City of Darkness and Light(73)

“Ah, yes. Strange little man. He has some talent if only he’d paint some real pictures.” Mary Cassatt laughed.

“And I met your cousin, Sid.”

“You have a cousin here too?” Mary Cassatt asked, looking inquiringly at Sid.

“I just discovered him. He’s also a painter. His name is Maxim Noah.”

“I don’t think I know of him,” Mary said. “Another of the new breed?”

“He showed me his paintings,” I said, without further comment.

Sid’s face lit up. “Isn’t he wonderful? So full of passion and his paintings are so expressive. Gus and I were talking about bringing him back to New York for an exhibition. He has no family here any longer, you know. My mother would be thrilled.”

“Maybe we could ask him to help us,” Gus suggested. “He is obviously right at the heart of the artistic community, and perhaps he also mixes with fellow Jews.”

“Reynold Bryce had certainly made himself unpopular with both communities,” Miss Cassatt said. “Artists and Jews. As you know he ran the most influential exhibition in the city every summer, the one all the foreign buyers come to. And he had virtually shut out all those young painters who call themselves Fauves or Modernists. To him art had to be representational. I can’t say I disagree with him. But unlike him I admit that we are in a new century, a century of automobiles and electricity and telephones. There must always be progress.”

“So do you think it’s possible that a young painter who was thwarted by Bryce would come to kill him?” Gus asked.

“You were thwarted by him, my dear,” Mary Cassatt said. “Did your thoughts turn to murder?”

Gus laughed. “Of course not, although Sid was so angry that…” And she turned to look at Sid.

“I went to give him a piece of my mind, not a piece of steel in his gut. There is a difference,” Sid said.

“But some of those young artists are not so controlled,” I pointed out. “Picasso was itching to fight a duel and complained he hadn’t shot his pistol for several days.”

“Ah, duels. They are different,” Mary Cassatt said. “Among the young men of Paris they are a major form of sport. They will fight duels on the least little excuse. Usually over a woman, but an insult to a painting might do as well.”

“So if a painter challenged Reynold Bryce to a duel but he laughed and refused, might the challenger feel affronted and come to stab him?” I asked.

“Unlikely. The heat of the moment would have passed. The challenger would shrug and go his merry way. None of them takes anything too seriously for too long.”

“Miss Cassatt, do you know of any particular painters who have crossed swords with Reynold Bryce recently?” I asked.

“I am afraid I am a trifle out of touch these days.” Miss Cassatt gave an apologetic smile then reached to pour herself a cup of coffee from the tray. “An aging has-been. I was never allowed into the cafés with them, of course.”

“Why ever not?” I asked.

“Women are not part of café society in Paris. At least, not respectable women. Artists’ models are sometimes permitted.”

“I’ve been into several cafés,” I said. “There was never any indication that I was about to be flung out.”

“Ah, but you’re a novelty. A visitor from abroad. Should you want to join them on a regular basis I can assure you it would be different.”

“Perhaps I could go and ask more questions. You have not heard any gossip about anyone else with whom Reynold Bryce might have fallen out? Outside the art fraternity, I mean.”

Mary Cassatt shrugged. “Again that is the problem with being a woman. Bryce’s life revolved around the American Club where they don’t admit women. He was quite chummy with the American ambassador and went to diplomatic functions—he was the poster boy of American art, of course; unlike me, hardly recognized in my own country. So I really can’t tell you too much about his private life. All I can say is I was never invited to dinner with him.”

“What about women?” Sid asked suddenly. “Don’t they say cherchez la femme?”

“I haven’t heard of a mistress,” Mary said. “His wife is still back in America—amicably separated all these years, so one understands, but not divorced. But I was once at a gathering in which someone said, ‘If Bryce is coming, lock up your daughters.’”

“So he had a bit of a roving eye,” I said.

“What one might call a roué,” Mary said, “Which of course is quite acceptable in Paris. Their sexual mores are certainly not ours. Any man who doesn’t have a mistress is considered odd, even a pansy.”