“It’s been several months,” I tell Berthe Morisot, “and I still copy with pad and pencil and sometimes watercolors. I think I have learned a great deal, but I’m still not ready for oils.”

“You should try,” she encourages me. “Jacque-Louis David is a good artist for you to copy. His portraits are beautifully executed, especially the one of Madame Recamier you are working on. Portraits like that are the kind of commissions you are likely to get when you are ready.”

“How so?”

 “There is always demand for portraits of wives and children that are best done by women artists.”

I study the wine in my glass, using the pause to consider Berthe’s recommendation. “I hope to paint landscapes one day,” I tell her.

“Difficult for a woman,” she replies. “Traveling alone to paint a landscape is often…” She pauses, “How do I say, looked down upon? There are not many buyers for the work of a woman landscape artist.

“I want to be free to paint whatever I want.”

She cuts a slice of cheese from the wedge on her plate and adds it to a piece of baguette before taking a sip from her glass. She looks at me with her doleful dark eyes the whole time. “That can be difficult,” she says at last. “Consider your decision carefully. It is easier for us to paint in a boudoir than side-by-side in a world with men.” She pauses again and picks at a piece of ham.

Feeling frustrated, and looking for a response that won’t offend my friend, I stab my fork at a mushroom. “It seems to me women in Paris have only limited freedom. Do you find it that way, Berthe?”

“I have never thought much about it, but yes, I do. It’s just the way life is for women.