Le Jour et la Nuit

Edgar Degas, Mary Cassatt Seated, Holding Cards, c. 1876
Oil on Canvas

References: ​https://www.wikiart.org/en/mary-cassatt/portrait-of-miss-cassatt-holding-the-cards

Paris, present day

Prologue

'As-tu déjà été amoureux?' she asked. Staring at her in some surprise, I couldn't think of what to say. 'Have you ever loved anyone?' she pursued her point. I did not reply. 'Du tout?' she insisted, looking at me with her beautiful eyes. Again, no reply from me. She turned, quietly dabbing blue paint to her canvas she was working on, her body language all female powers of perception and knowing. Questions as such, how is one to answer them?

How did we reach this point? Was ours a strange love? Was it love anyway? Or just a romance? Is it even possible to make room and time for love in two hearts already committed to intensity and passion of another sort? Has there ever been such thing as a miracle that was meant for two in our world of incredible colours? A world of endless searching to reveal the enigma of light? A world of wonder, hope, attraction, and the constant smell of turpentine? Eh bien, you might think I should know the answers to that by now. But, do I? Do I know love? No, I do not. My knowledge of love flickers like the elusive flame of trust and self-assurance.

Paris, 1877 to the present day

Chapter One

What was his secret? She was asking herself this question for the umpteenth time ever since her insatiable eyes fell on one of his spectacular scenes in the Parisian cafes. She's never seen anything like this before. For her, his paintings were of unfathomable charm and mastery, so different and singular in meaning and techniques. So unlike and contrasting to the other so-called  'Impressionists' like Renoir, Manet, Pissarro, Monet, and not to forget and for certain,  Mademoiselle Morisot. In her opinion, he was no painter of beauté. No, he was not. Beauté was for others. Life was the theme of his paintings.  Life and movement and exposure in a most perplexing manner. With his depiction of life, she always thought, he evoked an uneasiness in people, a provocation they wouldn't forget for a long time. The atmosphere he created in his paintings was pure dispute and confrontation with one's own preconceptions and attitude to life. Hence, it was no surprise that the Salon had rejected his pieces. Like they had disagreed with hers for the past four years. So, he surely had a secret, did he not? She wished she could paint like he could. She hoped that, one day, she would find her innermost self and become as brilliant and talented as he was. 'I don't understand what you mean,' her best friend, a paintress as well as she was, said when the two women entered the apartment that now functioned as a gallery for the Impressionists. Her friend was right. Silly, she scolded herself. She felt stupid for a second for she knew pretty well she was never one for imitations. She needed to find her identity. And she still had not. Was the heart of an artist of particular structure, then? Was hers not open, blocked perhaps by her aspiration for perfection? Did she desire too much or not enough? Was she lacking the gift of seeing beauty? Was sight a God-given talent? How did he learn to see? How was his mind working? How did the power of his vision metamorphose to his brush? 'You long to learn more about the way he paints,' her friend jolted her out of her brooding mood. 'I do,' she admitted. Oh, of course, no question about that. 'The two of you should meet. I shall write him a letter,' the other woman announced with a smile. 'Don't you dare! Oh, don't you dare!,' she protested with a twinge of panic at the absurdity of the idea. Both of them laughed, their arms linked and, giggling at that utterly bold suggestion, proceeded further to the Salon.

Who was she? The merciless light of the salon was killing every nuance of the exhibited masterpieces, one of the reasons I wasn't sorry for not having submitted anything. But then, I would not miss the Salon for the world, would I? Not so much for discovering what the other artists were up to, it was more to support my close friend Édouard Manet. The infamous painter was just browsing next to me when I saw her. Manet, simply thrilled by all the female attention he momentarily received for his exhibited piece at this public and somewhat scandalous location, was enjoying every second. 'Who is that woman?' I asked him. 'What woman? That beautiful blonde over there?' Édouard said. 'No, on the chaise longue, that one who looks like she is killing someone at any moment,' I replied. 'Mon Dieu, half of the girls of the first arrondissement look like that, mon ami!,' Manet declared. 'And with good reason, as we well know! If you don't behave properly I might kill you myself!' I  warned Édouard. I was referring to that classy woman in the bluish dress who was carrying herself with a grace that was simply breathtaking. Suddenly she rose and disappeared in the crowd. Well, I have never been the type for chasing a woman, haven't I? With her, however, I broke with my old habit. 'Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!' She hurried for the doors as if she could not bear being in the parlour for another minute. 'Mademoiselle, Madrmoiselle!' I called and stopped when she wasn't to be seen anywhere, swallowed up by the crowd. Who, on earth, was she?

Chapter Two

Awkward. Was that the exact sentiment? Oh, it didn't take her very long finding a word that described the afternoon meeting best. Awkward. Plain and simple. He wasn't at all like she had imagined him. A well-dressed gentleman, so very much comme il faut, with a small face, his trimmed beard almost white. There was his brown hair, already greying , and very intelligent eyes. Eyes that seemed to focus on everything in the room. The tray with the porcelain coffee set, the two armchairs in the corner, the easel in just the perfect angle to the window, her. It gave him the air of studying, of concentrating hard and measuring accurately, of judging her. He was not nice. He had not said a single word since they'd been introduced. The silence in her studio was far too loud and it surprised her. She would have thought the sound of every fiber in her body exploding with questions and nervousness might make a deafening noise. Why had he come? Finally, her good upbringing emerged to the surface and before all her grace could leave her she asked 'Shall we have some coffee?' He seemed not to hear, remaining stiff and emotionless. Ignoring her own offer for refreshments as well she said, 'I have seen your latest exhibition at the Exposition de peinture in April, Monsieur.' There was still this austere demeanour about him, but he moved his eyes and replied, 'Well then, would you do me the honour and show me some of yours? Why don't we begin with the pieces the Salon rejected?' She froze. 'I do not need your sympathy, Monsieur,' she replied, speaking slowly. 'I have only little sympathy for anyone, least all of you, Mademoiselle. Your work? S’il vous plaît?'

'Nom De Dieu!,' I whispered to myself when the door to the atelier opened and it was she who welcomed us. 'Allow me to introduce Monsieur Degas? Monsieur Degas, Mademoiselle Cassatt,' Jean said, taking Mary Cassatt's hands in his and kissing her cheeks. She was, in fact, the woman from the Salon I had made a fool of myself the other day. She had no idea of how anxious I had been to meet the artist who had composed that sensational portraiture of a woman I had admired for what? Three, four years, approximately? Ida, if I remembered correctly? How she had managed her brush to communicate in Ida's smile that plays upon such sensual lips, in the way she tilts her head, in the eyes and the delicately painted skin, the inner beauty and soul of a woman I simply could not tell. How was one able to convey such truthfulness, such thoughtfulness? How did she manage to transfer such tenderness and yet still fundamental sadness in the face of that woman with the iridescently filigree headscarf? That the woman who had just opened the door to us and the woman I have seen at the salon were one and the same was one of the unexpected moments of life. I would not tell her, of course. Some self-control and countenance were all one had left at a certain age, non? She was nothing like the other women I was acquainted with. She was no classy beauty. Not pretty either  I thought. But did she know about the impact of her large eyes when she was looking at people? Did she know about the exquisiteness of her prominent cheekbones that, in combination with that eyes, were probably the dream of every sculptor? Did she care? Can you read a woman's body language and posture? Oh, of course you can. It is like an open open book without words. This woman was made of steel with a grace worth to reign a kingdom. Her accent was horrible. Or, did her French only sound that odd when she was upset?

'You despise them, don't you?' Degas asked. 'You were full of fear and self-doubt the whole time you painted these, were you not?' he continued. 'You mistrusted yourself and your talents for not understanding the wishes of a jury that insists on having the right of dictating the human taste. You believed those fools that never have held a brush in their hands themselves, did you not?' She might as well have allowed him to strip her soul layer by layer Mary thought whilst he studied her canvases. Could one feel more vulnerable than she did at this moment? she wondered. More exposed? 'Why do you punish yourself that much?' he asked.

Chapter Three

He drew a chair to her painting and seated himself to examine it further, but Mary did not move. Why do you punish yourself that much? Why, indeed? He might as well have told her he had seen her having her toilet earlier that morning. It would be no big difference if he had seen her stark naked with all the little errors and flaws of her body with just one knowing look. Instead, he was invading her most private space, her inner thoughts. She did not want to hear. She did not want to see his reaction.

'Look here,' I said just now, pointing at her painting. 'You did absolutely well. You darkened the background as they have asked you to. Afraid of losing the battle again, weren't we, Mademoiselle? Your colourful figures are of classical expression, naturally beautiful. The effect of the incoming light directs all the attention and turns your viewer's gaze to the peaceful scene before us. Bravo! With this, Mademoiselle, you over-accomplished the conceptual values and conditions to make your piece socially acceptable. This is, toutefois, also where you laced up your emotions in a too tight Salon confinement in order to master all your caged energy. This is where you betrayed your own values, Mademoiselle Cassatt'. Eventually, she turned slowly from the window and met my eyes. 'I have one question for you, Monsieur Degas,' she said. Once again, I admired her regal elegance. She was impeccably dressed, her gown of exquisite fit in a colour that matched her eyes. 'Do you believe that the ability to paint is a gift? Is pure talent a gift, then?' she asked. 'N'importe quoi! Who told you that?' Who had done this and what have they done to her? I wondered. 'If talent is a gift', I went on, 'it needs to be exercised and this can only happen by hard work. Gift requires personal growth and maturity; it is a result of knowledge and constant training. Children are all artists, aren't they? They interpret their inner and outer world with incredible colour, form, line, and rhythm. Then, along comes someone and tells them what they do is not accurate. They get told it is not beautiful, not acceptable perhaps. They hear there is no time for painting, other things are more important. What do they do? They begin to crumble their artistry and lock it up deep inside themselves. Sadly, many of them forget they are artists until, hopefully, something wonderful does happen that leads them back to unfurl their imaginary skills. It is true, Mademoiselle, that some people have more instinct and more natural ability than others, but I believe extraordinary art is earned by extensive study, perseverance and perception. Only then you can truly see.'

Outside, through the open window, a market woman was crying 'Fresh vegetables!', but Mademoiselle Cassat did not notice. 'You think you are not gifted, Monsieur Degas?' she finally requested. 'No, I am not. The gift you refer to is nothing else than your own dedication to attention, your obsession to observation. They are your means that will help you create art that doesn't depend on you at all.' She was staring at me. Speechless, obviously.

He cannot be serious, she thought. How ridiculous was he, for God's sake? She's never seen an artist that was more gifted than him. His paintings had changed her world and her way of looking at the world. It had changed her thinking. It had changed her. 'But I have studied! For years and years and years!' she exclaimed. 'I have tried! Again and again!' on she went. 'How many more agains do you need until you have enough?' he asked her and throw her off balance with that question. 'I have never reached transcendence, not once,' she admitted quietly. 'Let's look at the truth, Mademoiselle. I know you have,' Degas replied. He was back at her painting again. 'This was the moment,' his finger indicated to the upper part of the painting. 'Here you have entirely forgot yourself and gone astray,' he explained further. Mary stepped closer. She was desperate to see what he meant. His face, less appealing on first meeting, now appeared refined and lively and inviting to her. Can art do this? Can it change people? 'Just here,' his lesson was resuming, 'your nonchalant brushstrokes, your loose toying with rendering the woman's silk dress, the way the summer breeze is playing with the lace at her chest, the capturing of light on her face. This is what they despised at the salon. The jury hated these parts and they are the reasons why you were rejected. They rejected you for the most excellent parts I have ever seen in a painting'. Mary reached for the back of the chair, 'Thank you very much, Monsieur Degas,' she said, 'this means a lot to me'. 'I do not care what you will think of me, Mademoiselle, and I flatter no one for that purpose' he replied. Oh dear God, did he ever behave as one would wish? Mary thought. 'Tell me, have you ever considered exhibiting at other places than the Salon? I have come to offer you a place in our group. Would you like to exhibit with us, Mademoiselle?' She could read anticipation and hope in his face. 'Exhibit with you? Next season?' she could hardly speak. This was a dream, was it not? Someone should pinch her to make her wake up! Quickly! 'Open now and paint whatever you see,' he said. 'Show what you wish to show. You and your ideas are safe with us.Trust me please with both and maybe you will find that you, for the first time in your life, don't want to run away'. Mary took another look at her paintings which now turned out to be the beginning of all her hopes. From her paintings she looked back to Degas, and again back to her poor paintings. 'I accept your offer,' she answered. 'Ah, très bien! Excellent. You will understand, Mademoiselle. You will understand'.

Mary was alone again. How come, she wondered, that life's best and most memorable moments never predicted themselves? Why did they enter the stage , in this case, masqueraded as a coffee invitation? Strange, right? She went to her canvases, staring at them for some long moment. Canvases boring enough to make Edgar Degas give her a lecture about fear and insecurities. She recalled her worries about dimension, her insufficient reworks and corrections, her unsettled feelings about the colours to choose. Imaginary skills? Has he been wrong perhaps, was it not fear? Was she lacking imagination and vision instead? Would she ever learn to see? She closed her eyes and opened them again. Close. Open. Close. Open. The paintings were not bad. She had achieved all the technical standards that were to learn from a painter's manual, had she not? But there was no personality, not one bit. The paintings did not shine. At all. She grabbed her knife and sliced the first one. Stab! Stab! Stab! Another cut and she could rip the cloth off the frame. Smaller and smaller pieces she tore until the pigmented leftovers covered her silky dress and the floor like dirty snow. She panted for breath and looked at her ruined work. For the very first time in her painterly career she felt at home. She was home.

'Be careful with her, Edgar,' Berthe said. 'Be kind,' she added. After leaving Mademoiselle Cassat's studio I called at the Manet's. Eugène and Berthe Morisot had just returned from a walk to town and it was good to tell them what I had just done. 'She is a fellow artist, darling,' Eugène said. 'Exactemt,' I agreed with him. 'So, you won't take her for dinner,' Berthe made sure. 'Don't be absurd. This woman wouldn't go to dinner with me,' I stated. ' Well, you can be quite difficult at times, Edgar,' Eugène said. 'Can I ask her how she likes the weather in Paris? Am I allowed to asked her that, Berthe? Do you think?'

Chapter Four

Mary looked at her work. Whilst studying the progress thoughtfully, she suddenly realised she had not heard from Degas for nearly a month. Could this be true? A whole month and she had not noticed how time flew? Or had not died of impatience because there was no further encounter with him? The truth was, she had been so busy with a portraiture of one of her best friends since she had braved herself to make that leap towards a new life. Looking at the half-finished piece now, she couldn't quite believe what she had done. Standing at her easel, she marvelled at a creation never seen before. It was a long way from perfect though, but it undoubtedly was her first incursion into unknown battleground. Her first foray into an entirely new world of colours, techniques, style- and there was no going back. It was, Mary recognised with a little shock, just the tip of the iceberg. It's not shape nor ensemble. Not shadows or lighting. These mountains she had conquered with extensive sketching and studying, perfecting the forms and lines of the body and the expression of the girlish face of her overexcited sitter. It was something else. Something new. It's the colours. Colours more brilliant and radiantly shining than ever applied by Mary's hand before. Colours of such pureness and intensity, of such stunning saturation that it almost made her weep. Without any advice from others, without any support or guidance or lessons, without anyone teaching her how, Mary had achieved a newness and otherness that deeply surprised her. Without the slightest twinge of self-praise Mary realised that her painting was a passionate snapshot of a daily event in a woman's modern life. Tidying her atelier now, she elaborated her next steps. She felt a wave of excitement flooding through her when she imagined painting the lace of the elegant dress tomorrow. How impatient she was to venture on the sensual bow of her sitter’s hands when she was doing her needlework! How thrilling at all to project a scene that, in the eyes of the Salon's jury that could make or break a career at random, would go down like a lead balloon. She smiled. Was this her personal recipe for disaster, then? Well, a ship in harbour is safe, Mary thought whilst cleaning her brushes. It's just not what a ship is built for. Never again would she struggle for acceptance on someone else's terms. Rejection steals the best of us, Mary observed, but betraying herself was even worse than rejection, was it not?

Mary Cassat, Mary Ellison Embroidering, 1877
oil on canvas

References: https://www.wikiart.org/en/mary-cassatt/mary-ellison-embroidering-1877

What was I thinking? What did I imagine by bringing her here? She had taken my advice to dress like she was going to a ball. She looked absolutely stunning at that as I led her up the stairs to her first meeting with the 'Impressionists'. Mademoiselle Cassatt had accepted my invitation with a very formal 'I'm looking forward to it...' kind of reply. Very American, wasn't she? What would she do next? Would she disappear before my eyes in this bunch of strange yet peculiar charming characters? It is quite easy to get overlooked and unheard of between a group of artists like them. Suspicious and arrogant troublemakers they often were, dramatic and overbearing at times as well. Would she be frightened? Bien sûr, not this woman. This one was formidable. She immediately gave the answer by straightening herself and walking in, ever so graceful like an empress. Every fibre of her being translated how much she had to offer. Only a fool wouldn't feel the impact of her glow. 'Well done, Mademoiselle Cassat,' I whispered to her, taking her by the elbow and escorting her further into to room. I wondered if she also noticed the ill-concealed curiosity, the smirking glances, the lowered voices of the people gathered in the parlour? 'Degas! How impertinent of you to bring company you haven't informed us about!' The man who shouted at us was my oldest friend Édouard Manet. He was making his way towards Mademoiselle Cassatt through the widening path of the other people in the room. She had a moment's embarrassed hesitation, I sensed, but could regain her composure quite quickly. 'How well you are dressed!' Manet welcomed her, handing her a glass of champagne and looking at her with a scrutiny that, if not Mademoiselle Cassatt at any moment, made at least me nearly blush. 'Édouard Manet, Mary Cassatt. She is a painter. I have asked her to join us for our exhibition next year, which, if you weren't such an eternal philistine, you would do too. But of course you won't, dying for female admiration and selfish that you are. Mademoiselle, may I introduce my friend and fellow painter Édouard Manet?' I could feel her stiffen once more, listening to the blatant but usually harmless insults we threw at one another. 'Monsieur Manet, I did not know that my invitation was unofficial,' she said. 'I promise to not trample on your feelings or spill my drinks on someone. Please remind me later if I hold the knife in my right hand or my left', she now joked. Right. She would never have thought it proper to visit without a personal invitation by the host? Oh la la, only a woman not French would react like that. What a promising beginning! I am delighted!

Just my luck, Mary thought, to overdress, and in a dark green again. None of the women in the room wore anything comparable to her ensemble. Not that she knew any of them, a woman just notices circumstances as such. Mary did. Oh Lord! And as if the parade at her arriving hadn't been enough, Degas now took her hand, walking with her to the middle of the crowded room. This impossible possesive gesture alone caught everyone's attentention all at once.

'Attention a tous!' he demanded. 'May I introduce a new great talent to you? This is Mademoiselle Cassatt, an artist whose extraordinary gift to paint will most certainly outshine most of yours. Try to welcome her in our circle and, all of you, do not forget one thing. It never hurts to be polite! Let respect guide your manners'. The silence that followed spoke volumes to Mary. Had the episode at her entrance not sufficed to deepen her dilemma? She fought not to show how shocked she was by Degas' words. Wasn't it always the same? No matter where you were from? she wondered. She had just seconds, no more, to lay the foundation of her future in this French Connection of the art world. Everything depended on what she did next. It did not take her long to understand their thoughts right now. Their intolerance of a foreign woman. Their condemnation of strangers invading their artistic territory hence the French taste and Parisian intellectuality. Their disdain of non-French residents that insulted their elegant language. It was just that what Mary could read in the faces of people she had never met before, let alone ever spoken to. She should better think twice before she made a reply. What these people said and felt about her when she had left the palour was exactly up to her whilst she was in it. 'Good evening. mesdames et messieurs. Please do not listen to Monsieur Degas,' she said when her American optimism took over, 'who seems to have abandoned his own manners as well when he made his speech. I am neither a great talent nor better than one of you. Oh, and I am extremely optionated, I admit. However, I have a woman's pride and openness, some new ideas and the gut to go for them. It is a real privilege for me to be included.' Mary turned to Madame Manet, the mother of the artist, ignoring the curious eyes of the others. As Degas had warned her, she was the true ruler of the Manet's household. 'Many thanks to you, Madame Manet,' Mary went on, 'for having me tonight and maybe for forgiving me my spunk in accepting the invitation. I am very grateful.' The old lady smiled and bowed her head in reply. Obviously, her audition liked that 'spunk'. Little by little the other guests came forward to say hello. First Renoir who admired her dress. Then Caillebotte and Pissaro. Claude Monet merely bowed from across the room. Zola, the writer, only grunted an approval. 'Mademoiselle Cassatt', a female voice said, 'as you have noticed, Moinseur Degas is oftentimes a very unkind companion. I apologise for his arrogance. Come and sit with me, my name is Berthe Morisot.' She was beautiful, Mary thought. She did not wonder at all that she was Édouard Manet's favourite model even though she was his sister-in-law. 'I am not arrogant, Berthe! I do love you very much!' Degas cried and hurried off for more champagne. 'Now watch all this idiotic behaviour of them. All their bravado and overconfidence. How they throw themselves into a pose just to impress you,' Berthe said, looking at Mary. Of them? Did this mean Madame Morisot distanced herself from the group's characteristics? 'Is this what you call an adequate artists meeting, then?' Mary asked her. 'No,' the black-haired woman replied, 'this is just Paris'. 'Oh, right. Of course'. Both of them giggled like teenagers and listened to the men's sabre-rattling for quite a while. This is extraordinaire, Mary discovered and she greatly enjoyed the next hour in the company of the very smart and witty and cheerful Madame Morisot. 'I should warn you, Mademoiselle Cassatt;' she was just saying, suddenly serious-looking and withdrawn. 'You might want to learn that the warm welcome of most of them could be very deceptive.' 'What do you mean?' Mary gaped at Berthe, slightly alarmed by the reserved tone of the other one. 'You have to compensate for a disadvantage you are at,' Madame Morisot explained. 'Monsieur Degas is always very keen and quick to drag in the homeless'. 'The homeless? Excuse me?' 'Artists that have not found their ways and places yet. Painters without personal signature, if I may be frank,' she added. 'Degas is overly excited in a second and sees soi-disant talents at every small corner of the city. We do not always approve of his choices,' Berthe gave the extra mile to a bewildered Mary. Mary fought for calm serenity and it was very hard. How was it possible to morph from an attractive and very sympathetic fellow campaigner to a moody and affronting woman? In the blink of an eye even? Just now it was very difficult for Mary to link this cruel woman with the one who had painted masterworks of astounding resonance and femininity. 'I see,' Mary managed to say. 'And how did you prove your value to the group? Did your marriage help?' Mary asked.

Chapter Five

They walked home for what seemed like an eternity in absolute silence.
'Is this, by any chance, another criterion on your list to put me through my paces, Monsieur Degas?' 'I don't understand, Mademoiselle,' he looked at her quite puzzled. 'After I had to prove myself the whole evening, are we now playing 'Each determined not to be the first to speak?' She looked at him.
Degas laughed. 'Oh, if it is, Mademoiselle Cassat, you must concede that I have won.' 'And so you have.' She laughed too. 'It was a very interesting evening, indeed. Thank you, Monsieur.' 'It's been my pleasure entirely,' he said gallantry and not without a trace of pride in his voice. 'Everyone is already wondering what they did without you for so long.' They proceeded walking. She then spoke again. 'Because I, if only for a night, have saved them from another verbal sparring match with you?' ​He laughed. 'I'm going to pretend you didn't say that!'

They stopped at her front door and he bowed.
'Goodnight, Mademoiselle. Sleep well. Until another time.' 'Goodnight, Monsieur Degas. And thank you again for introducing me to your inner circle of friends and colleagues. I appreciate it. And I enjoyed very much.'
He bowed his head once again and turned without another word.

Mary brewed a tea and got ready for bed. How extraordinary an evening! She still tried to figure out Degas' personality. Was she even able to come to a conclusion? Would she ever? Probably not. Genius? Phenomenon? Snob? Romantic? Rebel? Well, all of these attributes would suit him. And everything in between those characteristic elements, she supposed. He was, despite his wicked tongue and cutting remarks, absolutely loyal to his friends. His honesty, however, was sometimes of a brutality one must learn to take and deal with. She liked that. It was what people said about her as well.  He was an acknowledged expert and even a beloved member of that biotope of exuberant creativity she had met tonight. Nevertheless, and Mary was flashed by the sudden realisation, he unknowingly and with the greatest ease, distinguished himself from the rest of them. As a man and as the artist. Like many of the artists in the evening circle, he had moved out of the constricting corset required by the cemented regulations of how to see art and social standards. Still, he was very different from any of them. Recalling the evening, Mary now saw him as the most complex and progressive living soul, as the pivotal point to rattle the old structures in the world of art. She now saw a man who wasn't deviating for a second from his clear beautiful lines, from his style, from his trueness and morality. How so? Mary wondered. What gave her the idea to bestow considerations as such upon a fellow painter and man she barely knew? The scene of the café materialised from nowhere before Mary's eyes. This was the answer. It was his depiction of the everyday life in the city he lived. Places he chose that were real and frequented by many. People that were real and known by nearly everyone in Paris. People and places that needed a natural territory and urbanity of their own. As Degas needed a natural territory and urbanity of his own almost to the degree of complete insularity at times.

Edgar Degas, Dans un Café, 1875-76
Oil on canvas

References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L'Absinthe

Mary had heard about the outrage the painting had caused. Rumours and beforehand judgments and even hate have nowhere to go but in circles, right? 'What a whore!' people cried. 'Disgusting!' and 'Ugly!' shouted others. Why had it been so intriguing? Why had it been criticised with unexampled scorn?  Because things were not things. They were colours and shape and light and shadow and positioning and lines. It was the incongruity of moods in the painting that transfixed people and demanded on taking up a stance. Mary loved the painting. And she knew it by heart. Degas' seemingly incidental choice of the image detail and placing the couple to the uttermost right defines highly precise the dilemma the man and the woman are in. To emphasise the dramatic of a moments's reflection the man is partly cut off by the picture frame. The plan view of the table tops and the floor drags the viewer straight into the episode displayed. Our box seat, assigned by Degas, is the front table. At the same time, and Mary was struck by the recognisation, the cold and plain surface of the tables and the newspaper as the bevel joint result in a rhythmic pattern to form an unbelievably forceful contrast to the rigidity and isolation of two people. Nonetheless, the couple belongs together and the medium to unify them is Degas' use of colours. Everything in this painting is colour. Cloud-like spheres of grey and brown, but masterfully nuanced. Degas's scale reaches from off-white to blackish grey; a quite delicate coffee braun elevates to yellowish shades in the woman's dress up to the mirror-play in the background behind them and her the skin of her face. Can one talk through colour? Mary was thinking for an answer, the masterpiece in her mind. He can. Yes, he can. The painter's vigorous black outlines Mary perceived at the upper body of the woman and her hat, for example, create a mystery and nervous tension, a discomfort one can feel physically. This painting's message wasn't only about Absinthe or the consequences of excessive drinking. Alcohol is not the true context here. In Mary's opinion, which varied widely from the public one, Degas rather aims at the alienation between people in a quite pioneering way. A Cafe is no longer a place of adventure and cohesiveness. The couple is the embodiment of the lack of relationship in a relationship. The non-existent co-existence between the two of them is highlighted by their position. She is caught in the middle, between two tables. They sit close to each other yet couldn't be further away. The different drinks they have been served give the impression of not knowing their places in the relationship any longer. Where had once been intimacy and togetherness were now emptiness, deterioration and a voicelessness that begs for nothing but emotional survival. Are we, is society, on a collision course with our own  beliefs and values? Will there be a world without spoken words and real correspondence in person? Will people, despite the bonds they have to one another, feel disconnected and lonely? These were the questions Degas asked with the painting, and they were Mary's last thoughts before she fell asleep.

'Oh, hello again,' I mumbled to the little black spot inside my eye that has been my constant companion these past months. I woke and it was there. Reliable like a good friend. What if, one day, I can't see colours anymore? Colours are all I know. Their purity and their power are my keys to interpretation. Colour is the greatest  barometer of social mood and change. Colour paints the world and my task is to see. What if I lose sight? 'Rubbish!' I told myself and put the thoughts aside, bouncing out of bed. The black spot, however, did not disappear.  Will I disappear into it one day? 'Want coffee, too?' I invited it and it seemed it was grinning at me. Gosh, how frightful!

'Degas!' Édouard Manet was shaking my shoulder. 'What on earth are you brooding about?' he darted his next question. 'My eyes trouble me,' I replied absentmindedly, taking another sip of wine. The Cafe was not very busy today and so was my vigour today. 'Look,' Manet spoke again, 'the thing is you eats things or let things eat you. My friend, you are a deep thinking man, but for your own good abandon it.' I stared. 'You want me to abandon thoughts? One cannot simply decide to walk away from life's pain and find oneself free.'
Manet considered my reply for a second. 'Yes, one can!' he cried. 'It is so to absorb negativity. Indulge or deflect. I call it side-drive.' 'Oh,' I said, 'and with this 'side-drive' I am left with what exactly?' 'Peace! Freedom! Passion!' Manet declared with uninterrupted enthusiasm. 'For heaven's sake, stop thinking, Degas!' 'Well, I hoped you would say that,' I replied sweetly. 'Yes? Why?' Manet was quite surprised now. 'Because I tried. And it didn't bloody work!' 

Chapter Six

What to paint? Oh Heavens, what to paint? That was wonderful, wasn't it? Her face in the mirror reflected a woman with a wry smile. Mary pulled a face. A paintress recently admitted into the colourful society of Impressionists and no idea at all of what to paint! Could there be a more promising beginning? Hardly. For half the morning already Mary had stared motionless at the red rose she had brought from the tiny flowerbed that belonged to the house. 'Think anew! Rethink!' she encouraged her mind. What does a rose represent? Love. Beauty. Thorns. Yes, right. Go on, Mary. If one really loves someone one is willing to follow them to their greatest heights and their deepest sorrows. Then again, if there is not enough water the beautiful flower will wither away. Good! ​Maybe this was the inspiration she had been waiting for. Hastily, she started to mix her paints. Her doorbell rang. Damned! Mary cursed and opened the door with her elbow. Degas, meticulously dressed in his Sunday's best and top hat, walked in. She had never seen him with glasses before, but today he was wearing a pair that looked quite sophisticated on him. After one glance at her and another one at the rose, the man spoke. 'You'd better promise me you won't run off and become a nun that paints flowers somewhere. You poor ... mademoiselle.' Waiting for her answer, he looked her straight in the face. He tilted his head slightly to one side, smiling and somewhat disappointed that the crossfire did not come. 'I hope, Monsieur Degas,' she eventually played the ball back into his field, nervously fiddling with a button on her wrist, 'there was no hint in your little speech that was not rhetorical? Unlike you, I do not have the opportunities to study life directly in a cafè whenever I like or go backstage at the opera to do some bodily research, do I?' 'Thank God, you are alive!' Degas cried. Of course, she was not inexperienced in being the centre of provocation for some people. 'Bien! As far as I can see we need a change of air,' he went on then, tipping his head to the other side as he turned to take in the atmosphere of her studio. 'Allez, que ça saute! Grab your coat, my dear Mademoiselle! Grab your coat!' Mary, quite perplexed by his order, did so. 'Is this another habit of yours I have to calculate on? Do you often make excursions in the middle of the week?' Mary asked when they first took the omnibus in direction of the Place du Tertre. 'No, I never do that.' His answer was brusque. There it was again. That curtain of imperviousness he dropped sometimes. As they proceeded he discussed with her the architecture of the Sacré-Coeur that was still under construction, asking her opinion on philosophy's influence on architecture. ​Lionising then? Mary was still not sure what this sojourn was all about. Why was she here? Where were they going?

'Tell me about you. Why did you come to Paris?' She was the best company I had enjoyed for a long time. We turned to the Boulevard de la Chapelle and she began with her family, her sister Lydia and her brothers, Alex and Robert. Whilst she was entertaining me with funny anecdotes and witty comments, I figured out how close she was to her sister and mother, much closer than to her father. In her story, she painted her mother with love and I understood the immense positive influence  and support Katherine Cassatt  bestowed on her daughter. 'Would you say your mother is a modern woman?' 'Oh absolutely!' Mary declared resolutely. 'Why do you think so?' I intensified my interrogation. 'Well,' she said without the slightest hesitation in her voice, 'a woman reading the morning papers, for example, is a modern woman. A woman very interested in what's going on closely around her and in her wider world is a modern woman. ​A woman very attuned to the emotional requirements of others without ever forgetting her own role in the play and her own needs is a modern woman. A woman not afraid of giving herself a voice to speak the changing meanings attached to her world is a modern woman. A woman very active and couraged enough to take some things in hand herself is a modern woman.' She suddenly stopped. 'I am babbling!' she protested with a laugh. 'Not at all. And your mother is all of this?' 'Yes, she is.' Mary got quiet for a second, smiling. 'It is a question of how one views life I suppose,' she said, looking around her. By now we had reached the gates of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. 'So? What matters are we going to solve with our refreshing morning walk?' she asked cheerfully. I opened the portal to the park for her and bought a rose from the flowerboy that was loitering around the entrance.  'Let us call it a damsel's temporary loss of inspiration, shall we?'

'May I, Mademoselle?' He led Mary through the front gate, bowed and presented the flower to her. What have I met with that man? Mary wondered once more and a ripple of laughter she was incapable to restrain filled the air. And again, the warm feeling of being home crept into her heart. 'Monsieur', she curtsied and accepted the elbow he offered. The mid-morning had decided to show itself from its best. How appropriate to her mood now! The sun shone bright and clear, and the air had the feel of an early summer. The bench they had chosen to sit on was warm, too. 'Look', Degas said and pointed at the people, 'just look.' The park was well frequented. Mary saw a colourful palette of blankets spread out all over the lawn. There were mothers playing with their toddlers and other people enjoying the wonderful weather. Here a little girl that was painting under the watch of her mama. Over there a boy who was playing with his wooden toy, excitingly showing his mother the extravagances of his new toy car. On the right Mary spotted a group of four, a gouverness obviously, who was singing with the little ones. Young women strolled together with linked arms, chatting and giggling, their chaperone on their heels. Men hurried along to work or other business. 'This is life, is it not?' Mary remarked. 'Life as it is these days.' 'What else do you see? What about the light?' Degas urged her to go on. Mary was unable to avert her eyes from the beautiful scene the little girl with the paints and her mother were depicting. The cone of light falling on them under the tree was like a cocoon where anyone else was excluded. It created an intimacy, an understanding without many words, a deep connection of love only the two of them had access to. It was, however, so powerful that the love and the bond it represented and protected was directly radiated to the outside world for anyone else to see. 'The light', Mary said quite breathless when recognition set in, 'should be working as a separate theme to the story we tell.' 'Don't stop now! Think!' Degas said. Look at the man who is approaching the gouverness and the chidren.' Mary's eyes turned to the small group. A man was standing beside them, trying to make small talk with the gouverness. Polite but quite unwilling to be interrupted by the man, the young woman asked him to move on. In the course of that unpleasant conversation, the man's shadow fell on the blanket as if a knife had cut away the glorious morning sun. 'The broken line of light from his shadow works as a metaphor for the sudden lack of privacy, the disturbance of peace.' Mary said. 'Exactement. Light is never light alone. Light is the greatest contextual communication tool in painting.' 'I do agree!' Mary said with enthusiasm and turned her face to him, but Degas had disappeared. She found him under the trees in the shadow, cleaning his glasses which seemed burgundy in the shadow. 'Was it something I said?' Mary asked quietly. 'Did I hurt you in some way?' 'Oh, Mademoiselle Cassatt! I have to thank you! This was a very pleasant morning. I was testing something myself, you see. It did not work, a great disaster to be honest.' Degas put the burgundy glasses in his pocket. 'I can't follow, I'm afraid,' Mary said.

What an enjoyable morning so far! She was such good company. She had a way to talk and to explain herself I haven't seen before in a woman. 'I need to apologise for seeking out a shadowy place on my own', I said to her when she found me under the trees behind the benches. 'It's nothing to do with you, Mademoiselle. It's my eyes,' I told her. 'What about them?' she asked. I heard real and honest concern in her voice. 'Today I had a try-out on them', his hands were on his glasses, 'and they did not work very well. They did not work at all. The doctor and the optician said I should not worry so much. It needs time they say.' 'But you do. Worry, I mean.' She read my face. And my thoughts. And my feelings. 'You are horrified', she concluded. 'Yes, I am'. 'Maybe they were right?' she  asked. 'Maybe you need to be patient? And listen to them?' she pressed on her point. 'Yes, maybe,' I replied wearily. 'I paint light and  colours for a living, you see'. 'Yes, I know', she replied, 'and you asked me why I came to Paris?' I smiled at her, suddenly more optimistic and happy. How did she do that? 'Do you want me to come with you to your doctor? And the oculist? Next time, I mean? Could that be of help to you? We might find an answer,' she said, looking at me with her extraordinary eyes. 'You are not afraid of gossip, then?' I wanted to know. 'Gossip? Excuse me, people will talk? What?' she asked in disbelief, again totally unaware of the impact she made, the effect she had on people. On him. 'Of course, this is Paris', I warned her. 'No, I am not afraid', she said with a steady voice, 'we can tell them we are trying to improve the diplomatic relations between the United States and France when people start to build barricades at your doctor's front door and that of the optician!' I laughed. 'My dear Mademoiselle Casatt, where is that confidence and your fierce American sovereignty coming from? It wasn't there this morning when I entered your atelier.' She blushed. 'Must be my innate recuperative power I guess.' I took her hand and held it for a moment, and now it was her light that released the tension I had felt inside. 'I walk you home'. 'Thank you.' she simply replied.

'Well, Mademoiselle, I hope you've learned something today?' Mary smiled. They had arrived at her studio's front door. 'Yes, I have, albeit through a very unconventional way of teaching. Am I supposed to thank you now?' she asked. 'I'm coming back tomorrow. I want you to meet someone. You can thank me then'. 'Alright. I will,' Mary replied. Without another word he turned and crossed the street. Her eyes followed him until he disappeared among the hustle and bustle of fish wives, laundresses, carts and other vehicles. A damsel's temporary loss of inspiration? Oh dear, oh dear...
​
It has been a wonderful day Mary had to admit. She hoped it could be repeated soon enough. Deep in thoughts she started humming a song she had listened to in the loge at the opera. 'La damoiselle élue s'appuyait, Sur la barriére d'or du Ciel... hmmm hmmm' Mary sang.

References: https://youtu.be/9fHmCE1ZWc4
Claude Debussy, La Damoiselle Élue, 1887-1889

*****

Chapter Seven

Mary woke and tried to remember her dream. She couldn't. It was gone as soon as she opened her eyes. All she felt was the remaining warmth and the sense of concealment it had left within her. She snuggled down in her cushions because she didn't want the feelings pass. Who was it she was going to meet today? Who was Degas introducing today? Mary got out of bed and walked through her small boudoir that divided the salon from her bedroom. She opened the window and early morning light and the crispy but gentle breeze of early May filled the room. She washed and did her hair with particular attention. The woman she caught sight of in the mirror was resonating with an energy that seemed to translate her inner self. Self-questioning eyes did not bother to hide her sudden amusement. What a wonderful day lays ahead of her. New promises, desires, hopes. Mary felt as if, even though a day had twenty-four hours, time wasn't enough to catch up with all the vitality she was flooded with right now. Downstairs she heard the clattering of crockery and cutlery, her maid was preparing breakfast and tea for her. One last look into the mirror, she then chose an elegant silken day dress and hurried to the dining table.

When Mary opened her front door two hours later she possibly couldn't have been more surprised. Degas was standing there, a little girl of about four in his arms who shyly turned her face away when Mary spoke to them. 'Oh, bonjour!' Mary stared at them, barely managing her astonishment. Degas strode in. 'Meet my little Angel, please. Honey, this is Mademoiselle Cassatt,' he said. The girl gave the impression as if she wanted to disappear into Degas' coat. 'You needed protection to see me?' Mary asked him. 'Oh, I did,' he replied, 'we don't want to be upsetting common decency, do we?' 'Who is she?' Mary asked her next question. 'She is the daughter of some friends of mine, and, as every woman in Paris, adores me very much. Don't you, chouchou?' The girl glimpsed at Mary and cuddled back to the safety of Degas' arms. 'Ma chérie,' Degas set her down and issued himself to be of eye level with the little girl, 'Mademoiselle Cassatt has never met any girl of four in Paris and she----' 'I'm four and a half!' ma chérie made clear. 'Oh gosh, of course! Excusez-moi! This is so very important to little ladies, is it!' Degas cried.' Sweetheart, Mademoiselle Cassatt has never met any little girl of four and a half in Paris, and she is excited to meet you. Look, that little dog is equally excited to have you here.' The girl grinned and looked at Mary and then at the dog that was circling them with jumpy little stunts and whimpers. She took her cap off and a cascade of shiny brown curls spilled down her small back. The girl climbed Mary's blue armchair and coaxed the dog to sit beside her. 'It is decided,' Degas commented at the cute scene. 'What is decided?' 'She is your next sitter, can't you see? You are going to paint her,' he replied and looked at Mary. 'What?! When I was telling you that, if I have to paint any more pictures of my mother or brother or sister, you can admit me to the psychiatric hospital, I didn't mean I was dying for a child! Can she even sit still for five minutes? Is she even able to hold a pose for a single second?' Mary asked. 'Nope, my dear. She is four, don't you forget,' Degas said. 'And a half,' Mary added and burst into laughter. This was so impossible! 'How am I supposed to do this, then? Can you tell me?' 'My dear Mary,' Degas said with marvellous patience as if Mary were just four herself, 'where is your spirit? Where your obsession and vigour? Be realistic and just start. Look at her and watch the girlish demeanour. Use her childish impartiality and inquisitiveness. Her questions might kill you, by the way. Courage, my dear! Courage!' Above all, do not pretend or fake anything. It does not suit you, you see. Do not read something into your painting that isn't there. Do not expect anything, just let it happen. See and paint.' With that Degas closed his little speech and look at her in his renowned quizzical manner. At this lecture, Mary's contradictious nature pushed forward, and she defended herself indignantly. 'I never pretend! There is no lie or dishonesty when I paint!' Yet still, by stating this, she was already effected by the delicious trepidation of new beginnings that always flooded her whole self when unprecedented ideas emerged from nowhere and formed themselves to something wonderful, something that was meant to set her free. 'Good!' Degas cut off her thoughts. 'You know', he went on,'dishonesty is the evil to everything. Lies lacerate the soul. Both are the problems with bad art as well as with squandered trust. I have no concern to dictate or decide what you paint next, Mademoiselle. In fact, I have no concern of your well-being at all. It's none of my business. However, I dare say the scene before you is made for your hands.' The girl, meanwhile, had made a new friend. Baptiste, Mary's little Brussels Griffon, had just remembered its innate self-importance and, after all the initial bluff and bluster at their arrival, also its big heart. Sitting next to the girl, it was now giving the impression of being the very best listener and playmate in the world as it was following every word and movement of the girl since the little princess has ascended her powerful blue throne. 'It is all about the armchair...', Mary muttered, 'it's all about...' She stopped, suddenly afraid another word of more details would destroy and break the spell of the vision developing in her mind's eye. 'Very well, then', Degas said, taking his hat. 'I'll come back tomorrow with her and her maman. You might want to start working right away. Sweetie! We are off to the park and need to say hello to the ducklings, aren't we?' the girl leaped down from her comfortable seat and, quick as a flash, darted to the door, Baptiste at her heels and behaving as if being very close to a heart attack as his new little friend had to leave for today. 'See you tomorrow, then', Degas said with the usual brusque twang of his voice when it came to farewells. He bowed and off they were.

Soon enough it became apparent that a sparky, chatty little girl was incapable to sit quietly for longer than a minute. How wonderfully candid and innocent she was! And just this, the unpredictability and acuteness of the next actions of that little bustler, provided the painting with a charm the paintress herself had never expected. Mary felt like chasing sun's rays on water to capture the fleeting moments of a girl's concentration. But this precious portions of time that lasted only for short compelled Mary to work with extreme speed and her brush flew over the canvas. The swiftness of Mary's hand and her spontaneous application of paint, however, gave the painting a lightness and exuberance at the same time. On her easel she could now see a picture of a little girl that literally radiated the important things; boredom and suffering from her mother's constant admonitions to sit still in an adult's world, and yet a natural and unspoilt charmingness that is only immanent in a child. Even though Mary had used a vibrant blue for the dominating chair that held the little girl, the colours were pure and harmoniously genuine. The orange coloured flower design created a lovely contrast to the complementary blue ocean. So, what to do next? Mary's sense for composition kicked in and told her it wasn't enough to leave it like that. How to attract the attention to the girl? The delicateness of her features which Mary had mastered with mellow tints and soft transitions was not enough. The silkiness of her dress and the lace one wanted to touch because it was so real- they weren't enough. Mary's eyes fell on Degas's shawl he left when he first came with the girl. Right! She spent half a day painting the scarf and matching socks to the girl. What now? The painting needed balance. The painting needed focus. Balance and focus in a painting was everything. So, what was it that needed to be done? Shift the energy in the room, Mary! More chairs! More chairs but emphasising the prominent one with the girl. Constraining perspective, Mary painted a second chair. Then a sofa. And a third chair, cropped and small, constraining perspective even more. After that she was stuck again. She could not think of the ideal background. No way, of course, that she would come up with a dark background as the Salon judges might prefer. No way! Two days later Mary still hadn't found a solution. Tedium and agony. The two constant companions in a painter's life always showed up after the glorious joy of implementing new ideas had faded into doubt and hard work. She sighed. Baptiste obviously sensed her pain, it was the same with every painting. The dog trotted to the blue chair Mary was sitting in right now, and it whimpered with compassion. Mary rose from the chair and set the dog on it.When she came back with a cup of tea Baptiste had fallen asleep. Mary watched it and, quite automatically, grabbed her palette and brush and painted her little dark-brown dog as the correspondent of his friend, the little girl. To Mary's disappointment, it did not release her from the trouble with the background.

Little Girl in a Blue Armchair
Mary Cassat, 1878
Oil on canvas

References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Girl_in_a_Blue_Armchair

Would she remember? Would she remember the kiss? Possible, it was just an expression of gratitude when she thanked me, and she had already forgotten as soon as we had closed the door to her atelier. How silly of me I scolded myself when I once again caught my fingers touching the spot on my cheek where her soft lips had gently carressed my skin. How absolutely ridiculous! Stop that, Degas! I shooed away any impulse of emotion and the feeling of a beginning attachment as if they were annoying flies. Rubbish!

'Dear God!' I uttered when I visited her to see how she fared with her feisty little sitter. She had needed only a week to wake a sensation I simply found no words for. 'Is it so bad?' Mary asked and smiled for she knew the painting in progress was not bad at all. Her proportions were stunningly great. Here, in the foreground, the rounded edge of the armchair and the girl's legs. In the middle ground the girl and the dog. In the background- well, there wasn't a background yet. 'I didn't think my shawl was ever coming into prominence as one of the stars in a painting. The composition of the furniture and its sizes offer an incredible move. Smart woman, aren't we? Not smart enough to create a background, I dare say?' 'I can't do it,' she said miserably. 'Oh yes, you can!' I demanded. Why was she doubting her talent and ability sometimes? The painting spoke volumes of a gifted woman. I looked at it again. The face of the girl and her cute little dress were illuminated from an unknown source of light. They were shining. Bright yet small reflections of light were also painted on the armchairs in the foreground. The different directions of her brushstrokes supported the plasticity of the furniture. She had worked with various diagonals, her division of the painting in vertical and horizontal parts was near to brilliancy. Mary had used the curvy forms of the two armchairs in the forgeground to create a perfect symbiosis between them, they built a safe little nest for the girl. The chosen main axis of the girl drew my eyes directly to her, her eye level and the line of her gaze formed a straight connection to the dog's face. It was so exactly executed as if done with a ruler. Mary was the Mistress of Painterly Geometry. 'No, I can't see where to start,' Mary's voice jolted me out of my thoughts. 'You can! Intersecting walls. Windows?' 'Yes,' she replied, 'large ones.' I looked at her for a long moment, she was looking at her canvas. 'Which colours do you want to use?' I asked and took her palette. 'Sienna...' 'Qui! D'une couleur jaune brune! What else?' 'Well, white, of course, cinnabar...' She hurried to provide me with turpentine. I mixed the colours and held the palette out to her. 'Is this to your satisfaction?' 'I need more poppy seed oil for I would like it rather thin,' she said and hurried off again. 'Bien, it's coming up right now!' I showed her the palette again, and finally she approved of what I had done. 'I will paint the lines. You watch.' 'Alright'. In less than forty-five seconds I had drawn the lines and a spacious room materialised at the canvas. 'Is it clear where the windows should be?' 'Yes.' 'Are you fine with the outlines of the floor now?' 'I am.' 'Am I released now?' I asked. 'How did you know?' she asked a counter question. Of course she did. 'How did you know to create a mood as real and glowing as this? I can think of nothing more splendid. You are my queen of light. Live in your body, Mary. Not your head,' I told her instead of replying, took my hat and left. When did that happen? I wondered when I was walking to my favourite cafe. When did her company develop to have a special magic that it didn't have yesterday?

'What???' Six or seven people shouted in one voice. Mary stared at Degas in disbelief and so did the other artists in the room. 'Say that again,' Manet insisted and turned to Degas who was pacing the room since all of them had arrived at the Manet's salon. 'I apply for a cancellation of our next exhibition as it is the wrong time and at the wrong place!' Degas asserted his point forcefully. 'It's completely absurd even to try, and if you do it's a hopeless venture,' Degas wasn't abandon his course. 'If you do? You? Does this not include you, Edgar? Is there no we anymore?' These questions were asked by Mary Cassat for she was the first one who found her voice. 'It's only three weeks until opening. We have prepared so carefully and worked so hard for this. Why, on earth, should we cancel?' she went on to Degas. 'No one will come. It is the World's Fair. Not a bloody visitor will go astray and lay an eye on one of your canvases, Mademoiselle.' 'I don't understand,' she replied. 'You haven't yet exhibited with us, Mademoiselle Cassatt,' Madame Morisot brought herself in and turned to Mary. 'You cannot understand,' added Berthe. 'Oh. Oh, I see. You do not wish for my opinion, then? Even though I have done anything I could to share, to fit in the circle, and in the end to offer my friendship and support?' Berthe did no reply. Renoir raised his hand and entered the dispute. 'Would someone be so kind and put the persistent Mademoiselle Cassatt in the picture?' he inquired. 'Mary,' Degas said, 'the last time when it was the Fair our exhibition at the same time was a huge failure. No one came, despite we had put an immense effort on propaganda. We lost so much money and, this time, we cannot afford to throw it away, can we? Even the Salon has chosen a later date this year to be out of conflict with the World's Fair'. Mary wasn't convinced at all. 'But we are so good together, all of us! We are so different in our styles to exhaust a painter's world and it is just great or not? We are more artists than there were last time in your past exhibition. You cannot turn this into a pragmatic benefit-risk analysis! And, Edgar, I do think it is a weak excuse to use the Salon's arrangements to substantiate your arguments, and a shameless one at that. Wouldn't you agree?' Manet rushed to her rescue. 'You've talked about nothing else than the Impressionists exhibition during the last months, Degas. You've thought about nothing else than Mademoiselle Cassatt's debut, haven't you, Edgar? Since I do not exhibit with you as your stupid rule prohibits me from doing so, it's all the same to me. But can it be, Degas, that you are not prepared yourself? How often have I asked you to show me the paintings you have predestined for the exhibition? You refused any time, remember? So, what is wrong? Is there no painting from you to expect? Is that the very reason you want to cancel, my friend?' Mary spun round to look straight at Edgar Degas. 'Is it true, Edgar, or are you just giving up?' she asked. 'Don't be stupid! Of course, it is not true. I have more than enough canvases the world hasn't laid seen yet', Degas retorted angrily. 'Then I want you to try. There is always a way, you know. We haven't examined all opportunities!' Mary suggested. 'I believe we have. Trying is not what you want, Mademoiselle Cassatt', Degas's voice sounded sharp and sarcastic now. "You want fame. You and Manet should team up together and make your courtesy to the Salon judges. Admiration is the one and only thing that drives you, both of you are caged in your conservative narrow world and there is no escape.' Mary closed her eyes as if she knew she had been slapped. 'You are not fair, Edgar'. She refused to return to the formal 'Monsieur Degas' and played the ball back into his field. 'Unfortunately,' she went on,' there is no perfect world and your art does not belong to you. No art ever does. There are colours within all of us. We are on a lifelong search to find, or to come very close at least, to that incredible colours. It's the colours that make us different from anyone else. And very special and beautiful. May I have my coat please?'

*****

Chapter Eight

'Such a spoilsport, isn't she, Edgar?' Berthe Morisot rose from her seat and made for the door. Before she reached it she hesitated, facing me again. 'Such bad losers, all of us.' She left. What did Berthe mean, I wondered, by saying all of us. She had not done very much herself to support Mary's points, had she? Had it been wrong, then? Had it been wrong to force Mary back to reality by voicing the issues that had evolved from the inconvenient location and unfavourable time of year?

'Women!' Manet railed, but was equally puzzled by Mary's and Berthe's furious exit than I was. Both of us were staring at the door. 'Let's all have another drink', Manet suggested and put his arm around my shoulders, dragging me the group of guests that had remained in the parlour. But I couldn't. I couldn't enjoy their company any longer. Mary's outbreak and her words when she left were haunting me for the rest of the evening. I recalled the moment when I first saw her and the very first thought that had crossed my mind back then. God, don't let her be French. Well, she wasn't French at all, was she? As it turned out, she was all the contrary to what I was used so far and, to tell the truth, I could think of nothing more splendid. She was a fierce fighter, and a more than formidable opponent at that. She was caring. She was intense. She was confident. She combined an unswerving sovereignty and optimism from deep within herself. She was wise. She was stubborn. She was shining. In fact, I pondered, everything was shining a little by her reflection. She was love. And then she was not.

'Mary! Mary, please wait! Mary, will you stop for God's sake!' Berthe's voice behind her sounded begging and breathless. 'You cannot be serious to go home all on your own at this time of night!'
This made Mary stop and gave Berthe time to catch up with her. 'Let's go back to the house---'
'Oh no, I won't come back with you.' Berthe was interrupted mid-sentence.
'I didn't mean into the house, but let's fetch the maid and a carriage. Allow me to take you home.' Berthe was still panting from rushing after her friend.
'Al least', she gasped and grinned, 'this was good exercise.'

In the carriage, none of the women spoke. Mary tried to blink back her tears and swallow down her disappointment. Was she angry? Lordy yes, she was! Berthe looked out of window, seemingly transfixed by the nocturnal lull of Paris whilst they passed street after street.
'This can happen, you see.' Berthe broke the silence and Mary met her eyes. 'What can?' she asked.
'We already had times when we didn't exhibit. Degas must have told you. Circumstances and reasons can change.'
'Yes. But after what I have seen tonight it is highly likely, is it not, that there won't be any exhibition ever again.'
'What are you meaning to say?' Mary had Berthe's full attention now.
'I say that because your differences, differences that are usually the greatest gifts of our union, will pull us apart. Tonight we weren't better, and did not behave better for that, than anyone of the detested jury of the Salon.'
'We?' Berthe asked. 'You include yourself even if it was maybe wrong what Edgar did?'
'I do. I trusted you and it was a mistake. My mistake. I thought our cirlce was not the same, not identical to the know-it-all-manner and forever derogatory attitude of the Salon. I was hoping we, with all our marvellous members of painters, printers, wordsmiths and poets, could create an example that will affect people and encourage them to see beyond their own nose. I thought our exclusive set of artists might accomplish to touch areas of the people's mind they did not know existed.'
'You have a highly esteemed opinion on us if you think we might be able to reach these goals', Berthe commented, her big eyes wide open now.
'I have. Have I been too ambitious, Berthe? Too much a dreamer?'
'It depends', Berthe said, 'on what you consider your role in our group'.
'Oh, at least there is a role,' Mary said sarcastically. 'Edgar had never spoken to me like this. No doubt, I well know his tendency to social snobbery, the anonymous cloak of inaccessibility that sometimes surrounds him. But it was never like this.' She could not overcome the embarrassment, the rudeness he had dealt her tonight. ​She wondered why she had miscalculated so badly. 'Well, he's clearly not one of nature's gentlemen." Berthe smiled. 'On the other hand, he was absolutely obliging and very helpful to you, wasn't he?'
'What on earth does that mean? Are helpful and obliging men more dangerous than rude ones, then?' Mary asked and Berthe shrugged her shoulder's, still smiling.
'I think tonight you got your answer, didn't you? And, forgive me, but I'm not very concerned with the struggles of your heart. I have my own battles to fight. ' Berthe waited for a response. ​ When it seemed there wasn't to be one she padded Mary's hand and let her alight from the carriage at her studio's front.
'Goodnight and thank you,' Mary waved and slipped through her door.

Hours turned into days. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Mary had been at her studio every single day. Only for supper and night's sleep she was returning home to her parents and Lydia.
'How long will this be going on?' her father asked and passed her a letter. It was Degas' fourth one, and Mary had ignored them all. She had told her parents most of what they were supposed to know of the recent events and had waited for a simple 'We did warn you. Did we not warn you?' It never came. Mary was surprised and thankful. Her parents themselves were probably more and more annoyed by the arrogance and continuously unwanted indoctrination of the American- French society they were part of. What had been founded as an association of support, great expectations, hope, respect, consciousness of American traditions, and the will to link both worlds to benefit from one another's culture and otherness, was now a construct of narrowness and entrapment in which the Cassatt's couldn't breathe anymore. Anyone appeared to contest for the highest number of invitations to balls and dinners given by the American embassy or some diplomats of higher rank. The once invigorating evening conversations at the assemblies of Americans who now resided in Paris had irrecoverably lost their charm, as of now they were characterised by superficialities and complaints about the Parisian traffic, the French lifestyle and who knew what else. Many things that had been so attractive and appealing at the beginning of the adventure in France were now the reasons for derision and gossip. As a consequence, Robert and Katherine Cassatt had turned their backs on the society as Mary had turned her's on the Imressionists. All of them in the same boat, then? In some way?
'His letters are very graceful. Do admit it, Mary.' Her mother has settled in her favourite armchair and, with a smile, handed Degas' note back to Mary. 'He apologised time and again, shouldn't you reply?'
'Mum, he was so awful to me! I still can't come to terms with his behaviour towards me! Why would I reply?'
'Since when, my darling daughter,' her mother said with her soft voice, 'does a Cassatt return a wrongness like for like?'
Mary made no response. Instead, she bustled about, restless as always wehn she was at home. Restless for months now.
'You could,' her father cheerfully joined in, 'tell him that all the paintings he had greatly helped you with were rejected by the Salon. Would not that be a worthy military counter-attack, my dear?' All of them laughed and suddenly the melancholy was gone. 'Will you write to him?' her father asked.
'I can't promise you anything. I need to think about it'.
'Alright, I'm sure you will do the right thing. Fancy a walk by any chance?' Ah, her father was not done with the topic, but, even without touching the conversation and Degas again, with the walk he wanted to make her reflect.

Mary did not write. She tried to. Hard. In her mind she drafted a thousand of replies but couldn't find the right tone. Was she unjust? Had she provoked the reaction Degas had shown with her arguments? Had she given the impression she did not trust him? Perhaps Degas was no less guilty of conforming to a generalised pattern of behaviour than anyone else was. She could not find a way to communicate her feelings and so no letter was sent. Her atelier was the only place she could be herself. She had stopped asking questions such as whether her painting was good enough or not. She did not think about the painting in progress until she was in work clothes, right in front of her piece, her brush ready in her hand. Even then she did not think what to do next, she just began working. The brush, so she learnt with some surprise, would, as soon as she made the first move, emerge to its own life. It would become the expression of her subconscious mind and seemed to develop its own will. Giving herself that kind of freedom was, Mary discovered, the true magic that came alive in a painting. Inspiration, so desperately longed for in earlier years, frequently visited, as much fascinated with Mary's ever new creativity as only a good friend could be. It was always after work that Mary had to fight down the tameless little voice in her head that was still sending her little messages of how much she missed Degas and the feeling of how she wished she could still be in his company. Then there were the old doubts again. Every once in a while she suffered from inadequacy and the absence of sanguinity or hope.  Alas, it was summer now. Anyone seemed to be on holiday somewhere whereas Mary enjoyed the quietness of the Parisian evenings in the park. Sitting on one of the benches one day in the fading August, someone spoke to her. Mary wasn't sure if he was just the product of her dreams because she had thought of him right this moment, or if he was a real person.
'Mademoiselle Cassatt,' Degas' very human voice said coldly, his hand lifting his hat.
'How are you?' she asked.
'I'm quite good, thanks. Your family and you are well, I trust?'
'Yes, thank you,' she replied.
'​Give my felicitations to your parents and sister,' Degas offered and made for the path.
Mary needed a second too long to recover from the surprise, yet an unexpected but wonderful one. But then she spoke. 'You were never this nice when you had contact with me. I have only noticed politeness when you did not care at all for the opponent person you were conversing with. ​Do I risk everything by just talking to you? Are you afraid, Monsieur, of weakening your position by friendliness? Whatever this position or guarded terms are you want to protect?' Her words stopped him on the spot and he slowly came back, his face all thunder and lightning.
'Well, Mademoiselle, it might have slipped your mind that it was you who did not care for my amends, let alone for the truth.'
'For the truth? The truth was that you were wrong that night!' What on earth was ​the face behind the face of Edgar Degas? She looked into his eyes. No glasses tonight. The eyes were steady, no anger though. Deliberative more like, as if not knowing what to do with her.
'​I said I was sorry', he finally said.
'Then, I guess, there is nothing more to say', she replied. Degas wisely held his peace. 'I'm not that desperate nor so in need of a woman that I force myself on someone who is no longer interested in me.'
'But I was hurt!' she cried.
'And I confessed I was a fool, did I not? In four written letters if I remember correctly,' he retorted.
'You were wrong,' Mary repeated. Degas would not recede a centimetre, would he? 'And you are never?' He shot his next question. 'Is there never a moment where that strong beautiful infallible Mademoiselle Cassatt makes a mistake? You might want to learn, then, that this is not the world neither the time to put on red-coloured spectacles,' Degas said.
'It might not be,' Mary stepped closer until there were only a few inches between them. 'But, you know,' went she on, 'I have fought quite too hard for my pair of them.' She looked at him, very sure of herself and not the least in the mood of letting him escape like this. 'I won't apologise for what I said that evening', she continued.
'No need, Mademoiselle. The only thing you should consider is accepting mine. Do you think you can swallow your pride and do that for me?'
They could remain here in the park, Mary thought, and argue all evening, then through the night, and all the time to first morning light. How useful would that be? She made the first move. 'Are we forever condemned to rub each other up the wrong way? Can we please not? However, I cannot make a friendship only in my head and never in my heart. I do not want to fight for my right to speak when I have something to say, you see. Not with you. I do not want to have to justify my ambitions, my dreams and ideas. Not to you. Do you understand that?' 'Well said, Mademoiselle.' A pause ensued between them. ​Unlike most people she wasn't afraid of silence and so Mary made no reply. 'I waited for you. Almost everywhere. Every day,' he finally said. Well, I am here, aren't I? Always will.’ Mary threw up her hands and smiled. ‘There won’t be another exhibition anytime soon, then?’ A quantum hope vaguely found its way into Mary's question. ‘Not the foggiest notion of it, perhaps  next year. Let's see.’ Degas offered his arm. ‘Anyway, do you have a minute, Mary? I would like to show you something I am working on.’ ‘I have more than a minute for you. I’d love to see what you have done in the last couple of months.’ They walked in silence, each one happy with the world and having the other one back for the moment. No matter how long that moment would last. She would embrace and treasure every second of it and not think of tomorrow.

What was it that Mary’s face showed when she stood amidst the total chaos of my atelier? Overwhelming joy? The eagerness of a new scholar? Embarrassment? Certainly not embarrassment, that was my part to be felt! Anyhow, it had always been a mystery to me of how she was able to be so tidy with all the materials and accessories a painter needs for work. Mary’s eyes ran over my walls and suddenly they lit up. She was looking very closely at the countless sketches of charcoal and pastel I had made of my ballerinas. ‘Goodness, you have stayed rather close, haven’t you?’ She turned and looked at me, her expression like a huge question mark.
‘More than that.’ I guess my face was a paragon of innocence. ‘I touched her.’ Mary was frozen in front of the sketches, still investigating with her nose only an inch away. ‘You slept with her?’ Mary pointed at the girl that was the most prominent in my sketches. She then spun round to find me right behind her, also examining my drawings.
'This was a brazen question, Mary, wouldn't you say? If I had’, my voice icy calm and angry, 'you should  place me on the same level with many of my fellow males who have made it a disgusting new habit of taking a danseuse for a mistress. I believe, however, you have noticed I'm not srupulous enough to do that. To understand people we need to walk in their shoes for a while, though.'
'This is not quite possible, ist it?' said the practical Mary. 'I do not know much about you. Tell me about your shoes, then,' she required quietly, looking me straight in the eyes.

Two Dancers
Edgar Degas, c. 1878/79
image: The Metropolitan Museum of Art

'There is not much to tell. And it is late. Shall we see how we can get you home?' I felt her disenchantment, her millions of questions she had. But yet, she did not renew her attempts to find out more. Instead, she once again walked back to the drawings and traced them lightly. Her fingers, without touching the oiled papers, followed the outlines of the girl's body. Her face and nose, her neck, then the shape of her breasts and the hand that was pulling the strap of her dress. Mary moved on to her waist, then her legs and feet. It looked like Mary was composing a melody, as if she could hear the music the girl was dancing to and was conducting the girl's concert.
I walked to the back of his studio, removing and clearing away several canvases and frames by doing so. 'Come here, Mary.' I pulled off a tarpaulin from something huge, something that, I have to admit, looked like a pedestal. When the underneath object was revealed Mary did not say a word. She stared at the kind of frame, very odd and of unrecognisable structure yet, made from wood. Pipes, old wire and padding. 'Good God, what is this?' Mary couldn't hide her interest any longer and stepped closer. 'This is a dancer.' I could hear my own heartbeat, she was the first one who saw my new project.' I have no idea if I can build her like I imagine. Not sure if my plannings will turn out. I'm going to make her from clay and will cover the sculpture with wax. Can you see what I mean?' Please, I prayed inwardly, say something, Mary. She turned her head to the drawings on the walls and back to the figure in front of her. Mary hesitated. 'You must have seen her in your dreams,' she said, her voice trailing off. I wanted to protest that I had not, but she lifted her hand and stopped me from speaking. 'I do not mean dreaming of her in a sexual desire.' Mary explained and slowly walked alongside the frame. 'You are in love, Edgar. Deeply. You are in love with the wonders you create. This is a gift, you know, and it terrifies you as love always does with people at some point.' She stood there like an angel, calm and beautiful, her eyes shining with excitement.
'Who is she?' she finally asked, still absorbing the alien setting and appearance.

Four Studies of a Dancer
Edgar Degas, c. 1878/79
image: Musée du Louvre

'Her name is Marie.'
'Do you ever need anyone, Edgar?' She turned to me and waited for my answer. Her question knocked me fully out of stride. She could see, couldn't she? More than anyone ever saw. She did understand. ​Her independent eye. It was something I had to learn.
'One day I will need you.' I said.

*****

Chapter Nine

Her dream was waiting at the bottom of the stairs that led to an apartment where one of the rooms had been her home from home for the last couple of weeks. Once again, Mary pulled out the by Degas designed title page of the official catalogue announcing the "La 4ᵐᵉ exposition de peinture faite par un groupe d'artistes indépendants". Mary knew every line, every colour of Degas' creation, and she, lost in dreams for a moment, kissed the sheet of paper. Hastily she turned to the next of the nineteen pages as if she needed another affirmation that her name was still there, next to his and that of the other artists. She smiled and her fingertips ran over the lettering that meant the world to her. Eleven catalog numbers! Eleven! Quite flustered she opened the door and stepped inside.

Catalog of the 4th exhibition, Paris 1879
Sources unknown

Instantly, the soft sound of hammers forcing nails into the walls reached her ears. From another room she could hear the murmur of holding conferences with one another about where and how to place a canvas. From the far end of the apartment she even noticed gales of laughter and witty comments wavering through the rooms. Camille Pissarro, one of the organisers and still in his coat, hat and shawl, even though he must have arrived at least two hours ago, came towards Mary.
'Mademoiselle Cassatt! There you are!' He wrung his hands, and then he grabbed her on her shoulders. 'Can you please talk to Degas? Is he losing his mind? Bien, for that to happen he must have got a mind to lose first, right? C'est impossible!'
'What is it, Monsieur Pissarro?' Mary asked calmly.
'There are only two paintings of him yet! What is he thinking? Tomorrow is our opening day!' The artist paced back and forth like a caged tiger.
'What makes you think I could change that?' Mary looked at the man in some astonishment.
'Well, I thought---' Pissarro began, but stopped abruptly. 'You and Monsieur Degas, you are not---?' He was flooded with embarrassment when he realised his faux pas.
'No, we are not,' Mary said, her voice somewhat flat and her eyes wide and surprised.
'Oh? Oh, excuse moi beaucoup, Mademoiselle! Then all that talk about it is wrong. I'm ever so sorry.' He stood there, waiting for an explanation.
'Are you sorry for having said this, or, are you sorry we are not lovers?' Mary did not know where her questions came from. They were out before she could think. There were rumours? About a liaison between Edgar and her? Do the Parisians have nothing else to do?
'You are good for him. You are good with him.' Camille Pissarro still stood where he was. 'So, will you ask him to hurry up a bit?' Mary liked the artist of breathtaking feathered landscapes and understood his apprehension. Much was at stake for all of them.
'I will certainly try.' She went by and proceeded to the room that was assigned to her. She closed the door and leaned against it, trying to compose her mind. Did anyone else wonder? Berthe? Why would she listen to gossip, they have become friends, have they not? Mary remembered how Berthe had warned her about Degas a long time ago. In fact many people have, trying to tell her she should be careful with Deags was not as he seemed. But, it's so easy to judge about other people, is it not? It is quite impertinent as well to listen to those warnings without having met the person concerned. Does not each of us makes one's own experiences? Does not everyone see other people differently? Her own reactions, Mary was sure, were based on how she interpreted what she saw in the other person. It is often an image that seems simple first, yet by perceiving said image to its whole content and meaning, it'll reveal its beauty in full blossom to you.

'Mademoiselle?' The knock at the door and the voice of the carter who brought in the last one of her paintings jerked her out of her reverie. Mary told him where to place it and carefully watched him fixing it to the wall. She had spent hours planning how to arrange her works to show them in their best light. Hours of quarreling with Degas about the colours she wanted to frame them. Mary wanted complementary colours for the frames, red and green were predominant as she loved both colours. Degas vehemently interposed his veto for he was all for neutrality to avoid any distractions. He, with staged protest, thought it a crime against his artistic eye to fall in love with a particular colour. 'Coulours,' he lectured her, 'are to our service and should be used to exploit the possibilities of drawing.' She did not listen to him and now she was marvelling at the array of her paintings that hung on the walls, aesthetically placed to her taste, very appealling to any visitor that might come to the exhibition. The door had opened again and Degas entered the room. With alert eyes he focused his attention to the walls and surveyed her paintings. Paintings he had already seen a good few times. In the past weeks he had discussed with her which work to show; he had helped her to organise herself and how to use the spatial circumstances to its best.

'There is not even the slightest mistake in one of them. You did exceedingly well, my dear. Leaving aside the fact that your impatience was almost successful in killing you, of course,' Degas said mockingly.
'It is later than I had hoped for,' Mary replied, smiling and recalling the horrible argument she had had with him at the Manet's parlour that fateful night.
'​But life,' he replied, 'the real life so important to us, does not act after a list of dates, does it? Even though our mind constantly seeks a pattern, over and over again to spot the sabre-toothed-tiger in the thicket. ' Degas made another tour about the room, now and again leaning in to have a closer look at the artwork. 'You felt the fear and did it anyway, so here you are, Mary. You broke the pattern and what is the reward? You are rewarded with the most glimmering, splendid, and utterly expressive canvases that you otherwise would not have painted. Not like this.' He turned to her, not entirely able to hide his self-congratulation. 'You admit, then, that it was better to wait?'
Mary made no reply at first. She stepped closer, took his hands and kissed him on both cheeks. 'Thank you, Edgar.'
'I'll see you tomorrow, then? Try to sleep, my dear.' He left the room before she could asked him why he had not brought his canvases yet. She knew, however, if Degas did not want to do something he simply wouldn't do it. Nothing on earth could convince him otherwise. They were all exhausted. Setting up the exhibition had been an extremely energy-sapping proposition. The initial group of Impressionists wasn't existing any longer. Claude Monet, for example, was among the exhibiting artist, but his works had been only on display because Gustave Caillebotte had requested them on loan from everyone he knew. Monet had recently experienced a private and artistic crisis and was more interested in a solo exhibition. Berthe had given birth to her little daughter, Julie, and had not worked since then. Renoir had been accepted by the Salon and therefore, due to Degas' strict rules, was banned from the exhibition. Also this time, Degas, tho whom the term Impressionists always had been a bête noire, rigorously replaced it with Independents. Resulting from the declination he had invited new artists with names that were unknown to Mary: Paul Gaugin, Jean Louis Forain, Mary and Felix Bracquemont, Ludovig Piette. She, Mary, was happy. She was in an exhibition together with Edgar Degas, and it was all she had always longed for.

The party on the evening before the opening was a celebration of bravery, persistence, luck, and faith in each other and life. Mary's parents, her siblings and friends had come to her support; also many of the fellow artists who were not part of the current exhibition did them the honour to congratulate.
'Berthe!' Mary hurried to the fragile black-haired woman who was more beautiful than ever. 'Iam so happy to see you!' Mary took her in her arms and held her in a long embrace. 'May I show you around? I desperately want you to see my room!'
'I'm dying to see it. Please show me everything.' After a word to her parents, her father's stunned quietness spoke volumes of being catapulted into a world he could not quite understand, Mary took Berthe's hand, and both women were excused. Berthe admired Mary's canvases that were of such difference from her own work, miracles in colour and message executed with a technique and an impasto without equal. Mary had found the perfect synergy of sensation and cool directness. 'Mary!' Berthe cried, 'how wonderful are they! Very well done you!'
'And how are you? Please tell me.' Mary honestly wanted to know. 'Are you happy? With your daughter? With your marriage?' Weeks ago Mary would not have dared to ask simple questions yet loaded with such an amount of intimations that could easily be misunderstood. But, this was Berthe and Mary saw her as her true friend by now. Tonight was not the time nor the place to exercise restraint. She deeply cared for Berthe and her well-being.
'Well, I'm not like you, Mary. I know what it means to be without hope. Sometimes I feel so lost. I am not especially good company; I am not even very smart or funny. I am not beautiful at all. I am no light that guides someone home, you know.'
Mary was shocked by the despair the other one had showed with saying those words. 'But, Berthe! How can you say that! You have truly loved, haven't you? You still do, am I right? You always will. What can be better than that?'
Berthe made no reply. Instead, she smiled and said, 'let's forget all unhappiness tonight. This is your evening, Mary. You deserve all happiness of the world.' Somewhat confused and concerned by what had just been revealed to her Mary took Berthe by the hand and they joined the other guests. She  wondered why love was so complicated when it was so easy to love.

She. Could. Not. Go. Inside.
Gosh, what a ridiculous thing was a debut? How was it possible that she dreaded the morning and, at the same time, was hardly able to await the sunrise? How was it possible that she was both thrilled and terrified? It was not her first exhibition, was it? But it was the one that mattered to her most. And now she was not even sure she wanted to come! She had dressed in the morning, and then she had changed again. And again. Back to the elegant robe and shoes she was wearing now. Her hair, brushed by her for nearly an hour, was shining and perfectly done. She was ready. Last night Lydia, her parents and her friends from America had done a very good job in distracting her. Mary had talked, and laughed, and talked, and laughed. At the end of the evening she was completely relaxed. Now her family was waiting near the entrance, giving her a moment on her own to check her room for the last time before they opened the exhibition. If only her hands would not be so cold!

I quickened my pace when I saw her hesitating at the front door. What was wrong? I took her arm. 'Let's go inside, shall we? I want to have a word with you.' I led her to her room and shut the door. 'I should have asked for permission to close the door, but I need to tell you something very important.' Mary stood there, motionless and expectative. Her eyes, however, were shining with excitement.
'You are happy, aren't you?' I stepped closer, taking her hands in mine.
'Yes. Yes, I am, Edgar'.
'Very good. You must know that today will change everything for you. Your whole life won't be the same when this is over. Naturally, it won't change only for the better. Please believe me, I do not wish to darken your happiness, but you need to be careful. Prepare yourself, my dear.'
'What do you mean?' she asked, certainly on guard and walking to the window.
'These past months you have painted only for yourself. With no one, except me of course, knowing, let alone caring, for what you were doing so passionately in your little studio. But tonight this will change. People you have never met before will suddenly have an opinion. Not only on your work, but also on the way you dress or the way you speak. Not all critics, but many. There will be people perhaps that, themselves, have never had the inclination to draw at all. And nonetheless, these very people will have the effrontery to judge you. As a woman and as the paintress. People who have not the slightest idea of coulours or light will personally attack you, Mary. And they won't care a bit whether you are hurt by their words or not. They won't see the hard work you have put in, they won't understand your talent and artistry, my dear. Many people will insist that you have no taste, no particular style at all. They will disparage your paintings and their meanings mercilessly. They will try to steal your dignity, your beauty. They will go to war to make you suffer. All of them will be wrong, no doubt! Don't you ever forget! They will be wrong!  What I want you to do is believing in yourself. Please do not allow them and their ignorance to knock you down, Mary. You are so strong, please always remember that. I would not know what to do without you.' I saw the shock in her face. Stock-still and pale she stood there, staring at me. Then she crossed the room and lifted her hands to my face. I smelled soap and her, I could hear her heartbeat when she touched my cheeks. The world outside the door had vanished, it was only the two of us in a cocoon of understanding and feeling for each other. 'Let's go and win, then,' she said quietly.

As Degas had predicted, people came in flocks and the place of the exhibition was filled to overflowing on every day it was held. Not everyone, another thing that proofed true, came out of interest for art or sculptural ensembles.

Mary Cassatt, Femme dans une loge, 1879, Oil on canvas, 81.3 x 59.7 cm
(Philadelphia Museum of Art)

Mary Cassatt, Étude de femme avec éventail (M. Ellison), ca 1879, Oil on canvas, 85.5 x 65.1 cm
(National Gallery of Art, Washington)

Mary Cassatt, Au théâtre,  ca 1879, pastel guache, 65 x 54 cm
Private collection

Edgar Degas, Mademoiselle La La au cirque Fernando, 1879, oil on canvas, 117.2 cm × 77.5 cm
National Gallery of London

Edgar Degas, Eventail Ballet, ca 1877–1879, watercolour, silver and gold on silk, 15,6 x 54 cm (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, H. O. Havemeyer Collection)

Edgar Degas, Portrait de danseuse, á la leçon, 1879, pastel and charcoil on paper, 64.5 x 56.2 cm (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, H. O. Havemeyer Collection)

'So? What are you? ​Tell me! ​Are you a real paintress or an American run-away-adventuress more like?' He wouldn't let her escape, would he? His voice was angry, and he almost spit out his question but did not care.
She turned to face him. Her eyes were tired, her cheeks had lost all their rosy colour. 'It's never enough, is it? We are never enough.' She still could feel, physically and mentally, the bitter humiliation when half the visitors shook their heads in disbelief whilst regarding her paintings. 'Is this art? Is this supposed to be good?' they had asked with a sideglance at Mary. Snickering and smirking most of them seemed to have decided that it wasn't. How utterly naïve she had been! She had fled to her atelier, but here, for the first time in her life, the reassuring tranquility and comfort had not kicked in.
'If you are capable to abandon your calling because someone belittles your work, then it has never belonged to you. You leave the field to them and your work becomes theirs.' He still stood in the door, watching her reaction.
'Have you not seen the reviews?' she asked and pointed at the pile of newspapers on her table. They were ten times worse. Degas stepped closer and grabbed the first one. 

A rising American, a Madame
or Mademoiselle Cassatt- you
would have laughed! What, we ask
our dear readers, shall come out of
a collaboration with 'Independents'?

Green and red framing! Good heavens!
Maybe they are supposed to distract
the poor viewers eye from paintings
that are far too strange!

Espérons le pour eux. Let's hope for them.
Le scandale impressionniste.
www.premiere.fr

With instinctive certainty, the old
masters can resume a good night's sleep.
Nothing to fear from Mary Cassatt, her
brushwork is simply dillettantish.

For the artist's sister who was
obviously the sitter for the woman in the loge
it would be wise to have a word with the paintress.
How else will she survive her portrait with
shoulders that look like a roughcast surface.

'Rubbish! Absolute rubbish!' He pushed the papers away.
'Oh, of course. You can talk. What do you have to worry? Your work was praised to the moon.' It was not envy that made Mary say this. His contributions were brilliant and exquisite, the critics were right about that. He was a genius, a multi-talented artist of extraordinary natural endowment.
'I wanted to be strong, you know, and now my defensive wall and my pride are somewhat non-existent, erased by some silly comments in an art journal!'
'Go on,' Degas said. He took her by the shoulders and seated her at the table.
'But if I let go now,' Mary continued, 'it will feel as if I have never understood anything about myself. Anything about art as well.' She paused and then she jumped to her feet. 'How on earth do you do that?' she burst out when she realised he would have waited to all eternity until she was ready to see the truth.
'What do we have here?' Degas grinned and grasped for the papers again. ''We were witnessing the birth of a most spectacular talent. Mademoiselle Cassatt distinguishes herself in a bold but exclusive style.'' See, see.'
'Not all bad, are they?' Mary had recovered her ringing laughter.

*****

Chapter Ten

'Heaven forbid! Look how ugly we are!' Lydia shouted in disgust.
Mary did not immediately reply but then said, 'Don't be silly, Lydia. We do not look ugly at all'. In contrast to her sister Mary was amazed by Degas' latest work. How bold. How confronting. How modern and everyday. How extraordinary and different.
Lydia's protest continued, 'How did he dare to paint me ungraceful like that! I'm slouched like this when returning home in a carriage after dancing all night! This is nothing for the public!'
Mary laughed. Lydia was ridiculously vain sometimes. 'You're reading books when coming home frome a ball, then? I doubt Degas knew that!'

Edgar Degas
Visit to a Musem
c. 1879- 1881

References: https://www.wikiart.org/en/edgar-degas/visit-to-a-museum-1880

Mary had put aside the shock that it was her in the painting, standing there and looking at the displayed artwork. This was so him, wasn't it? He was never satisfied with just the subject he planned to paint. In fact, he was never interested in beauty. What he needed was authenticity. Authenticity in a pure and often relentless way. To Mary, his painting of her was another example of Degas' ingenuity and trueness to himself.
'Le demoiselles Cassatt!' Mary heard his voice before she could see him. She had been so focused on the composition and quite forgotten that they were in the store room the Impressionists shared together, in the section of paintings intended to exhibit next. Degas was now bowing to Lydia, taking her hand to kiss it. He then looked at Mary. 'Mademoiselle,' he murmured and nodded his greeting. Mary smiled and nodded an answer.
'Monsieur Degas,' Lydia cried and Mary noticed that her sister's anger had miraculously gone by his charming way of addressing her.
'How could you do that! I do hope this painting will never adorn the Salon's wall!' Degas was still looking at Mary. His gaze turned back to Lydia.
'No fear, Mademoiselle. They rejected it,' he replied calmly and looked again at Mary. Behind him surfaced the heads of Camille and Claude Monet; after exchanging some pleasantries the couple carried Lydia off for a coffee and some pastries.
'They rejected it? Why?' Mary asked.
'They hardly explain themselves, do they? What do you think? What do you see?' Degas asked instead of an answer.
Mary stepped closer to the painting again.
'They think it is ugly, do they not? As Lydia did.'
'Do you think likewise, Mary?' Degas was watching her.
'No. For me it is like looking into a mirror and seeing myself clear as a fresh morning. Did they critisise the blurriness and unrecognizability of the artwork the women are looking at?' Mary turned her eyes to him.
'Exactly.' He did not move.
'Then they have understood nothing.'
'What should they understand, then?'
'Seeing. This is all about seeing art, Edgar. This is movement. This is energy. This is feeling alive. Feeling normal. Feeling human.'
'Yes.' He still did not move. 'They also mentioned the non-conformity of the constructing lines. And they might have asked me whether I was so desperate and depressed that I could not hide my mental condition. They feigned concern for my well-being'.
'You surely must be joking! Indeed?' Mary's face showed her feelings first class. She once again observed the painting. All she could see was that he, Edgar, intentionally used the earth tones and the fringy brushwork on the bodies and dresses because the meaning of his artwork was conveyed by nothing else than gesture and posture and head alignmemt of the standing woman. She was his messenger, and the contradiction of making her look at the upper right whereas the lines in the painting are drifting towards the upper left only reinforced the strong personality of the femal viewer, her liveliness and self-awareness.
'I love it,' she said and looked at him.
'Merci,' he simply replied.

How to bring a girl into being?
I looked at the two lead pipes I intended to be her legs. One of them was  a nearly straight line; the other one, Marie's right leg, was curved by my use of a vice. The legs were already mounted to a wooden plate that served as a base she stood on. I sorted through the other materials to find the crossbar I had hewn to masquerade her pelvic bone; I also put out the long backbone and her small leaden clavicles. So, I pondered after fixing her frame and playing with the screwdriver in my hand, how to animate a mere metal armature to become a delicate girl of fourteen?

Edgar Degas,
Seated Dancer Adjusting Her Shoes,
c. 1880
References: https://www.edgar-degas.org

Unclothed women flounced through my mind, albeit not the beauties people deeply admired in the works of the Salon. Not the belles in the masterpieces, the distant and untouchable creatures with their alabaster-like skins and bodies like godesses not from this world. What I saw were women made of reality, buffeted by the wind of hard work, and  highly touchable. I saw women in their most secret and vulnerable and intimate poses, combing their hair, drying themselves after a bath, stretching their legs after an evening of uncountable arabesques on stage in order to relax their knotted muscels, or I just saw women dancing, dancing, dancing...

Edgar Degas,
Kneeling Nude,
c. 1888
References: https://www.wikiart.org/en/edgar-degas/kneeling-nude

I turned to my frame that wasn't anywhere near to resembling a female body. It was a sexless figment, an iron-boned spectral figure, alien even to me. How many times, as memory hit me, had Marie taken of her clothes for me? A hundred times or more? How many times had she endured the merciless draughtsman to touch her toned legs, her arms, her girlish breasts to burn into my mind her posture and every inch and detail of her body? How many times did I steal intimacy and dignity from her in the most rapacious and indecent way? How many times was she feeling like a gazelle being circled by an animal of pry to plunder her body at any moment? Well, I had to. There was no other way. I pulled out wire, ropes and wooden pieces to give her a form, the padding material and cotton, the clay and bee wax to give her a human shape. For a second I felt foolish for the work ahead was tedious and time-devouring like nothing I have ever done before. I dismissed the thought and put on my gloves.

What was he up to? How was he at all? Mary wondered. Three weeks since they had last met each other. Neither had he responded to her invitations to spend an evening with her and her family, nor did he show himself at their meetings at the Manet's salon. Mary, filled with care and concern for Edgar Degas, had been tossing  about whether it was acceptable to look after him or not. In the end the need to know had won, and Mary was knocking at the door of his atelier. It seemed ages before the door was opened by a man hardly recognisable by Mary.
'Edgar!' she exclaimed. 'What...?'
'Come in,' he replied making room for her to go inside.
He looks like a vagrant, Mary thought. Obviously, he had not shaved nor trimmed his beard for several weeks, his hair was unkempt and tousled. He looked a bit scruffy, had lost weight and most evidently not slept at all. He led her into the main part of his studio, and Mary saw in an instant what had kept him away. In the middle of the room stood a girl in a lace tutu. Her hair was   adorned with a huge pristine white bow; she was looking upwards with dreamy eyes, as if waiting for inaudible music that would make her move the next second.

Edgar Degas,
La Petite Danseuse de Quatorze Ans,
c. 1880
References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Dancer_of_Fourteen_Years

He had made her so real, so shockingly true! He had made her into something so concrete, so brutal that there was no denial of the girl's allure. Mary, quite familiar with sculptures of any kind, had never seen anything like this before. She noticed her satin slippers, the real hair in her ponytail, the delicate cotton vest the girl was wearing. 
'How do you think you will get away with this?' Mary turned to him. 
'I don't care what people think. I don't care for anyone.'
He was probably right. Mary observed the girl again. She was not of life-size but tall enough to make the centre of attention in every exhibition. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind. It came out of nowhere, and Mary understood what this was all about.
'This is not ambition only, is it? This is not only the newness and excitement of a new project that kept you out of daylight for weeks, is it? Mary spun round, fully facing him now. 
'What else would it be, then?' he asked wearily.
'It's your eyes!' 
He made an odd sounding noise to dismiss such a silly thought. 
'Never heard of such rubbish!' he grunted.
Mary was not at all inclined to abandon what she had just figured out.
'This is not about fame. This is not about confronting the public and shock people to their mark. You made her like this because of your failing eyes. Your vision has transformed into touch! Your gifted hands and the materials, the molding of clay and wax, taught you how to see with your mind instead of your eyes!' She paused, processing the news herself.
'You want to preserve your memory with this,' she continued. 'This past weeks you have learned how your reminiscence will turn itself into a dialogue so realistic, so rational, that no brushwork can rival it. You capitulated,' she concluded quietly, her voice coloured by affection and horror at the same time. She would not let him out of this, it was too important a discovery and should be spoken about.

I said nothing. How did she know?  How on earth did she always know? I looked at her, at a loss of words. I knew she would not stop before she knew what she needed to know. Any other woman would. Not her.
'How bad is it?' she asked promptly.
'The blurring and loss of firm outlines comes and goes. Some days or even weeks I can see, and the next days I can't.' How could I tell her? How could I tell her that she was right in some way but did not know my true motive. It was my fear that one day I could be physically unable to see her. It was the horror of not being able to see her face or her body, not seeing her movement and gestures that made me forbid too many thoughts of her.
'Listen,' I said, 'let us not press on with baseless speculations that just have  arisen from the impulse of a female mind.'
'Baseless speculations? Oh, we're going back to using the means of unkindness, aren't we, Monsieur Degas? Well, as much as you are in command of stylistic painterly tools, I can certainly certificate you are a master with that, too.' She turned and made for the door.

He visited her a week later, unannounced. With him came a boy who was carrying a package for the painter. Degas paid him a few franc and the boy scurried away. As always after an argument, they had not spoken for days. In such cases both of them immersed themselves in work, not allowing thoughts about one another to flow in. Why, Mary thought, was none of us able to act like an adult? He, Mary had learned, always escaped, using the instrument of rudeness. She, anything but more grown than he was, she had to admit that to herself, ignored his notes.
She didn’t even invite him in. At least she let the door open and Degas followed her inside, carefully closing the atelier’s front door. Mary did not pay attention, she did not even speak. She took up the palette she had prepared and progressed working. She was looking at her work, the room was breathing her pride, her concentration and self- assurance.
She had talked about this painting which was nearly finished now. She still stared at the composition in front of her. After some moments of consideration she dipped her brush into the carefully prepared dollops of vermilion and white. She mixed the two colours but not entirely; she needed both to show when she applied them on her canvas, to accomplish the tones of roses in the mother’s dress. Vividly, Mary touched her brush to the fabric on the woman‘s chest, then to the her cheek, then a touch to the shelf, then to her child’s feet. Quickly she put her brush into the glass with turpentine, tapped it on a cloth and brought it back to her palette. Her brush swirled the white and Mary applied it to the shelf with flourishing moves of her wrist. She seemed to have forgotten her visitor and time, she was one with her painting. Suddenly, and somewhat exhausted, she stepped back and put away her untensils. He rose and then stood beside her, looking at her piece.
'This is marvelous. This is what you must do! You found your purpose, Mary. This is love,' he finally spoke. Mary said nothing, she examined the painting herself. She had turned into the viewer, she was not the artist anymore.
'And what about you?‘ She looked at him. 'What will you do next?‘
'I will paint reality‘ he replied.
'And in love there is no reality?‘
'Only when it is painted by you'.

Mary Cassatt, Mother and Child
c. 1890

References: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cassatt_Mary_Mother_and_Child_1890.jpg

She busied herself with cleaning and tidying up. To me she appeared irresistible in her coolness and composed manner.
'I have brought a package with me. Want to see?'
She banged the jar with her brushes on the work top she was standing at. She turned, an indignant look on her face.
'No, I don't want to see! You don't have to do that. I don't want any gifts from you, Edgar!'
She just said that, didn't she? She must be curious, right? Surely all women must when a man has a gift for them? I took the package and put it on the drawer for her to open it. She still made no move to do so.
'How are you? Please tell me,' she sad instead.
I ignored her question not in the mood for small talk. Could she not see? I have  brought this with me, and it was for her.
'It is for you. Please open it, Mary'.
'You won’t tell me, then.’ She grabbed her coat from the hanger and began to dress herself. She slowly closed the buttons; she pinned her hair to hide it under her hat; she took her shawl and walked to the door. I was at her door before she could put her hand on the handle.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘please.’ I led her back into the room, untied the ribbon under her chin and carefully took off her hat.
‘Why is it so exhausting Edgar? Why does it seem impossible to understand you, to develop something deeper than a friendship? Why is it so hard to assuage you, Edgar?’ We stood very close, an inch more and I would touch her lips. She smelled wonderful. Like…Mary, I supposed. Different from any other woman I had met before. Different from the women in the brothels, different from any other woman I ever knew. The thought that I might one day be unable to talk to her, to touch her, to feel all the wholeness of her femininity, to enjoy her personality, was  simply terrifying.
‘Why, Edgar?’ Her voice and her question helped me to come back to my senses.  I flinched, and could immediately see the hurt in her eyes.
‘This is for you. For us. For our time to come, Mary.’ I turned and walked to the door. I could not stand to be with her for another minute. I opened the door and looked back at her. This was wrong. She was wrong. 
‘I am not that man, Mary.'

******

The Final

She had not touched his package. For us? For our time to come? What did he mean by that? Mary forced herself not to think about him, only to find that she wanted to think about him. Silly, she told herself. Silly to suppress thoughts and feelings. Well, she would not do that. Why was he unable to talk about emotions? What had happened to him that this was what it was? That she was never certain what he wanted. Was he happy? Did he want happiness? Or, much more important, even love? She did not know.
But then again, if she thought about it, for far less, far more had been forgiven in this world.

Her doorbell went. A boy handed her a note, wordlessly stretching out his hand for the obolus she always paid. ‘My dearest, Mary, please open the package.’ it read. He had signed with his initials only. Nothing more. Just a single handwritten sentence. Mary laughed. How did he know she had not yet? How on earth did he guess that his gift was still waiting to be unpacked, the box still intact?

‘Very well, then…’ she sighed and placed it on her working table. She cut the twine and with a swish, it fell away. Mary ripped off the brown paper and was presented with samples of copper plates, a selection of burins, a soft cotton cloth, and different brushes. The contents of the package were the implements of a printmaker’s workshop. They had talked about it. The idea, given birth by Degas, had materialised on an evening she still clearly remembered. He had mentioned the German artist Albrecht Durer and his famous etchings. Had she been amazed? Oh, of course! It must be wonderful to transfer sketches of her and him to an etching plate that is a pure as a canvas. Mary could imagine her hands working on the material, polishing it first, adding the ground quite thinly and evenly with a brush, smoking it, tracing the image of the sketch across and work through the entire steps until the work is ready to be printed with an etching press. Intriguing!

“Ma chère Mary,
We have to make plans for our printing collaboration. I cannot say how delighted I was when I received your agreement! You must choose the title for the journals. Mary. All is upon you, my dear. I will be very happy to follow suit to what you suggest and decide. We will change the art world together!

PS I have pondered about your questions. Many times, Mary. We need to talk about them, too.

Yours,
Edgar”

The messieurs Pissarro and Bracquemond were in with them too he had told her when the met a week ago, two weeks after Degas had given her the package. Bracquemond, Mary remembered now, was experienced in printmaking and had offered to teach them all they had to learn about it. How would it be? Would she miss painting because etching would keep her away from her beloved easel? And, it would mean that she was supposed to be working very close to Edgar’s side, would it not? Was she ready for that? Could she live with the inevitable intimacy, long days, fought-over opinions and shared conversations? Et bien oui, when it came to Edgar Degas she had learned one thing; she would never say yes when she meant to say no. So yes, she was absolutely certain she could master it.

‘Good heavens!’ Pissarro came rushing in and stormed to the window. ‘You will choke to death one day!’ he scolded. ‘One day I will find the two of you dying for your art. I see it coming!’ He frantically fiddled with the hinge and pushed the window open. Mary’s plate fell into her lap, and she cursed.
‘Oh, Mademoiselle,’ Pissarro said, ‘does cursing refer to the ruined plate or to your now ruined dress?’

Edgar Degas’ atelier had been declared the operating theatre and therefore their second home. He had given spare keys to them; it had turned out to be easier for all of them to come and go on their own accounts. Etching and printing had developed to their newest passion, but there were nevertheless commissions they had to attend to. Mary and Pissarro were, as opposed to Degas, depending on the maintenance of the expenses of their own studios, once the printing project was finished. Mary, for example, and despite her atelier would be covered in dust and cobwebs probably, needed the certainty of having her own realm when she required it. Camille Pissarro divided his time as well; he, however, spent much more of it still with painting and was not often  with them. Bracquemond popped in and out as they needed his skills and advice. Although there was the deadlne they had set for the journal to be published, they had made great progress since they started.

Mary Cassatt, The Fitting, ca. 1891
The National Gallery of Art Washington

Mary Cassatt, The Coiffure, 1890- 1891
The National Gallery of Art Washington

How brave had she become. The more I dwelt on her, the more inadequate the thought became. Not brave. She had always been brave. A really tough girl she was, to be honest. How much she had become herself. That's it. I looked at her prints. How excellent.  How truly outstanding.
I viewed the first print again, took it very close to my eyes to see the accuracy, her extraordinary craftsmanship, her sense of beauty. The scene she depicted in The Fitting, I thought, appeared quite trivial at first look. However, what Mary explored here was far more than that. It was the territory of women, Mary's territory. Same as we men have exclusive access to the scenes behind the stage in the theatre where no women like Mary were allowed, she gives us insight into a very private moment in a woman's life. I looked at the lines she had drawn so incredibly perfect, the face of the woman standing in front of the mirror, her features like eyes and lips and nose. Her delicate shape, her neck and waist, and her hands. Her beautiful reflection in the mirror. It did not matter what Mary took into her artistic hands, whether it was a brush and paint or experimenting with several techniques of printing, everything she did was executed with absolute magnificence and passion to her themes. Albeit the woman who is being fitted seems to be the main character in the print, it is the seamstress that attracts the viewer's eye to similar equality, if not more. Even though we can only see the back of her, Mary masterfully endows the girl in the brown dress with such a  grace and sincerity that preserves her anonymity but also assures that she gets the same attention as the standing woman. Mary, I decided once again, is brilliant at provoking thoughts and raises questions in her elegant manner!

I looked at her second print. How sensitive she was, how respectful towards a woman's nakedness. Her lines were beautiful again, simple but really facile in style. She had created sensual curves of a girl's body, exquisite and tasteful outlines that make sure to show the intentional erotic touch of a woman's natural sexuality. In contrast to that, and especially to emphasize the girl's  sinuousness yet delicacy, Mary had used  bold colours and straight lines for the furniture. Very well done her. Very well done, indeed.

Did I love her? The question crossed my mind like a flash as I was looking at her images. Her different view on things, views of a female mind combined with an outspokenness and wittiness, were as alluring as her beauty itself. Her friendship, her elegant manners, her acuteness, her quick replies to any topic on this earth, her artistry and taste in colours and composition, her brushwork  that was so refreshing and provocative- all of this was unparalleled by anyone else I have ever met. But was it love? Was it affection perhaps? Or just liking? Did I desire her? Senseless questions! I put down the prints and got back to my own work, forbidding myself any further thought of her.

Edgar Degas, Mary Cassatt at the Louvre, 1879- 1880
National Gallery of Art Washington

​Mary was happy. Printing and etching had refined her painterly skills. Drawing on a plate demanded strict discipline and concentration as the surface never excused the slightest mistake or uncertainty of her hand. And the other thing; Mary's fear of being so close to Degas, spending all day with him, had proved to be manageable. She learned so many things from him; she appreciated his views and his help; she mastered his criticism that was proffered uncalled sometimes and lacking of tact and feel. She had accepted his mood swings; she loved his way of talking, his humour, his knowledge; his sarcasm. She loved the  endless discussions about how often and what to print, the arguments on what poetry would go best with the images.

Le Jour et la Nuit, she had told him. That was her chosen title for the journal. Mary had been on tiptoe for several days because of the imminent deadline. Tonight all of them were to meet for the final proofreading of the issue and to do the last editing if needed. She felt the very well-known butterflies, the sweet horror inside her tummy that heralded the excitement of having done something new and spectacular for people who loved and enjoyed art. The mere thought of it made her feet running faster, her breath getting shorter, her heart pounding louder.

She arrived at the door of Degas’ atelier. And it was locked. Why had the door been locked? She tried her keys and entered a studio that was dark and cold, and uninviting. She turned on the light. She switched on the oven. She made tea. Where on earth were Degas, Pissarro and Bracquemond?
She worked for two hours on her own, concentrated and not thinking of anything else than her work. When she needed a break, she realised how absurd this was. She tidied up, put all the tools away, left the studio and went home. Mary decided to walk; it was almost eleven but she needed the fresh air. She was about to enter her apartment when a voice called her name.

‘What is it, Monsieur Manet?’
‘Degas has confirmed after I had heard it as a rumour. He did not even try to explain his reasons to me, let alone listen to me when I tried to persuade him to change his mind. I am so sorry, Mademoiselle.’
‘I do not understand, I am afraid. What has happened, Monsieur Manet?’
Mary knew the answer before Manet had said a word. Her whole body went cold, she felt sick and weary in seconds. Nonetheless, she forced herself to ask Manet to tell her everything he knew.
'He said he was not prepared.'

The Present Day

All he had to do was telling her.
But he had not.
Now, a month later, he suddenly called at her studio. She had heard he was abroad to work on other commissions. She had rarely seen him so disconcerted. He stood there, only looking at her.
‘Mademoiselle Cassatt…’ he began and then stopped like being at a loss of words. Mademoiselle Cassatt. He had not called her that for over two years.
'Have you ever loved anyone?' Mary asked.
‘Mademoiselle, your problem with working with me was that you focused all your time and attention on the journal and what we did. You should have been more professional.’
‘That was not my question. Have you ever loved anyone? At all, Edgar?’
 
Could I tell her? Could I tell her that she enchanted me like no one before? Could I tell her that she was the only woman I could tolerate being with in that universe of mine? That I sometimes cannot sleep at night because I see etchings, colour, canvases- and her face? That I sometimes think nothing I make is right and will ever be finished? That I sometimes think I only produce items like a worker because I am not gifted at all? That on each morning I do feel like a bloody beginner? That she one day won't believe anymore what I see? That there was not my body only, but also and much more my soul that was asking and longing for her? But then, making her an intimate companion in my life would mean to make myself subject to love. Was not I  already troubled enough? What is love, anyway?
‘I am not a typical man, Mademoiselle. You have come to understand, have you not? The language of love has never been mine,’ I said at last.
'I have never wanted a typical man. You have come to understand that, have you not? Mary asked me. I did not know what to say.
'Would it be easier if you and I were less alike?' she asked then.
Again, no reply from me.
'It would seem a silly reason not to love each other when we can in our own way, would it not?' She made for the door, her posture all determination and belief. She had said what she had come for.
'I didn't say I didn't love you, Mary.'

Mary Cassatt at her home, Degas' fan at the wall in the backgound. It was a gift to her when she exhibited with him for the first time.
References: Sources unknown

******

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