she had been accepted to the Salon. Ernest was devoted and kind and adoring and . . . Abigail set down her teacup and said, “I’ve not stopped talking. Forgive me. Tell me everything. Tell me about Monsieur Degas. I can’t believe I didn’t ask about that first thing. I don’t know what is the matter with me.”

  “There is nothing to tell. Edgar is nothing like Ernest. He is not devoted and he is not kind and he is not adoring. He is difficult and quarrelsome and he cares not a jot for me.”

  “But I saw—”

  “What you saw was an egregious error in judgment on my part.”

  “But he looks at you like he looks at no one else.”

  “Looking is not loving.”

  “It was love. I would swear it.”

  “You can swear it, but if it is, it is the kind of love that destroys. He isn’t good, Abigail. He is brilliant, but he is not reliable.”

  Abigail ducked her head. Mary was certain she was thinking of Ernest, who was nothing if not reliable. Abigail looked beautiful today, if a bit weary. She was wearing a new dress, a gray pongee silk trimmed with bunches of forget-me-nots, with a matching pelisse and a bonnet lined in blue. The empire waist was lined with a bow, which Abigail kept touching from time to time, her hand fluttering from her lap to the bow and back again.

  “Lydia keeps trying to make a romance too,” Mary said.

  “And not you?”

  “I don’t need a romance.”

  “But he helps you?”

  “He helped me, yes,” Mary said, emphasizing the past tense, trying to close further discussion because she couldn’t talk about Edgar anymore. He infuriated her. Within a second, he could turn from one kind of man into another, and she didn’t know which one was real.

  “What else does Lydia say?”

  “Nothing. She doesn’t know and she won’t know. Not about this. This one I’m living alone,” Mary said, though she feared she wasn’t. From time to time, Berthe’s and Edgar’s This Is Paris reared its g
ossipy head. She wondered what people were saying, what they were thinking. She didn’t know. But it didn’t matter any longer. She had come to her senses. She and Edgar were colleagues, and like many of the others whom she rarely saw, she would rarely see him. He had come by briefly last week to propose that they still collaborate on printing. He hadn’t apologized, nor had he broached the subject of love. He had said merely that Bracquemond was committed to the project and was she still interested? She hadn’t yet decided what to do. “Besides, Lydia hasn’t been well lately. I don’t like to burden her with any of this.”

  “She’d be furious if she knew you were in pain and hadn’t told her.”

  “Then don’t tell her,” Mary said, smiling.

  “And what about all the rest?” Abigail said. “How do you feel after your exhibition?”

  “Battered.”

  “Do you know, Mary, I’ve been thinking. You have probably shown more pictures in Paris than any other American woman.”

  The thought stopped Mary cold. It was probably true. She couldn’t think of anyone else who’d ever shown as many pictures.

  “And you are braver than I am too, Mary. You knew the press was going to tear all of you apart and you exhibited anyway. This is safe,” she said, nodding toward the palais’s interior. “One can hide here, easily. But you? You took such a chance.”