MONDAY, 2 MARCH
Today is the anniversary of that dreadful day when Maman suffered for the last time. It was the harshest pain, both physical and mental. A whole year has slipped away already. It was cold then; the weather was in mourning, like our hearts. Today, I am alone and still mourning, but nature itself is cheerful and sunny. The yew trees in the cemetery starkly outlined against the blue sky dotted with wispy clouds, while the wreaths glittered on the tombs. Beneath that huge green tree where Edouard Manet was the first in our family to be laid to rest, the azalea blended its immaculate whiteness with the delicate meadowsweet to brighten up the dreary grey granite. There is something reassuring about this place, which seems to whisper to me that Maman is happy…
And later, going into the Durand-Ruel gallery,167 her paintings all spread out on the floor gave me a feeling of brightness just as the white azalea had done.
Monsieur Monet was already there. He kissed me tenderly and I was very pleased indeed to see him again; it was very kind of him to come running over here like this, forsaking his work. Monsieur Degas was busy with the hanging; then Monsieur Renoir arrived, not looking well at all. Among other numerous errands, Monsieur Mallarmé had gone to the printers for the catalogue.
TUESDAY, 3 MARCH
Another day spent at Durand-Ruel’s. The paintings were beginning to look better and better. Monsieur Monet never stopped working. They asked us for copies after Boucher, then the ones after Veronese, as well as lots of other paintings, as there seems to be more room than we thought to hang pictures.
WEDNESDAY, 4 MARCH TO FRIDAY, 6 MARCH
Went to Durand-Ruel’s with Tante Edma and Blanche and took the bust with us.168 We found Monsieur Degas all by himself putting up drawings in the room at the far end. He kept repeating that he wanted to have nothing to do with the general public, especially the people who go around wide-eyed, peering at paintings, or more precisely standing in front of them without seeing them while murmuring, ‘Oh how extraordinary! How very, very beautiful!’
While chatting to Tante Edma, Degas asked her if she wanted to meet a ballet dancer. When she said yes, he took her into another small gallery where she was. The dancer exclaimed loudly in a very harsh voice: ‘Well, hello Degas, who’s this lady then? She looks so like the one who died last year; by the way, how are you keeping? I am pursuing you because I think somehow I will get more of a response if I speak to you in the flesh than if I simply write’, and on and on she went… I didn’t want to hear any more so I left the room. Degas caught up with me once she had left: ‘Goodness, that dancer has a nerve! She wanted me to come and have dinner at her house with the King of Serbia, who has just abdicated in favour of his son;169 although I had already declined for last Tuesday, I have now been forced to accept for Thursday because I can’t get out of it. But I must say I will be amused to see the curious animal this king must be.’
Monsieur Monet selected the painting that Maman had left to him in her will;170 he also chose one of me and Laertes171 which I like very much and I’m very happy Monsieur Monet has it now. He gave me a good-natured kiss, saying ‘She’s such a sweetie!’, and he has invited us to go to Giverny.
Madame Monet and Mademoiselle Blanche172 then arrived; Madame Butler173 is still very ill. Lots of people have already attended since Monday. The critics Arsène Alexandre174 and Geffroy175 have been back frequently.
By the end of the day, we were asking ourselves how on earth everything was going to be ready by the next day, and we arranged to meet in the morning; but a decision had to be made as to whether the screen with all the drawings and watercolours should be placed in the middle of the big gallery or in the room at the back.
Monsieur Degas was the only one who wanted the screen to remain in the big gallery where it cut the room into two and prevented the viewer standing back properly from the large paintings such as the Cerisiers,176 the copy after Boucher, L’Oie,177 etc., as well as other smaller ones whose tones look so harmonious next to each other, especially when seen from a distance. Monsieur Degas wouldn’t hear a word about the general effect: ‘There’s no such thing as a general effect’, he said. ‘Only imbeciles see a “general effect”. What on earth is it supposed to mean when one writes in a newspaper that the “general impression” of this year’s Salon is much better than that of last year’s?’
Towards six o’clock, when night began to fall, a few of the paintings were still illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, all her portraits of young girls seemed more and more alive but the screen in the middle looked more like a large wall than ever. Monsieur Monet asked Monsieur Degas if he wouldn’t mind trying the infamous screen in the end gallery the next day, but Monsieur Degas claimed that the drawings on it wouldn’t be visible there – ‘Those drawings are superb, I prefer them to all these paintings.’
‘The screen in the drawings gallery would give it an intimate, quite charming atmosphere’, ventured Monsieur Mallarmé. ‘It will just confuse the public to see drawings in the middle of the paintings.’
‘What do I care about the public?’ shouted Monsieur Degas. ‘They see absolutely nothing – it’s for myself, for ourselves, that we are mounting this exhibition; you can’t honestly mean that you want to teach the public to see?’
‘I certainly do’, replied Monsieur Monet, ‘at least, we want to try. If we had put this exhibition on just for ourselves, it wouldn’t be worth going to the trouble of hanging all these paintings; we could quite simply look at them on the floor.’
During the discussion Monsieur Renoir told us that what he wanted to do was put the couch in the middle of the room: in fact, I agree it would indeed be rather pleasant to be able to sit down while viewing, but Monsieur Degas wouldn’t hear of it. ‘I would stay on my feet for thirteen hours if I had to’, he screamed.
It was dark by then, and, as he spoke, Monsieur Degas paced back and forth in his great hooded cape-coat and top hat, his silhouette looking terribly comical. Monsieur Monet, also on his feet, was beginning to shout; Monsieur Mallarmé was trying unsuccessfully to smooth things over; Monsieur Renoir, totally exhausted, was sprawled on a chair. The porters at Durand-Ruel were laughing, ‘You watch: he’ll never give in!’ Mademoiselle Blanche, Jeannie and I were just listening. ‘You want me to remove this screen which I absolutely ADORE’, Monsieur Degas said, emphasizing the last word.
‘We also ADORE Madame Manet’, answered Monsieur Monet. ‘It’s not a question of the screen, but it’s about Madame Manet’s exhibition. Come on, Degas, let’s agree to try the screen in the other room tomorrow.’
‘Only if you can assure me that in your opinion, this room is better without it.’
‘Yes, that IS my opinion!’ stated Monet.
But that wasn’t the end of it and the argument started up all over again. All of a sudden, Monsieur Degas shook hands with Jeannie and me and walked towards the door. Monsieur Monet tried to stop him from going and then they all shook hands; but Monsieur Mallarmé had the bad idea to mention the dreaded word ‘couch’ again and, like a bolt of lightning, Monsieur Degas rushed out down the narrow corridor. We heard the door slam and he’d gone. We left one another that evening all a bit dumbfounded, to say the least.
I arrived at Durand-Ruel’s at 9 o’clock, but the only people there were the handymen sweeping the floors. I continued with my job of numbering the paintings, and soon after Monsieur Monet and Monsieur Renoir arrived to help.
‘You can bet Degas won’t be coming’, said Monsieur Renoir. ‘He’ll be here later in the day up a ladder hammering away and will say, “Can’t we cordon off the entrance to prevent people from getting in?” I know him too well.’
Sure enough, no Monsieur Degas all morning. We decided to put the screen in the end gallery and the watercolours and drawings were hung on it. At last, everything was ready and beautifully arranged; the exhibition looks marvellous.
Julie then lists all the paintings in her mother’s memorial exhibition, room by room, beginning in the small gallery on the rue Laffitte side where all the early works were hung.
On the panel at the far end, Sur la pelouse,178 a large pastel done at Maurecourt with Tante Edma, and Blanche lying on the grass with her head leaning on her mother’s lap, and Jeanne farther away; the painting is in tones of delicious greens, from which the charming blonde head and pretty pink face of Blanche emerges. Above La Chasse aux papillons,179 also done at Maurecourt with Tante Edma and her daughters. I was not familiar with these two pictures: the black patches of the dresses in the grass have extraordinary graphic power. On the right, Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe,180 painted in Normandy at Beuzeval. Papa sat for that one – he’s lying on the grass, the foreshortening is astonishingly well done; the figure of the woman in blue is full of graceful movement, her hand (even though this figure is tiny) is beautifully executed, taking an orange from a basket, the bread, carafe, glasses on a white napkin, all are equally well painted. I viewed this painting again with great pleasure, the green of the grass is so soft that it envelops the figure well. Around it, are: Le Petit cerisier,181 a more recent work. A few of these have been put among the older ones and look really good. The branches of the cherry tree against the blue sky are the colours of precious stones.
The still life Roses devant une gravure,182 normally in Paule and Jeannie’s bedroom, reminds me that I brought the roses back from Les Halles where the three of us went at four in the morning; that was about eight years ago.
In the corner Étang et pigeonnier, a dovecote at Vassé near the pond, with the reflection of the sparse trees of that autumn of 1892 when we found that week we spent there so very long. Maman and I both sensed the same feeling of sadness in the huge château at the beginning of November; not to see Papa at Vassé among his family seemed ominous to me. ‘When I was working on that’, Maman said to me one day, showing me this ravishing landscape, ‘I couldn’t stop myself from crying when I was alone in my room.’ And in this reflection of trees in the grey water, indeed one views the landscape through a veil of tears.
Vue de Tours,183 done from the museum the same year, in very delicate pink tones.
Le Bassin du port de Fécamp,184 grey houses rising up in the distance above a foreground of wheatfields.
Le Chantier:185 Papa and Maman both did the same study of this shipyard the year before their marriage; Maman gave what she had done to Papa. Then Portier asked for it; he didn’t sell it and it was only two or three years ago that the little picture came back home and I saw it for the first time.
Angleterre,186 two charming English children in a meadow.
L’Aurore,187 minute marine pastel, with just a little boat on the pink sea. It’s full of the gaiety of a sunrise over the immense sea – the sea which from grandly beautiful becomes merely kindly or perhaps even just pretty; all pink, as are the sky and the sand on which rays of light from the sun fall as it rises. Monsieur Monet thought this pastel was ravishing. I share his view – to prove my point, I asked if it could be mine quite a long time ago, and Maman gave it to me as a present.
On the left: Intérieur, Île de Wight, Plage de Fécamp, En Angleterre188 with the portrait of Papa in profile looking out of the window of a tiny cottage which overlooks the sea, with flowerpots on the window-sill … this painting was done in 1875 during the trip to England that Maman and Papa made for their honeymoon; it hangs in my bedroom and was in Maman’s during the last few months of her life.
Marine d’Angleterre,189 which Monsieur Degas likes very much and which he cleaned with enormous care. That shows a very slim woman in black against a green sea with very well-drawn steamers and sailboats in the distance; then L’Entrée du port190 with a magnificently painted steamer leaving the harbour.
On the right-hand panel: in the middle, the big picture which usually hangs in the salon with Papa sitting in profile on a bench in the garden at Bougival and me,191 when I was very small, playing with my building blocks on his knee; the hollyhocks in brilliant colours behind us look like a fresco. It’s painted on the back of another canvas.
Beneath it, Cache-cache,192 with Tante Edma and little Jeanne at Maurecourt under a tree laden with cherries and the village in the distance and an open parasol on the grass. Tante Edma’s green veil has all the lightness of gauze.
To the right: Anémones dans un cornet de verre.193 These lovely flowers simply sketched directly onto the canvas; the stems are marvellously transparent.
Next to it Au Bal,194 a very dark-haired woman in a low-cut gown, with a dark purple flower on her bodice of white chiffon, her beautifully painted white kid gloves holding an equally well-painted lovely fan. This is quite an early work, which I like enormously. I saw it for the first time in the 1992 exhibition. It belongs to Monsieur Donop de Monchy,195 who has lots of other equally ravishing things. It used to hang in the dining room of the apartment on the avenue d’Eylau where Jeannie and I were born.
Beneath it: Pigeonnier du Mesnil,196 done in ’92, seen from the courtyard; the dovecote has all the qualities of old stone against a greenish blue tree which is both intense yet soft.
Next to that Port de Nice,197 with a small pale yellow boat in the foreground reflected in the blue water, with other bigger ones in all sorts of colours behind it, and between the masts some pink houses. This was done during our first visit to Nice in 1881. Maman painted it from a boat out in the harbour and I watched her from the quay, wishing I could be with her and at the same time being too scared to go. To the left, Le Vase bleu,198 with a smallish sunflower amid dahlias; it hangs in our dining room and looks very nice under the Breton peasant women. Next to that, Fillette aux jacinthes,199 a very well-executed pastel from before the war where a small girl reflected in a mirror is pouring water into the vase of hyacinths. Below the Marine anglaise200 and next to that Femme étendant du linge201 in which the washing is so very white and the washerwoman’s arms hanging it out to dry are exquisite. This is also painted on the back of another canvas.
On the left-hand panel: in the centre, a portrait of Tante Edma202 wearing a black dress done in pastel before the birth of Blanche – it’s a lovely thing.
Underneath it, the low-relief panel in pewter of Marthe in a chemise with Jeanne-Marie at her feet.203
On a table in front of that, a marvellous bust of me at 7,204 in pinkish terracotta, so young, yet so full of life.
On the right: Un coin de Paris vu de l’ancien Trocadéro205 with the Panthéon, the Invalides, the churches of Sainte-Clothilde, Saint-Sulpice magnificently drawn against the skyline and the Seine winding between the houses. In front of the Trocadéro gardens there are two figures of women and a little girl. The whole thing is beautifully painted and in astonishing perspective. Under that, Pomme coupée,206 a little still life I have in my bedroom. It shows the apple cut in two with very white flesh with two black pips on a wooden table in front of an extraordinarily transparent Bohemian glass carafe. Next to it Salle à manger207 of the ground floor apartment in the rue de Villejust with Pasie clearing the table and Gamin, my little dog, playing in the foreground. To the left, Le Port de Lorient,208 in one corner of the canvas Tante Edma dressed in white on a little wall, holding an open parasol; the quay with trees in front of the houses is so lifelike and the blue water is as transparent as the day we visited Lorient. Under that, Le Balcon de la chambre de papa à Bougival209 with Pasie sewing and me very blond against a background of russet and yellow foliage. And then Le Berceau,210 baby Blanche through the muslin curtains and the lovely profile of Tante Edma in grey bending over the crib.
On the wall with the door, to the right, is a copy of Veronese’s La Descente de croix,211 lovely, and accurate despite being done at the Louvre where the Veronese was hung very high up.
Beneath it, Femme et enfants sur le gazon,212 Tante Edma again with her baby daughters in the garden at Maurecourt; they’re under lilac trees, with delightful flowers which envelop the figures in a marvellous green tone. It’s one of the prettiest paintings, an old one like most of the ones here. Monsieur Degas discovered it at Stevens’s house.
On the left: Temps d’hiver,213 a woman with a fur hat and coat against a snowy background.
Beneath that Villa au bord de la mer214 with Tante Edma and Jeanne on the terrace of a chalet at Fécamp against the green sea. In this painting I can see a certain similarity between the way she paints the blacks and the sea and Oncle Edouard’s technique. It’s the only case, despite what people say, in which I can see his influence; and anyway Maman only ever watched Oncle Edouard paint; she was never his pupil. Over the door, La Tasse de thé215 in which a redhead in a blue dress stretches out a very white hand to take a teacup from a table on the veranda at Bougival. Then Dahlias,216 a very finished early still life that my Oncle Edouard loved of darkish blooms in one of the large Saxony vases which are still on the mantelpiece of our drawing room.
This little gallery, which offers the viewer all the charming, intimate works of her youth, prepares the viewer for the main gallery where, like a bouquet of the loveliest flowers, all the canvases seem to glow softly. It seems as though one was going into another atmosphere. It’s a paradise, with feminine delicacy combined with the power of the drawing. Ah, Maman, what talent! Your œuvre has never to me seemed as beautiful as it did today; it’s the reflection of a pure soul! One must be inspired by God to produce all this, and certainly the greatest artists are always the most virtuous of men; no talent without goodness or goodness so great it replaces all else. Miss Vos used to say to me: ‘All of us have something of the divine in us, God gives to each one a little of himself; some acquire more of this divinity through goodness, duty, work, talent; and the beautiful and superb things man makes are divine. God gives us this consolation.’ What a difference it makes for me to mourn Maman surrounded by all these wonderful things which she created and which embody her. Going into these rooms where her glory shines forth, I feel she is happy in heaven. Oh Maman, please inspire me!
This is how the big gallery is arranged. The panel on the right entering via rue Laffitte, a copy after Boucher: in the middle, two Graces in the clouds,217 completely enveloped in blue and pink. It’s a copy after the big painting in the Louvre Vénus va demander les armes à Vulcain,218 which was done especially to go above the Louis XVI mirror in the salon after we moved into the rue de Villejust in about 1883 or ’84. But some years later, this copy was replaced by a big landscape by Monet done in the Midi, which is now above the door in our salon on the other side of the Boucher. Then, La Leçon au jardin219 in which Papa in a straw hat and I lightly dressed and in a wide-brimmed straw hat that they had brought back from Jersey and with a cat on my lap are both seated on the green bench in the garden of the house in rue de Villejust, in full sun and surrounded with flowers.
On the right, the version of Le Cerisier220 which was worked on the most, begun at Mézy, with Jeannie below holding the basket and me on the ladder picking cherries. It was finished in the rue Weber apartment with a very nice model, and Jeannie stayed as she was. The sky is that of a hot day, with the arms of the cherry-picker silhouetted against it, and the branches of the cherry tree marvellously drawn. There are reflections in the green tones of the tree, and the softness of the atmosphere envelops the brilliant patches of sunlight in her pink dress. The lower figure in a straw hat is also beautifully enveloped in the green shadow of the tree.
The second Le Cerisier 221 on the left was worked on in the rue Weber between the time she began and finished the other one. The sky is bluer, the greens above more brilliant, the cherry-picker figure in a white dress with pink flowers, in the shadow of the tree, has her arms raised higher; the lower figure is also wearing a lighter coloured dress. Lots of people don’t know which of the two pictures they prefer; they hesitate, and cannot make their minds up. Monsieur Degas likes no. 3 and Monsieur Renoir also likes that better as a whole, but prefers parts of the other. Monsieur Monet admires both of them. Monsieur Mallarmé prefers no. 2 and so do I; perhaps that’s because Maman considered it by far the better and had spent more time on it.222
Last January, the dealer Camentron took this painting away to sell it. Maman was only asking 1,500 francs, but when he had gone she wished she hadn’t given it to him and wrote asking him to return it. Unfortunately, the dealer claimed to have sold it already, was very unpleasant, and demanded a commission of 150 francs, which Maman immediately gave him in order to get it back. In fact, the purchaser turned out to be my cousin Gabriel Thomas, and as he had made no firm promise to buy it everything sorted itself out. Maman promised to paint something decorative especially for him.
When Le Cerisier was returned to the little studio in the rue Weber, Maman said : ‘I did the right thing not to sell it. I worked on it for so long at Mézy, during your father’s last year; I’ll keep it and after my death you will be pleased to have it.’ In a month she was dead and it made me feel better to look at this delicious work which now hangs in our salon opposite L’Oie, and every day I contemplate it and repeat to myself that phrase. Ah! When Maman said that to me how could I possibly think that her death was so imminent, and that I had a mere month more with her to go before her demise? How we need God’s grace to bear it!
Next to the Cerisier, L’Oie,223 next to a yellowy green tree, a splendid goose waddles near a lake with bullrushes on its edge, two ducks, and in the background an island enveloped in blue haze: a truly perfect decorative work; then next to it Oies au bord du lac,224 which is very similar to the first work, but here a rowing boat on the blue lake behind two large geese and trees reflected in the water. This canvas was found rolled up and damaged, like so many others. Under the geese, a Portrait de Jeannie.225
Then Paysanne niçoise,226 a sort of dark-haired waif with huge black eyes, a skimpy blue bodice, carrying a rose, and in the background the mountains which border the Var; quite admirable those sparkling dark eyes against the bronzed skin! When we got back from Nice, Maman showed it to Monsieur Gigoux [sic], who thought it was a portrait of me: ‘It’s really her to a T, the dear little thing’, said he, ‘but why is she is so shabbily dressed?’
On the next panel, Au bord du lac,227 a painting bathed in green in which yours truly, Bibi, in white and Pasie in lilac are reflected in the water with trees as a backdrop, then Les Cygnes228 of three swans on the lake; it’s terribly poetic, with the white of their plumage and the shadows in half-tones on the water, all this is practically indescribable. In Devant la glace,229 a plump girl is combing her hair and her round pink face is reflected in the mirror and this reflection is ravishing. Moi, Écrivant devant la fenêtre230 in a green dress, my figure in the shadows lit by the snowy garden outside, reminds me of Papa and of the last winter we spent together.
Then a copy after Boucher (Nymphes d’Apollon visitant Latone),231 a painting which is in the museum at Tours; Maman reproduced the grace of the nymphs exactly, as well as the dark woods behind them. It makes me think of the first line of L’Après-midi d’un faune by Monsieur Mallarmé – ‘Ces nymphes, je veux les perpétuer si clair, leur incarnat léger’, etc. Then comes the third Le Cerisier,232 then Le Jardin,233 a superb large canvas in which a full-sized woman is sitting on a folding stool in the garden at Rue de Villejust. She is wearing a straw hat trimmed with poppies that shades her face, a violet-coloured dress and a fan, and behind her is a bed of pansies from which yours truly Bibi’s head in her sunbonnet appears against bluish trellis.
Les Pâtés de sables,234 Bibi, me again, in a pink dress with a little brown bonnet, making sand pies at Bougival – which for me represented total bliss. ‘If your Maman went missing’, Maman asked me one day, ‘what would you do?’ ‘I’d play in the sand’, I replied innocently.
Under that, Chrysanthèmes235 in a porcelain basket on a pink background, which were painted recently; we had hung them in the small drawing room to balance the painting next to it, Le Jardin à Portrieux236 of a sunny garden with a blue sky above a wall where pears en espalier are ripening, Jeannie is back to us eating her pear with her lovely golden hair cascading down her back and I am next to her, but I am also represented as a small figure in white carrying a basket in the background.
Somnolence,237 with a model whom I used to call ‘the Monster’ but who isn’t at all monster-like in this canvas, wearing a pink dress against the red background of Japanese curtains. Robe de Bal of Mademoiselle Carré.238 Both of these are small. On the next panel, Parisienne,239 such a marvel of a lady in profile in a black hat and yellow or light brown flowery jacket tying a blue ribbon with her yellow suede gloved fingers. I didn’t know this work, which is so delicate and particularly in the French eighteenth-century taste. The collector who owns it, Monsieur Leclanché, didn’t want to lend it, but thanks to a letter from Monsieur Monet he sent it to the show. What charm and freshness this painting has.
My portrait against a background of tapestry hangings, in a pale pink dress with black buttoning.240 In which I have a side parting and an orange bow in my hair, a very round Egyptian-looking face, red lips, a string of pearls, hands so daintily small, a turquoise ring. I am holding on my lap an antique book (a copy of Racine) and I am reciting ‘Come hither, Nero, and take your place, etc. …’ This portrait is extremely unusual; there is something both stiff and supple about it at the same time. Sortant du bain painted in a pink bathroom, of a seated woman in a white bathcap, then Petite fille à l’oiseau,241 Cocotte in white against greenery with Cuicui in front of her, our tame little bird who was so sweet, Cocotte’s lovely hair with its blue ribbon contrasting with the background, her eyes fixed on the bird and her large red hands in her lap. La Lecture in which Jeanne Bonnet is reading with her plaited hair down the back of the wicker chair in front of the dining-room window at rue de Villejust from which one sees all the greenery in the garden. This had already been exhibited at Durand-Ruel at the last Impressionist show: it is very lovely. On the right-hand side of the panel to the right, Portrait de Jeanne,242 the upright portrait in which she is in an orange chiffon dress with her dark hair parted in the middle in brilliant light; she is supporting her head on her very white arm, sitting on the Empire sofa; it was done in the summer of 1894 in Tante Edma’s white drawing room. Under that, Le Bain,243 which is approximately the same composition as the pewter relief, with Marthe sitting on a little hillock surrounded by greenery, the water lily in flower, and Jeanne-Marie bending over to wash her feet, her shiny hair and her blue blouse glinting in the sunlight: this painting is like an emerald all set in gold.
To the right, Devant la psyché,244 the graceful back of a lovely model whose chemise is open, doing her hair in front of an Empire cheval mirror in which she is reflected. Then Jardin à Bougival245 with the wrought-iron gate in the middle, the bright and colourful hollyhocks with Marcel in blue, just radiates the joy of Bougival and as Maman always said ‘the happiest time of my life’. These two paintings are on the panelling with above them Jeune fille au chat,246 the same model as for Le Cerisier no. 2: on a gold background, with which her blond hair mingles, her pale skin blushes pink, her lips a lovely shade of red, with a row of pearls around her neck, leaning against a red silk cushion, she cradles a grey cat with green eyes with her long fingers. This is truly admirable and the gold background is truly extraordinary and I am determined to hang this one in my bedroom. Then comes Villa dans les orangers,247 done near Nice the first time we went there in which a pink villa with a tiled roof sits among an orange grove of yellowy green against a brilliant blue sky, the Southern sky, and this is also in my bedroom. Above this Bergère couchée,248 Gabrielle de Mézy, that wild girl who celebrated her first communion with me, here lying in the grass with her goat Colette in her red headscarf and lilac skirt. This lovely decorative panel is still above one of the mirrors in the drawing room. To the left on the panelling, Petit Saint-Jean,249 that little rascal of Gaston de Mézy, who is so pretty with his blond curls on the blue backround, his dark eyes and his small body enveloped in a sheepskin. Next to that, Quai à Bougival,250 houses against a blue sky with little children on the quayside watching Maman painting on a boat on the Seine, and above that Au Mesnil with the strawberry blond daughter of our house-painter in the flower garden with Jeannie and me in the shadows behind her. Next, La Robe rose251 which she had on under her grey fur coat, black-haired Marthe in a pensive mood, her arm leaning on a chair poses on a pinkish red backround – this admirable work was painted in Maman’s bedroom during the last winter of her life. Above, Le Flageolet,252 in the high grass of the garden at Le Mézy, Jeannie and I are playing our tin whistles which we hung over a door of the salon and which epitomizes that summer.
On the left-hand panel, the Portrait de Madame Léouzon-Leduc253 in a blue dress on a grey backround; she sits hands crossed next to an eighteenth-century famille rose porcelain. Below that, Le Lever, in which that poor little Isabelle who died so young, in a nightdress, is getting out of bed. Then to the right La Jatte de lait,254 Gabrielle in a greenish dress is carrying a large bowl of milk. And then portrait of JM: I must say my portrait255 is very good and I can still see Maman working on it in the studio in the rue Weber, the dark green backround, rather plain; I am wearing a white dress but I look both proud and sad; that’s what little Jeannine said when she saw it and she’s right of course, the sadness that struck me so young and that permeates all the last works by Maman who was so sad and miserable. Above, Aloès,256 painted at the Villa Ratti, then Le Repos,257 Fleurs dans un vase de Rouen258 and lastly Sous l’oranger 259 where I am sitting all in pink in an Italian straw hat under an orange tree with my green budgerigar Pelloque in his cage, and next to that la Mandoline,260 me again painted in Nice with short hair and a coral necklace: these are Renoir’s favourite paintings by my mother.
On the left-hand side (entering by rue Laffitte): in the centre La Véranda,261 which has belonged to Monsieur Chausson since the 1892 exhibition. It used to be hung above the piano when we lived at Bougival. It’s big, but was sold for 300 francs. I’m in the veranda dining room, with my blonde hair, playing at a table where there are some beautifully painted flowers in a carafe. The background of very blue trees and the roof of a distant house is quite delicious.
Below, the portrait of Maman by herself,262 an admirable sketch, in which she does not flatter herself in any way; and one can see what a great artist she was, looking straight at us with her greying hair, black ribbon around her neck in a yellowish jacket embroidered with flowers, one of which is round and rather ‘like a medal’ as Monsieur Mallarmé put it – which gives her a rather chivalrous air, or so Monsieur de Régnier thought. This portrait was done about ten years ago. Maman never finished it. No one ever saw it; she rolled it up and left it in a wardrobe or storeroom – its appearance at the exhibition is a cause for wonderment.
Next, Jeune fille au lévrier,263 showing me in the rue Weber drawing room, in front of a Japanese print, and seated on the beige velvet sofa in a black silk frock, leaning slightly towards Laertes, who is in front of me arching his back. This is the marvellous picture Monsieur Monet chose for himself.
Le Bain264 belongs to Monsieur Monet: Carmine Gaudin in the bathroom.
Le Corsage rouge265 is on the easel in the corner – Isabelle, her fresh face emerging from a huge round straw hat, is sitting in the middle of a flower bed of pansies and behind her is a birdcage full of birds. How well I remember Maman working at this beautiful garden view. Papa did a watercolour of it too; and this painting was exhibited at the Impressionist exhibition at Petit’s gallery, where it was hanging next to Monsieur Renoir’s beautiful bathers and the portrait of Paule was on the other side. These two works in reds and pinks went together so well.
Beneath it, La Petite Marcelle,266 which was the very last painting Maman ever did. Here is her last work, this little girl in a pale frock against a backdrop of pink and red Japanese hangings, standing by an Empire armchair; this little creature whose face with its huge, sad, dark eyes framed with hair. Maman loved children and venerated youth; and it is poignant that for her very last image, she chose a little girl. But this child isn’t laughing like all the others; it is neither Nini267 nor Bibi with their happy personalities; no, this little girl looks so profoundly sad, because she was in the presence of illness and death. Oh, what a precious and yet painful keepsake for me! I didn’t see Maman working on this painting for the last time because I was ill and in bed the day she took up her palette for the last time. It was just two weeks before leaving us.
Then, Dame à l’éventail, which was called Rêverie268 in the 1892 show. And above it, La Fleur aux cheveux269 (Monsieur Mallarmé gave it this pretentious title, which I don’t like much; as he did with La Fable270). Another painting with Jeanne-Marie dressing Marthe’s hair; with Marthe leaning her head back a little with her fresh complexion, her neck and bosom emerging from a froth of pink chiffon. Jeanne-Marie, with her blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes, in a Turkish tunic of white chiffon embroidered in gold, is sticking white flowers into her dark hair; a few red anemones tumble over the white dress and a lovely blue hydrangea in a Japanese porcelain vase, and in fact sometimes this picture is now known as L’Hortensia.271 What a beautiful light, colourful canvas! I remember working alongside Maman in the studio in the rue Weber when she did it.
Then, Le Violon,272 in which I’m in a black dress with a white sash, facing the artist. The violin is admirably foreshortened; the background is the pale, slightly greenish salon in the rue Weber; on the wall, the portrait of Papa by Monsieur Degas and the portrait of Maman by Oncle Edouard.
The portrait of Paule,273 in a pink ball gown against a grey background, sitting on a grey sofa – her dark blonde hair up in a huge Japanese comb. The face is a very good likeness, a bit pale, and lit in a rather unusual way with a greenish light; the eyes are as charming as Paule’s are in real life. This portrait was exchanged for some Japanese prints a few years ago and now Hayashi, the Japanese collector, has agreed to exchange it for Derrière la jalousie274 and the drawing of Marthe en chemise.275
On the panel to the left in the middle, Fillette au panier,276 a marvellous big canvas with Cocotte holding a basket, in a white chiffon hat edged in lace which slightly hides her eyes and a very pale pink dress sitting on a wicker chair. She is in the green dining room, a delightful green, and on the dresser there are some apples and a Delft sugar bowl. This magnificent work belongs to my cousin Gabriel. Maman was working on it in 1892 when Papa was ill and was confined to his room; when Cocotte arrived, Maman, who was keeping Papa company, came downstairs to work, but with a troubled spirit.
Beneath this, the portrait of Lucie Léon,277 which was done in the summer of the same year, in the same house, in her party frock – but Papa was no longer there; he had left us and everything had gone downhill, the big drawing room was empty. It was hot and Lucie would have preferred to play croquet rather than to pose at the piano; she was an unbearable model but, because Maman overcame most problems in life, she managed to do a marvellous portrait of her – all blue like the ‘Blue Boy’ by Gainsborough. Lucie’s head is framed by her thick brown hair, with big, rather sad blue eyes, red lips and small nose. She is wearing her light blue dress with short puffed sleeves; her arms quite chubby, her gold bracelet, are admirably painted. Leaning forward, she is playing the mahogany piano where there are a lace handkerchief and three beautiful roses in a vase tied with a blue ribbon against dark blue wallpaper strewn with peacock feathers. This portrait of Lucie reminds me of the little girl in blue at the piano in the family group by David in the museum in Le Mans and which was in the big exhibition in 1889.278 What a lovely portrait! Lucie is jolly lucky to have this magnificent work of art after doing nothing to deserve it.
Finally, in the long room at the end are all the drawings and especially the sketches, mixed in with pastels of the gardens at Le Mézy and at Cimiez, such as Niçoises under the orange trees, and lots of charming heads of children. They go very well next to the red chalk drawings and the charcoal sketches. The works in coloured pencils and watercolour are almost all on the screen, which takes up half the gallery and looks very good.
It is impossible for me to write about every single thing: I would never manage to finish. What a master draftswoman! The lovely works in coloured crayons and what delightful watercolours, which are so special to her! Everyone is astonished coming into this room and exclaims: ‘I would never have believed she could have done so much work.’ Maman never showed any of these drawings; she hid a whole aspect of her work. Today this exhibition comes as a revelation to most people.
On arrival in the little gallery people are struck by the maturity of the early work and the precision of the drawing; in the big gallery, by the clarity and the extraordinary light of the painting, which literally illuminates the room, her work is so feminine and so consistent. In the room at the far end, it is the drawing which fills you with wonder, and the workmanship; of course, the soul of a consummate artist from the slightest sketch to the most elaborate canvas!
Today, the critics published their articles in the press, Geoffroy in Le Journal and Arsène Alexandre in Le Figaro full of praise for Maman.
That August, Julie and her cousins Paule and Jeannie stay near Vulaines on the other side of the Seine from Valvins, where the Mallarmé family spend their summers.
UNDATED, PROBABLY MID-AUGUST
Monsieur Mallarmé at supper charmed us with his conversation and told us all sorts of funny stories.
‘Mistral told me’, he said, ‘that he had only been shooting once in his life. Armed with a rifle and pursuing a hare, he aimed at it; but it turned round and crossed itself. Mistral dropped his rifle and never touched a firearm again.’
THURSDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER
Geneviève organized a slide show for our friend Miss Vos. The Natansons and the Bourges came too.279
Monsieur Mallarmé told us all about his time as an English teacher. One of his elderly spinster aunts, who was very snobbish, had got him into the snobby Jesuit College at Auteuil so she could meet all her grand friends when she visited him there. When his pupils asked him his name, they couldn’t believe his didn’t have a title like all the others! So, on the spur of the moment, he chose ‘le marquis de Boulainvilliers’, but had to be very careful to hide it from his grandmother when she came to call.
FRIDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER
We spent an evening at the Natansons. Madame N.280 was charming in a light blue short-sleeved dress with a pretty white collar. Around her lovely white neck, a necklace. She played us a Beethoven symphony in a grave, sad manner managing to produce all the different sounds of the orchestra on her piano.
A menu decorated by Julie Manet
On 27 September, Julie sets off with her cousins for Rouen where she spends three days, then goes on to Caen, getting back to Paris on Saturday, 3 October.
SATURDAY, 3 OCTOBER
We went shopping and along the Champs-Elysées, which is being decorated brilliantly for the Tsar’s visit. At the Rond-Point, all the trees are covered with artificial pink, red and white flowers, which glitter in the sun and look pretty realistic; a row of white lamp posts on each side of the Avenue.
That evening, Jeannie and I try to decipher letters from Bon-Papa, our grandfather Morisot, to Tante Yves – there are lots of really lovely ones but quite a few stern sermons. In a funny one, he writes: ‘Berthe always seems astonished; I don’t know if it’s by others or by herself.’ Edma makes fun of her mother all week long and usually spends Sundays fighting and then making up with her brother. ‘The charming child continues to blow his own trumpet and dictate to us. As for me, I try to ignore it all, or else I just moan.’
I enjoy rereading family letters, but the handwriting is so difficult to decipher. In one of them Bon-Papa recounts an evening when he had a great deal of trouble getting Maman to come in from the garden. She was 14 and wanted to spend the night out of doors and it all ended in tears; she often spoke to me of that evening. Bon-Papa found her so very secretive and even asked Tante Yves to tell him if she knew any of Maman’s little secrets.
MONDAY, 5 OCTOBER
Shopping in Paris this morning. The streets were covered in flags and garlands, with red and yellow balloons strung across the boulevards.
After lunch, went to Monsieur Bouts281 with Paule; as we left, Paule dropped the 1,000 francs she had just withdrawn; so there we were on all fours on the pavement picking up the gold coins around us. I was laughing so much that I dropped them as fast as I could pick them up. The passers-by looked at us in amazement! Monsieur Bouts said we could go and see the fireworks tomorrow evening from a house on the avenue Malakoff which he manages, and Monsieur Mallarmé was so sweet to ask for places for us on Docteur Evans’s balcony to see the arrival of the Tsar tomorrow morning.
TUESDAY, 6 OCTOBER
At last an opportunity to wear my grey fur cloak and my big feathered velvet hat. We were on the balcony early to see if the crowd had already gathered on the avenue du Bois and if it was time to leave. Clouds gave way to the sun; we admired our three large flags and banners flapping about and the lanterns swaying in the wind.
We made our way to Docteur Evans’s big home on the corner of the avenue du Bois and rue de la Pompe, where we were shown into a room next to the drawing room; where we found Madame Marguerite, her sons and her nieces. The balcony wasn’t too cluttered and was perfect to see the spectacle. Docteur Evans came in from time to time; he really organizes things so well. We spent about an hour chatting. As the crowd got bigger along the avenue, it was kept in check by soldiers lining the pavements. Along the side service roads, hundreds of carriages were backed up, blocking the traffic. The powers that be had obviously decided that the avenue was splendid enough on its own without extra decoration, which was reduced to a few little multicoloured banners among the trees. We heard some oohs and aahs, and wondered what it was. A panic-stricken dog was tearing along the middle of the avenue, finding no escape route, and never has a poor creature been so heartily applauded. Later on, another miserable looking mutt went by with its tail between its legs, and it also received an ovation. From time to time, soldiers on horseback galloped past in the direction of the Bois towards Ranelagh station where the Tsar was arriving.
A couple of ordinary carriages went by and at last, to the excited cries of the spectators, the procession appeared. First, lots of different soldiers, riflemen, hussars all in blue mounted on lovely white horses; then Algerian cavalry in their turbans, their wonderful robes in the most delicious shades of almond green, red and yellow, flapping in the wind, on beautiful Arab thoroughbreds, their hindquarters covered in long embroidered blankets in the most magnificent colours and practically trailing on the ground. It was like looking at a Delacroix when one of these proud horses in their magnificent harnessing reared and snorted. What a treat for the eye! All this through the branches of the trees seemed to take on the colours of the most brilliant flowers or the most exquisite jewels.
Preceded by Montjaret,282 the imperial landau appeared. On the right, the Tsarina, all in white, on the left of the Tsar, and in front on the folding seat poor old Félix Faure, as red as a beetroot, looking very embarrassed at having to sit where a child sits with his knees right up under his chin. Other carriages followed: one was filled with ladies in a cloud of white and mauve chiffon, the ladies-in-waiting of the Empress. Cavalry squadrons brought up the rear of the procession.
As soon as the Tsar had passed us, the crowd, which until then had been very orderly, swarmed everywhere, spreading out and rushing about. How well my Oncle Edouard painted crowds; that extraordinary dominant violet tone which he managed to imbue with movement.
After dinner, we went to 11 avenue Malakoff, where a kindly concierge gave us a candle and told us to go right up to the fifth floor where the door would be open, so we went straight into a dark dining room holding our candlesticks and found places on the balcony. In a corner, there was an old lady in spectacles that reflected the illuminations in Paris like cat’s eyes. The Trocadéro is brilliantly illuminated and the Arc de Triomphe looks like a jewel against the black sky. At last, coloured rockets are set off all around the Eiffel Tower, illuminating the whole sky and shooting right up, all exploding at the same time and vying with one another for the honour of going even higher than the flag on top. Sometimes showers of pure gold sparks whirled around; then some huge, luminous blue stars danced above the rooftops and let themselves be carried away on the breeze while diamonds fell from the sky. The Eiffel Tower was aflame with red. Then suddenly a fountain of red fire was set off from the first platform, then from the second, and finally from the third, enveloping the pure gold tower standing out against the sky. As the wind carried this sparkly shower away, a huge cloud of pink smoke floated towards Paris. At the end of this extraordinary show, the illuminated image of Saint George appeared on the second platform of the Tower and all was suddenly black and quiet. Then a grand finale of rockets crowned this marvellous firework display.
We decided to pay 8 francs for a cab to take us for a tour of Paris and we were astonished to find the trees on the Champs-Elysées decorated with hundreds of orange lanterns, but at the Place de la Concorde we hit a terrible traffic jam and, unfortunately, had to turn back
THURSDAY, 8 OCTOBER
Today, we tried yet again to see the other bank of the river, and this time we were successful. A crowd was standing at the entrance to the Solférino bridge waiting for the Tsar; so we waited too, for a terribly long time. We rented chairs to stand on, and thankfully were able to see the Royals fairly well. The Emperor was blond and looked very young; the Empress looked rather stiff and had a big nose.
We went along the quais in front of the proposed Pont Alexandre III. At 2 o’clock, the Tsar in a carriage pulled by six white horses went along the avenue du Bois and we saw him from our balcony. The crowd seemed very enthusiastic; we heard lots of cheering. After the Emperor had gone by, all the people who had been there to say goodbye to him poured into the rue de Villejust, which had never before seen so many people on its pavements. We had a visit from my cousin Gabriel,283 who thought that the firework display was a mess– that’s perhaps why I found it so pretty!
SUNDAY, 18 OCTOBER
After a week’s stay at Valvins, where we were happy to see the Mallarmés but the weather was wet and frightful, we went to Montmartre for lunch with the Renoirs, who are always so very kind. Jean has taken on the look of a little girl. Monsieur Renoir has rented a superb studio in rue de la Rochefoucauld.
On 5 December, Julie goes to her first family wedding, of Jeanne Pontillon, her first cousin, to Adrien Paul Alexandre Martin, at which she was supposed to be a bridesmaid but, unwell, had to stay in bed while all the fun went on downstairs.
SATURDAY, 12 DECEMBER
We have our little model, who poses all day now from 10 to 4, but we always seem to be interrupted: for instance today a welcome visit from Monsieur Mallarmé, who brought us all little bunches of violets. Madame Mallarmé is still too poorly to entertain.
TUESDAY, 16 DECEMBER
Lots of visits today. Monsieur Renoir with Mademoiselle Baudot, who stay a long time: Monsieur Renoir seems very excited, witty and funny, telling jokes. She agrees with everything he says and only seems to like his painting. I can’t believe she is only 19: next to her, we are like babies!
A charming day to end the year 1896, during which, thank God, we haven’t had any further misfortunes. I ask only that 1897 is the same.
Monsieur Renoir came to see us at the same time as Monsieur Mallarmé, who brought each of us a box of bonbons with a charming little four-line poem. He has done this every year for the last nine years. This one is very pretty, particularly sweet and terribly ‘Mallarmé-like’. We kissed him, and took the opportunity to kiss Monsieur Renoir too.
It was lovely to see our witty painter and our charming poet chatting together as they had done so frequently on those Thursday evenings at home, in the lofty pink salon, where my parents, surrounded by their works, entertained their wonderful friends.
It made me think of Monsieur Renoir’s comment, which touched Maman so deeply when it was repeated to her. The poet and the painter were on their way home after dinner with Maman, and were talking about her charming way with guests, her looks, her talent. ‘And to say that any other woman with all the talents she has would have a thousand reasons to be quite insufferable’, said Monsieur Renoir.