“Should we sit and catch our breath?”
Tessa nodded and they walked over to a bench in the middle of the room, the girl’s eyes moving slowly from one canvas to another.
“Look at that painting. All the people by the sea, dressed in formal clothes, the men in top hats and frock coats, the women in silk dresses,” Tessa said. “I like the stripes on the tent, the colors in the sky, the clouds. I am here, but I am there with them.”
Carmela smiled, letting Tessa have her moment.
“See that woman over there? She’s not a queen or a countess or a saint. She’s ordinary, like me and she breathes. Oh, I want a dress just that color, like a thousand cornflowers crushed into the paint and worked on the canvas until it becomes her dress. I can feel the silk, touch the organdy. She’s what, eighteen or nineteen?”
“I like her hat and parasol,” Carmela said. “And her gloves.”
“And the glow on her face. And she stares out at me with sudden recognition as if we were dear friends and she’s just noticed me coming toward her and is about to hold out her arms in greeting, I can see it in the gesture of her body,” Tessa said. “Oh, and on the other side of the room-did you see her? — the ballerina in blue, turning her head in our direction, half wondering what we’re doing in her dance studio.”
“A moment in time,” Carmela said. “That’s what these paintings show me. And such color. Their gestures are so natural, different from the stiffly posed works in museums.”
They were quiet for a time, taking in the paintings.
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Not yet.”
“Nor I. But I love the mother gazing down at her child in the cradle. Look at how the artist has made the netting.” There was another painting by its side, a mother and child reading by the sea, and another one, perhaps the same mother and child, walking in a field of poppies. Carmela thought she’d never seen red before she saw this painting. “By the same artist-see how they’re signed?”
Tessa nodded. “Morisot.”
“The T is silent. And Berthe is a woman’s name.”
“I’ll never be able to paint like that.” Tessa heard steps approaching, a voice, and she spun around. Carmela did as well, facing the figure, a woman. She spoke in rapid French and Carmela asked her please to slow down.
“Of course. I was saying that this work took only a few hours to create. I took long walks and made sketches. I sat in my atelier for days staring at the wall when all of a sudden, the painting came to me. But it wasn’t me creating, it was the oil and brushes that knew how to touch the canvas, that remembered the exact light of a certain day.”
“You must be Berthe Morisot,” Carmela said.
The woman nodded, wiping her hands on an apron splattered with paint and pinning back a wisp of hair.
Tessa couldn’t tear her eyes from the paintings.
“Would you like a tour?”
“We’d love it!” Carmela said.
“You’re not from France, I can tell.”
Carmela nodded and told her they were from Sicily.
“How lovely. I have an acquaintance from Oltramari, Elena Loffredo. Do you know her?”
“She’s one of the reasons we’ve come to Paris,” Carmela said, feeling her way. It didn’t sound like Berthe Morisot knew of Elena’s death. She was tempted to say more, but remembered her mother’s advice to speak as little as possible.
“Ah, to visit your friend, I see.”
Carmela hesitated, searching for the right tone and hesitation and words. “To bring… news and a request, should we run into her. She’s not my friend exactly, more of an acquaintance. And of course we came to see the exhibit. The young woman who travels with me-” she indicated Tessa who by now was standing in front of an intriguing painting of a man and woman at the opera- “has a real talent for drawing and hopes to join an atelier one day soon, either here or in Rome. And since we travel on business, she and her mother accompany us.”
Berthe nodded, gazing at Tessa. “I see myself in her. She has the enthusiasm and a natural gift, I believe. Very few ateliers accept women, but I know of one. I can help her. Talent is in the fingers, yes, but in the will to pick up the brush, in the sustained longing to paint every day for hours, to paint rather than to be with friends. There’s the mystery-why do we do it?” She spoke to Tessa. “But, yes, I’d be happy to look at your drawings.”
“You’re so kind. I hope we can arrange it.”
“I’m surprised you heard of our exhibit in Sicily. But then, I don’t see why you wouldn’t. All people seem to have rallied round us.”
Carmela nodded. “It’s been a while since I’ve conversed in French, so forgive my difficulty. My… late lover spoke the language and taught me. But getting back to the exhibit, it didn’t get much coverage in the Sicilian papers. We struggle to survive and too many see the arts as non essential, but we have many aristocratic friends because of my mother’s work. They visit Paris all the time and are quite excited about the exhibit. They all plan a visit here this month.”
Berthe Morisot smiled but said nothing, and Carmela feared the conversation was at an end. She groped for something to add that would engender a response; she wasn’t good with meeting strangers, especially speaking in a foreign tongue, and thought she’d run out of words. She wished her mother or Rosa were here. They were so much better at this and were able to converse with such ease, talking on and on.
Finally she said, “Elena must be thrilled with your work.” Now why did she have to add that? It sounded so dull, so patronizing. Well, what did the world expect from her when she was surrounded by children the whole day? Carmela could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and having such transparent skin, she thought a painter such as Berthe Morisot with her ability to capture flesh tones and facial expressions must grasp her discomfort and lack of social grace. She determined that from now on, she’d close her mouth and listen to the woman’s words.
“Of course, she is. She may not be my favorite person. She is flighty in the extreme, almost two different people, but her enthusiasm for our work is undiminished. I saw her here the other night, when was it-of course, at the vernissage and again the next night at the opening-and her ardor was overflowing. But she’s been an admirer for years, ever since her arrival in Paris. I think she’s jealous of us. She told me she would begin to take up the brush seriously this year and would have canvases to submit for next year’s exhibit. As if thinking would make it so.”
Carmela said nothing, nodding. She waited.
“Do you know her well?” Berthe Morisot asked.
“By reputation only. She is quite the personality in our little town. We are in the same class, but I could never afford to keep up with her socially. Nor would I want that kind of life. And you see, I have a child and no husband.”
“No need to apologize, not to us.” Berthe Morisot touched Carmela’s hand. “And Elena depends on her husband for her title.”
She felt warmed by Berthe Morisot’s acceptance. Although she was surprised at the woman’s frank appraisal of Elena, she liked her all the more for it.
Just then, Carmela was distracted by the sound of footsteps, the arrival of someone who almost looked familiar, as if she’d seen her somewhere before, perhaps in Oltramari’s piazza or in Boffo’s Cafe.
“Hah, you speak of that little strumpet, Elena,” the woman said, approaching them.
“Not so little any more. She’s putting on the double chins. Didn’t you see her last Thursday?” Berthe Morisot double kissed the newcomer and made introductions. “Carmela, this is a dear friend of mine, Victorine Meurent, a fellow painter who exhibits at the Paris Salon, the same one that rejected most of the artists who exhibit here. At times she’s quite the actress.”
“I model from time to time, that’s what Berthe means to say,” Victorine said. “Unlike some women whose names I won’t mention, I pose for money and work for many painters. One in particular has his nose in the air but has a healthy purse.”