From the pen of

ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER

July 1, 1886

Paris, France

My dearest Amelia,

Only six more weeks and we shall be together again! I cannot wait to see my very own grown-up married girl! You must indulge me in my sentimentality, as you are as dear to me as any daughter could be. In fact, as far as I am concerned, you are my daughter, even if I am not old enough to have actually given birth to you.

But you have been very naughty to have purchased so many furnishings without me. I shall be bringing a few items from our travels that I hope will find happy homes in your apartments. I’m glad to hear that Sumner allows you full reign over the household. I only wish your uncle would do the same as he is always fretting that I spend too much money.

And please, please, please, do not pay any attention to “Town Topics” unless it is to laugh at their overblown prose. I am not sorry that men desire my company nor that I enjoy the company of the most talented of them. And I have seen none of their wives “scolding and stomping their feet” when the men pay me attention. Far from it, Maud Elliott and Julia Ward Howe are just as pleased to attend my soirees and dinners as are their “giddy and wayward husbands”!

And the piece about my secret rendezvous with Frank Crawford, well, he is almost young enough to be my son! But I shall not be the one to spoil such a good story with the truth. Do not distress yourself over the words of this silly rag, especially not on my behalf. I say if people like to believe such things, please don’t deny them their pleasure.

You ask if I have had any further adventures with Mr. Edgar Degas, and indeed I have. I told you in my last letter that he had invited me to his studio. Well, my dear, I went to that wonderfully bohemian Montmartre, to 21 rue Pigalle (where he both works and lives) to be exact, and it was indeed an experience.

Edgar is such a complex and interesting man. Everything about him is a contradiction. His pictures are selling well and his name is everywhere, yet his apartment is so small that he must use his studio for his dressing room! His face is rather homely, but his posture and his clothes are so fine that one hardly takes notice. His eyes are dark and hooded, but in them one can see the wondrous and tortured soul of a true artist. And when he throws back his head and laughs (the gentleman is quite the card), he is most attractive.

He is the most meticulous of painters, and yet his studio is a jumble of confusion. Aside from his clothes strewn hither and yon and the usual artists’ paraphernalia, the floor is loaded with the most unusual things: printing presses, bathtubs, cellos, wax figurines, and even a broken-down piano. He claims he is unable to discard any object as he never knows what might be useful to him. Another contradiction is that although he remains a bachelor at fifty years of age, he is quite a flirt! I was charmed.

Edgar is in the last stages of preparation for an exhibition this Fall with the Misters Bracquemond, Forain, Monet, Gauguin, Pissarro, and Rouart, artists for whom I have little appreciation. And I am sorry to say, my dear Amelia, that their influence is apparent. The drawing in Edgar’s latest work is impeccable, his asymmetrical composition beyond perfection. And such bold and unusual viewpoints of female nudes engaged in their toilette. From above even! But I cannot say the same for his actual painting. For, to my great disappointment, he is working in pastels and appears to be leaning toward that horrid Impressionist style that makes me want to put on a pair of glasses.

Although I had taken him to task for turning his back on oil at Henry’s table just a fortnight ago, I could not refrain from again expressing my feelings. I asked if he couldn’t see what masterpieces the paintings would be if he had painted them in the style of the Old Masters, in his own style of only a decade ago.

He told me he had far too much work to do to wait weeks between each glazing layer, that this was the business of a young man with an inheritance, not an old one without. When I protested, his eyes twinkled and he asked which did I think was an untruth: that he was an old man or that he had no money? Although I was vexed that he would make a joke over such an issue, it was difficult to remain serious when he refused to be. And so we laughed.

He then hustled me out of the studio to the Café Guerbois, where there was so much gay conversation that we were unable to finish our discussion. I, however, shall continue to pursue my efforts to discourage him in this folly in the future.

Your Uncle Jack and I leave Paris tomorrow for Venice. And although I am, as always, thrilled to be headed to my most beloved city, I yearn for home, for the cool breezes of Green Hill, and for your company. My warm remembrance to your dear brothers.

I am your loving,

Aunt Belle