« In Which Berthe Morisot Is Spared Nothing »

Paris On Fire

I've found an honest and excellent young man who, I believe, sincerely loves me. I've entered into the positive side of life after having lived for a long time by chimeras.

It's all vantage points. From the perspective of the sky, men dominated the Impressionist movement. On the ground things weren't as clear. The singular female impressionist Berthe Morisot was alternately challenged and defused by the indelible artistic talent that surrounded her. Ironically, her personal correspondence to a variety of men and women shows all who knew her in a more stark, realistic light. Modernity came on the shoulders of these individuals, for whom gender was the least of their concerns. After her marriage to Manet's brother Eugene, she gave birth to a daughter Julie, and seemed to be rid of the anxieties of her years as a struggling young painter. The writing in the correspondence that follows is sharp, incisive, and almost entirely devoid of a familiar cynicism.

Edma Morisot's portrait of Berthe

Berthe wrote to her sister about a blind date:

I have missed my chance, dear Edma, and you may congratulate me on having got rid so quickly of all my agitations... Fortunately this gentleman turned out to be completely ludicrous. I had not expected this, and was quite surprised, but by no means disappointed!

Now that I am free of all anxiety, and am taking up against my plans for travel, which in truth I had never given up, I am counting definitely on my stay in Lorient to do something worthwhile. I have done absolutely nothing since you left, and this is beginning to distress me. My painting never seemed to me as bad as it has in recent days. I sit on my sofa and the sight of all these daubs nauseates me.

I am going to do my mother and Yves in the garden; you see I am reduced to doing the same things over and over again. Yesterday I arranged a bouquet of poppies and snowballs, and could not find the courage to begin it.

Berthe

Berthe's mother was an amazing writer, whose plain and straightforward correspondence exceeds the high literature of the time by more than a small margin. She writes to Berthe,

Your father seemed to be deeply touched, my dear Bijou, by the letter you wrote to him. He appears to have discovered in you unsuspected treasures of the heart, and an unusual tenderness toward him in particular... In consequence he often says that he misses you. But I wonder why. You hardly ever talk to each other, you are never together. Does he miss you then, as one misses a piece of furniture or a pet bird?

Madame Morisot was just as jocular with her daughter Edma in describing an encounter with Berthe:

The great joy we have had in seeing each other again is more imaginary than real. It is cruel to admit this, nevertheless it is easy to explain. Berthe does not find me as communicative as I was before her departure; she also claims that I looked at her with surprise, as though I were thinking that she has grown decidedly plainer - which in fact I do - a little.

She always spoke most honestly to her sister Edma.

Manet exhorted me so strongly to do a little retouching on my painting of you, that when you come here I shall ask you to let me draw the head again and add some touches at the bottom of the dress, and that is all. He says that the success of my exhibition is assured and that I do not need to worry; the next instant he adds that I shall be rejected. I wish I were not concerned with all this.

I have wanted to write to you, my dear Edma, but then I feel myself overcome by an insurmountable laziness. I am reproached by everybody and I do not have the strength to react. And I understand perfectly the difficulties you have in painting; I have reached the point of wondering how I have ever in my life been able to do anything...

Didn't you try to work by the river in that place at the water's edge that we thought was so pretty? It seems to me that the season ought to be more favourable, particularly if you have sun. Yves writes that she continues to be bored; as for me, I am sad, and what is worse, everyone is deserting me. I feel alone, disillusioned, and old in the bargain.

Berthe

the morisot house in paris

Berthe's father was extremely ill, and she reported to her sister of her visit there.

I have made up my mind to stay, because neither father or mother told me firmly to leave; they want me to leave in the way anyone here wants anything - weakly, and by fits and starts. For my own part I would much rather not leave them, not because I believe that there is any real danger, but because my place is with them, and if by ill luck anything did happen, I should have eternal remorse. I will not presume to say that they take great pleasure in my presence; I feel very sad, and am completely silent.

I have heard so much about the perils ahead that I have had nightmares for several nights, in which I lived through all the horrors of war. To tell the truth, I do not believe all these things. I feel perfectly calm, and I have the firm conviction that everything will come out better than expected. The house is dreary, empty, stripped bare.

Berthe

I read your letter of last night with much pleasure; everything you tell me is pleasant to hear and reassures me about my exhibition which I thought must be ludicrous You do not tell me what Edouard thinks of the exhibition as a whole; I think I can read between the lines that he was only moderately satisfied with it. Am I mistaken?

The prospect of leaving discourages me a little from beginning anything here; however in a little while I am to decide how to pose the lady with the parrots. If I am satisfied, I'll try to paint it very quickly; if not, I shall not do anything at all under the pretext that I must leave in a hurry.

I have just had lunch and now continue this letter. I have begun my lady with the parrots; I was surrounded by all the boarders while working. I don't think I have posed her very well; however, one could do something very pretty with her. I thought all the time what Eduoard would do of her, and as a result I naturally found my own attempt all the less attractive. I have begun it in the garden with a very prety, quite exotic background - palm trees, aloes, lawn.

Berthe

Last night I went to see Sardou's Odette with Mme Conneau; the performance is much better than I expected. All the references to Nice are received with laughter and applause. The theatre was pretty well-filled, yesterday's peformane was the third. But how false all the modern theatre is, eternally revolving around the same themes! You see that I lose no time in your absence, but I decidedly prefer outdoor pleasures. My walk the other day at Monaco was infinitely more pleasant to me than that stuffy evening.

Berthe

Her mother wrote to her,

Paris on fire! This is beyond any description... Throughout the day the wind kept blowing in charred papers; some of them were still legible. A vast column of smoke covered Paris, and at night a luminous red cloud, horrible to behold, made it all look like a volcanic eruption. There were continual explosions and detonations; we were spared nothing. They say the insurrection is crushed; but the shooting has not yet stopped. Hence this is not true.

Should M. Degas have got a bit scorched, he will have well deserved it.

Madame Morisot

She wrote to her sister:

I saw our friend Manet yesterday; he left with his far Suzanne for Holland, and in such a bad humour that I do not know how they will get there. He wrote to me this morning to inform me about his departure, and to tell me that he had given my address to a very rich gentleman who want to have portraits of his children done in pastel. He advises me to make him pay handsomely if I want him to respect me. This is an extraordinary opportunity that I must not let slip.

If I were actually sure that this gentleman would be coming to see me, I should be somewhat worried. I know my nerves, and the trouble I should have if I undertook such a thing. Suppose that by chance he does come: tell me what I can ask - 500 francs, that is to say, 1000 francs for the two? That seems to me enourmous!

In another letter:

I sent my Cherbourg seascape to Manet. He was to show it to Durand-Ruel. I have not heard anything about it since. I am eager to learn a little money, and I am beginning to lose all hope. Have you worked this week? You are far more fortunate than I am: you work when you feel like it, and that is the only way in which one can do good work. As for me, I work hard without respite or rest, and it's pure waste...

I am invited to go to the country, where I could ride horseback, paint, etc, but all that scarcely tempts me. I am sad, sad as one can be. I am reading Darwin. It is scarcely reading for a woman, even less for a girl. What I see clearly is that my situation is impossible from every point of view.

Renoir's portrait of Berthe's daughter Julie Manet

Berthe's writings show that the men in the Impressionist circle were always her peers. The following was a reply to Mallarme, who had told her, "I want to know what you are doing under your blue skies":

My dear friend, it is kind of you to send me such a charming new entry, and I feel very guilty to have delayed all this time telling you delighted I was. Fundamentally I am like Julie; you disturb me a great deal, and this, as well as the fact that I am working badly serves me an excuse. This country is too beautiful for me.

Now I want to think only of the water-colours, and to try to be worthy of you will be an added difficulty for me. The carnival is on We have been terribly cold these last days, and we have had rain which distressed Bibi; she has a mauve domino - this colour is fashionable in Nice - and she intends to take part in all the festivities. These celebrations would be pretty if only the organizers had a little taste and imagination; the people cooperate with a goodwill that is charming, but there is nothing French about the pranks. This is incidentally the feeling one has all the time - that one is not at home. You can imagine whether I shall be delighted to see Paris again.

Berthe

Manet's portrait of Mallarme Renoir wrote to her from Pornic:

Every day I want to write to you and I do not because I am in a very bad humour. I have ended up by being stranded at Pronic where I am teaching my son to swim; so far so good, but I should be painting landscapres. The country here is quite pretty, and that is why I am so cross. To paint landscapes is becoming for me an ever greater torture, all the more so because it is a duty: obviously this is the only way to learn one's craft a little, but to station oneself out of doors like mountebank, this is something I can no longer do.

In my moments of enthusiasm I wanted to tell you, 'Do come', but then I seized by the boredom of the seashore, and I do not want to play on you a bad trick by telling you to come to a place where I am so bored, a place I should quickly leave were I alone. Nevertheless I went to Noirmoutiers; it is superb and quite like the south, far superior to Jersey and Guernsey, but too far away, much too far. If I were bolder, there would be lovely things to do there, as everywhere else for that matter.

I have gone so long without writing to you that I no longer dare to ask you how you are, whether you have stayed in Paris, or whether you have gone to Touraine, as you intended. Are you still worried about where to live? This is something I want to put out of my mind, I find it so troublesome. To relieve myself of the studio problem I toyed for a while with the idea of going to Algeri with some friends, but I think it is bad to be always traveling, I shall write to you when I painted an interesting landscape.

Now I can only wish you a better humour than mine, and above all good health; the same to my excellent friend Julie. Your friend.

Renoir

"Take It Easy On Yourself" - Scott Gagner (mp3)

"Sentimental Lullaby" - Scott Gagner (mp3)

sanguine

Comments

[Bardo]

Beautiful images! My favorite picture is Madame Morisot.