I Always Loved You

  Also by Robin Oliveira

  My Name Is Mary Sutter

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by Robin Oliveira

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-60488-5

  This is a work of fiction based on real events.

  Version_1

  For Noelle and Miles

  Contents

  Also by Robin Oliveira

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1926

  Prologue

  1877

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  1878

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  1879

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  1880

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  1881–1883

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The Rest of Time

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  1926

  Prologue

  Mary Cassatt lifted two shallow crates of assorted brushes, pigments, palettes, and scraping knives and set them atop the paint-smeared table shoved under the arched, north-facing windows of her untidy studio. Someone less stubborn than she might have packed up years ago, but she liked to have her tools out and ready, as if at any moment she might turn and begin again, though she had not painted today and would not paint tomorrow and had not painted in some years, the scourge of the continuing betrayal of her eyesight, which she feared had become nearly as bad as his at the end. And then there was the pesky matter of confidence, which she’d discovered, to her disappointment, had not solidified over the years as her younger self had expected but had instead revealed itself to be an emotion that was more ruse than intention. The truth was that there was very little she could control anymore, except this one last thing, which made her feel very old.

  She turned in a circle, suppressing the unfamiliar swell of panic rising in her throat, an emotion to her so exotic that she wondered how other people—those who yielded daily to weakness or fear—coped.

  Oh, where was the damn thing?

  She was certain she’d hidden the box among the blank canvases and tin water cans, where no one, not even a sly model bent on discovery, would have guessed she’d secreted the prize. But she was not as keen as she had once been and now feared that both her eyesight and her memory may have double-crossed her. Had she, in a fit of sentiment, concealed it somewhere upstairs in her bedroom in order to keep it close? She dismissed the thought. She could not imagine herself committing such a romantic act.

  Daily, light flooded the stone-floored glassed-in studio at the back of the Château de Beaufresne, but now the winter afternoon was fading and her eyes were succumbing to fatigue. Time evaporating. The doctors said she was to prepare herself, meaning, she supposed, that they wanted her to sell her remaining canvases, attend to museum requests, visit relatives one last time—what people imagined had been her life. It mystified her that that was what they all thought was important to her. Of course she valued her work, and she had kept careful track as the prices for her paintings rose—prudence required such attention—but did they suppose that in touching brush to canvas she tallied only coin and admiration?

  The world blazes along with its critical tongue and shallow impatience, not understanding the moment, the breath, the seeing.

  She adjusted her thick-lensed glasses. What a necessary bother they were. Such goggles, but it was true that if she were still as careful a housekeeper of her studio as she had been in her youth, she could find what she wanted in an instant. What detritus a life leaves. She would have to call Mathilde to help her if she couldn’t find it. Look for shape, she scolded herself. The thing is not the thing. It is instead form and light. After all, what are faces but hollows and swells, spheres and lines? She had learned that very young. And now? She removed her glasses and wiped her watering eyes. Oh, to see as she once had. Some mornings upon waking, she indulges herself: Today I will paint the lace on the dress, finish the flowers in the background, and then concentrate on the way the sun plays on the girl’s hair. And then she opens her eyes, and a milky scrim obscures even the bedposts.

  Mary replaced her glasses and willed her blurring eyes to focus on the jumble of brushes and palette knives and dismantled easels. Under this purposeful gaze, their forms sharpened and fell away and became the contour and outline she needed them to be. For half a century, she had shifted sight like this at will, though when she was young, when she was first beginning to paint, the effort had pained her. It is a way of thinking, her instructors had said. It is a way of being in the world.

  And with that shift, the half-moon shape of the box revealed itself, protruding from under the edge of the tarpaulin. Kneeling, she felt its rounded edge and exhaled. Tucking it under her arm, she shuffled to the far end of the room, where Mathilde had left the tea tray for her on the table by the hearth, along with the magnifying glass she required.

  Mary sank into the chair and opened the lid. It was the kind of box that harbors forgotten photographs or mismatched buttons, so ordinary that after her death they might have tossed it without checking the contents, but she couldn’t take that chance. And besides, their curiosity had dogged her all her life; she would not let it dog her death. She was not sentimental, though people believed she was, seduced perhaps by the expressions she had rendered in her paintings. But she didn’t know, really, what people thought of her. And she didn’t care. Her work, lik
e his, was all the legacy she cared to bequeath to the world.

  But she had kept these letters, as he had kept hers, though what they had been thinking, she couldn’t imagine. Such recklessness. Private conversations should always remain private. Why should anyone know what they themselves had barely known? And even if something had once been committed to paper, did it mean that it was still true? Always true? Unlike the relative permanence of paint, words were temporal. You uttered them and they evanesced, but if you wrote them, they remained, though whether the written word was any more truthful than the spoken was a mystery to her. Only paint was honest. But even a painting could be wiped clean and refined. He was forever revising, stealing his paintings back to rework them, everything always unfinished with him.

  She fingered the scalloped tendril of faded pink ribbon that bound the letters. She had chosen ribbon instead of string because it reminded her of his danseuses’ bright sashes, their pink and green bows, lush and extravagant in their fullness. Somehow, he had made even the sashes seem to dance, though it was the dancers themselves he’d imbued with the verve that now enchanted all of Paris. Motion, captured. Later, after he had painted every position, rehearsal, ensemble, and pose, he began to paint women in the most unflattering way, as if to negate any vestige of the romance his ballet pictures had cultivated. He had been an uncompromising man, stubborn and ironic; hence ribbons, to goad as much as to honor.

  At his funeral, she had wept (how could she not?), and even that reasonable grief—had they not been friends above all?—had fanned the old rumors. The whispers about their friendship—their romance, their affair, ask anyone in Paris, they all had an opinion—had not dampened after his death. Nine years now. She had helped to arrange the sale of all his paintings afterward. His studio had been crammed with work, though it seemed impossible, since his blindness should have eliminated any further possibility of his working, as it had her. And yet, they had had to snake through stacks of canvases and unfinished sculptures and wax castings, his collection of paintings by Ingres and Renoir—and even some of hers—crawling up his walls. He had died in those crowded rooms. Happy, Mary supposed now, even though in the end he couldn’t see any of his art anymore. She knew—no, believed—that its mere proximity had soothed him, as these letters had soothed her all these years since.

  They were all gone now: Pissarro, Manet, Morisot, Renoir. And him. Only Monet was still alive, wheezing with illness in his house in Giverny.

  She would have arranged the sale of his work anyway, would have been as thorough and competent even had the search for these letters not been her main priority. Half their correspondence. Her letters, which he, too, had kept in a box of old paints tucked into a corner, where no one could reach them, not even his niece, charged with caring for him when he could no longer stumble through the streets of Paris half-blind, searching for scenes to immortalize. Ever the flaneur, the boulevardier. They nestled now beside his in this box, hers also tied with ribbon, though black, as if he had mourned her.

  Dear Edgar,

  How unkind you have been to me these last months. . . .

  She was ashamed now of all her terrible moods, though he should have been just as ashamed of his. He was equally to blame, but what she still didn’t understand was whether there was room for love in two lives already consumed by passion of another sort. You would think she would know the answer by now. She had lived a long time, and yet wisdom, the wisdom everyone believed she possessed, flickered like the elusive flame of confidence, just out of reach. People intuit so much that is wrong. She would like to say, Yes, we chose. Absolument. Just as we made decisions about the color of light or the tint of a pigment, we made a decision about our lives.

  Were he still alive, would he untie these ribbons now? Read the letters one after the other? Revive what they had let die?

  Live the life again, and, in memory, alter it?

  How brave was she?

  The doctors said it was a certainty. As if her mortality had ever been in question, but perhaps they, too, had been seduced by her paintings: If she could create something so exquisite then perhaps she would live forever.

  Unready, she turned away, lifted the teacup, discovered that the tea had gone cold, the day become night. She could hear Mathilde in the kitchen with the cook, preparing the dinner she would refuse and which refusal they would then report to the doctors and which the doctors would then lament, all of them assigning meaning to trifles.

  The candle flared when she lit it with a match. She would not call Mathilde. No electricity for her—unnecessary when light, so long her friend, had turned its back on her. The night stretched before her, an old woman’s night, filled with memories to sift and a life to mediate. Tonight, she would paint once again, though only in her mind; would indulge imagination, though only once. Would believe what she’d scarcely been able to believe then.

  Edgar Degas and Mary Cassatt. All of Paris had whispered it, as they had whispered too about Édouard Manet and Berthe Morisot.

  All of us keepers of secrets and yearnings and renunciations as impenetrable and ungovernable as our enduring desire to paint.

  The ribbon refused to untie, knotted as it had been for a decade. She tore at it with her nails and then the first stack of letters spilled onto her lap and fanned across her dark skirt, great numbers of them, their edges crisp with age, years of quarrel and tenderness and recrimination bleeding into the vellum.

  So many pages, you would think they had been in love.

  1877

  Chapter One

  Mary Cassatt was often mistaken for being tall, but she wasn’t. She was small boned and finely made, the perception of her height being formed primarily on the force of her personality. People often said that she was beautiful, too, but a careful examination of her heart-shaped face, with its too-narrow chin and unfortunate exaggeration of the forehead, revealed that its most prominent feature, her large eyes, and the other, a pair of sculpted cheekbones, were the deflecting mirage. None of this mattered at all to Mary, who bore her somewhat illusive ordinariness as a kind of weapon. It had served to sharpen her tongue, and when she was lost, as she was now, only her sister Lydia, her mother, and her close friends could detect the terror that coursed through her. To the rest of the world, she remained formidable, and to her friends she was always a stalwart defender of their person, and this combination, along with her lively intelligence, made her the best kind of companion. You loved her or you hated her, and Abigail Alcott loved her. It was a friendship that Mary Cassatt cherished.

  Abigail and Mary were attending the last day of the impressionist exhibition on one of the rainiest days of the spring, their umbrellas dripping as they climbed the marble stairway to the apartment on the corner of the Rue le Peletier and the Boulevard Haussmann.

  “Paris is raining,” Mary said. That was how she spoke about the weather since settling back in Paris: Paris is raining, or Paris is shining, because the city seemed to dictate weather the way it dictated art.

  “It always rains in Paris,” Abigail said.

  Mary suspected that her friend was vaguely worried that by coming with her today she had crossed to the wrong side of the artistic tracks. The two had met when Abigail had come to study in Paris the year before, two years after Mary’s decision to return to the art capital of the world. In the Louvre, they copied paintings in the mornings with the copyists’ licenses they had obtained from a pale, sickly clerk officed in a damp little closet in the museum’s dungeons. In the afternoons they sketched in the Tuileries, perfecting their drawing. Always, they hoped their work would be accepted at the Salon, the state-sponsored academic art exhibition that was considered the height of artistic success. Held every year under the glass ceiling in the grand Palais de l’Industrie, the Salon was every artist’s ambition, for the jury was made up of the most prominent artists in Paris.

  Now, they paid for their tickets, bought a catalog, and passed through the turnstile into the apartment that was serving as
a temporary gallery. Abigail’s thin, vaguely aristocratic face lit with both anticipation and apprehension as they linked arms and surveyed the parlor. This was the renegade artists’ third exhibition. Labeled “impressionists” by the hostile critics, they were refugees from the Salon who despised the state system of juries, believing that no judge should separate an artist from the viewer. Today there was no sign of the mocking crowds that had mobbed the exhibition in its first weeks, and Abigail seemed to relax. Despite it being the last day, the apartment was mostly empty. Devoid of any furniture or other domestic trappings, the rooms did resemble an art gallery. Someone had tacked sheets of thin muslin over the windows to keep out the direct sunlight, giving the room a soft, elusive light.

  The apartment was large for Paris. Mary and Abigail took a preliminary turn, peeking in from the central hallway through the doorways, checking the numbered paintings against the catalog, noting the canvases they wanted to come back to study: Renoir’s sumptuous portraits, Monet’s vibrant oils, Pissarro’s feathered landscapes, and the stunning canvases of Berthe Morisot, which seemed, on first look, to be spun purely of light.

  “Did you know a woman exhibited with them?” Abigail said.

  “Yes,” Mary said. “She’s Édouard Manet’s sister-in-law.”

  “Not the Édouard Manet, enfant terrible of the art world?”

  “The.”

  Any painter in Paris knew of Édouard Manet. For more than a decade, he had been painting provocative canvases of such notoriety that he couldn’t be ignored, which everyone supposed was his object all along. The newspapers printed cartoons and caricatures of him all the time. Last year, after both his paintings had been rejected from the Salon, he’d displayed them in his studio for two weeks, advertising his private exhibition in Le Figaro. Unruly lines trailed around the block waiting to see the artist’s latest scandalous taches, causing an uproar in the neighborhood.