My Memoirs Part 3

"BEAUCOURT, _July 9, 1890_.

"MADEMOISELLE,--On the occasion of your marriage, we have decided to meet you at the church-door in order to pay to you our compliments, according to custom.

"Pray accept, Mademoiselle, our heartiest good wishes, and believe in our most respectful feelings.

"For the Young People of Beaucourt, and by the request of the Organising Committee.

"EUGENE POMMIER."

On the day of my marriage, all the youths and maidens in the neighbourhood formed an aisle outside the church, and they held garlands of roses and ribbons to which turtle-doves were lightly attached. As I proceeded I broke the garlands and the flowers dropped on my white dress and were scattered on the ground, and the severed ribbons allowed the doves to escape, one after another, over my head. On the threshold of the church, one of the young men made a pretty speech and then, according to the old tradition stopped M. Steinheil and made him dash a gla.s.s to pieces--which is supposed to show that he renounces the joys of bachelordom. Next, the "head" of the delegation delivered a speech in which my future husband was duly told what a great honour Beaucourt conferred upon him in giving him as a bride one of its own demoiselles.

Would he please bear this in mind, and also remember that they all relied upon him to make me "infinitely happy."...

The Temple was decorated with foliage and flowers, and the floor was strewn with roses. These, I was told later on, were a present from the poor of the neighbourhood, who had wished to give a surprise--and I was not only surprised, but touched--to "her who had for many years helped her father to relieve their misery," and "who after the death of her beloved father, had done her best to continue his work of mercy." Those roses were indeed the most beautiful wedding-present I received.

The young ladies of Beaucourt sang a chorus. The words had been specially written by a local poet, young and full of excellent intentions, and the music composed by my father, years ago. My pastor, M. Bach, was so eloquent that I burst into sobs like every one else; and as we left the Temple, my husband and I were greeted by the strains of a warlike march played by the Beaucourt band, and we shook hands with the forty-five musicians whom for so many years, I had seen at home, at the rehearsals conducted by my father.

A reception followed, and I saw once more all the dear faces I loved, except, alas, that of my grand-papa from Russia... M. Doriand had been unable to leave Moscow, and I never heard from him or saw him again.

In my mother's brougham, my husband and I drove to the station where we entrained for Besancon, and thence we went on to Italy.

We were to remain there a month, but at the end of ten days, I felt so home-sick and depressed that we returned to Beaucourt, where I ran into my mother's arms and begged her to let me stay with her--for ever. My husband entreated me to come with him to Paris, and I followed him....

CHAPTER III

ARRIVAL IN PARIS. A SEPARATION. MARTHE. PARISIAN LIFE.

I shall never forget that arrival in Paris. It was on a Sunday morning, M. Steinheil had warned his sister when to expect us. He talked awhile with the concierge in the lodge, then joined me in the garden, where I was patiently waiting in the pouring rain, and said: "I am extremely sorry. My sister, I hear, has gone to ma.s.s, and she has the keys of the house...."

I spent half an hour in the lodge, distressed by the smell of fried onions which came from the kitchen. At last, Mlle. Marguerite Steinheil returned from church. She wore a morning dress which I would not have allowed my maid to wear. It was 9 A.M., and I felt hungry--in spite of the fried onions--but breakfast was not mentioned. I had a painful impression when I entered the house--my home.... The hall was very dusty; there was no carpet, and nothing was ready for the arrival of a young wife. I asked the way to my bedroom, and burst into tears.

Very tenderly, my husband tried to console me. Then he fetched the wedding-presents sent by his friends, dried my tears with his handkerchief, as one does to a crying child, and I partly forgot my sorrow.

Mlle. Steinheil lived with us. She was very affectionate, in her way, but abnormally old-fashioned. My husband was entirely under her domination and under that of all the other members of his family.

The next day I resolved to re-arrange the drawing-room, which was cold, dreary, and as unattractive as could be. I transformed the curtains, changed the position of the furniture, put flowers everywhere, placed here a _bergere_, there a pretty _chiffonnier_, there a Louis Seize arm-chair taken from the furniture which had been sent to me from Beaucourt, and everything I disliked I removed to my husband's vast studio.

Delighted at having arranged the salon to my taste I went and fetched Adolphe to show him what I had done. He was quite upset, and began by telling me: "It is rather awkward, all this furniture you have sent up to my studio, and curiously enough you have taken from the studio the very things I need for my pictures, as backgrounds, as ornaments."

At that moment my sister-in-law entered. She glanced around her, looked at her brother, and then, turning to me: "My dear little girl," she said, with an air of outraged piety, "never, you understand me, never has the furniture in this room been touched since the death of our venerated father." Her tone froze me to the marrow, and somewhat incensed me. At the same time I regretted that I had hurt the feelings of my sister-in-law and upset the backgrounds for my husband's paintings....

I had to put everything back in its place. It was painful. I had succeeded in turning that old, solemn and utterly inhospitable room into a pretty and cosy salon, in which there reigned an attractive harmony of lines and colours. Alas, I had to rehang the paintings by Daubigny, Corot and Meissonier where I had found them, close to the frieze, where it was impossible to enjoy their beauty. I had to replace the pieces of furniture one beside the other along the walls, all in a row, and move back the piano into its dark corner. I had draped it with a marvellous and genuine Doge's gown, made of red velvet, which I had discovered in the studio. I took the gown back to the studio, and had to reinstate in their former places all the horrible things I had triumphantly relegated there. And I had to remove from the salon my pretty Louis XVI. furniture and replace the chairs that had been there, stiff, heavy, ungraceful chairs, with such high seats that one had to climb in order to sit on them, and to jump in order to come down.

With a sad heart I undid all my work. I took away the vases and their flowers, the cushions and embroideries I had strewn here and there to give touches of colour and a little life to this gloomy place. Evening was falling; I wanted to light the gas, but my sister-in-law gently but firmly decreed: "It's still light enough... and gas is expensive."

I sought a refuge in my room, and my husband followed me there. I begged him to allow me at least to furnish and decorate my own room as I pleased. He gladly consented. He was really grieved by what had taken place. "Be patient," he said; "everything will be all right later on.

The main thing is not to be in a hurry."

He was forty; I was twenty. He was quiet, indifferent, easily satisfied, compared life to a disagreeable pill which every one must swallow.... My husband's philosophy did not appeal to me in the least.

And yet I loved him and believed in happiness.... And then, there were my mother's letters. She wrote to me almost every day at that time; and later, and until her tragic end, some twenty years after my marriage, not a week elapsed without my receiving from her, when she was not with me, one of those tenderly maternal letters which strengthen the mind, palliate sorrow, and rekindle the flame of hope in one's soul.

After a few days, when I realised that I had not to deal with deliberate opposition, but that, on the contrary, my husband and his sister were anxious to see me happy, although, being old-fashioned, they were in nature, habits and ideas far removed from me, I thought that with a great deal of affection and persuasion I would succeed in improving my husband. But the problem of Mlle. Steinheil looked to me more difficult.

I asked Adolphe: "How long do you think she will remain with us?"

"She has always lived near me," he replied timidly. "But I hope she will marry some day."

This reply made me leap with hope, and I thought: "I will find her a husband." I applied myself to the search with such goodwill that my efforts were crowned with success. Six months after my arrival in Paris, Mlle. Steinheil became the wife of a government official who made her perfectly happy. And when, later, I told her about my little ruse, she saw the humour of it and laughed, and expressed her grat.i.tude in a manner both charming and sincere.

On the very day of her wedding, I celebrated what I called "my victory"

by altering everything, not only in the drawing-room, but throughout the house, and turning it at last into the beautiful and comfortable nest I had so long dreamed of.

As a wedding-gift I presented my sister-in-law with the dear old furniture which she had forbidden me to touch, and I also sent her a collection of rococo-clocks and a group of wax flowers under gla.s.s shades, which she held sacred. But, as my father had once told me, "Love is illogical," and my sister-in-law carefully removed the dreary furniture, the elaborate clocks and the wax flowers... to the attic of her new home!

I loved my husband, and although I soon found out that his timidity, which I had taken for a lover's diffidence, was really the key-note of his character--that his restraint was weakness, that he had neither ambition nor courage, and that his ideal was tranquillity--I refused to believe that my love, my energy, my vitality, which every one said was contagious, would not in time conquer all obstacles, and that our married life was doomed and happiness impossible. I set to work and did all that an active wife can do for the husband she loves; and my task was the easier because it was the very essence of my nature to spend and devote myself to the service of others, and also because Adolphe, though he lacked will-power, was endowed with many admirable qualities both of the heart and mind.

I reorganised our home, tried to breathe ambition into my husband, cheered him when he was depressed, surrounded him with comfort and a.s.sisted him in his work, made the historical costumes which he needed for his models and sat for him myself. But I failed to rouse him from his apathy or to give him the love of effort.... And yet, to whom is effort more necessary than to the artist?

It was indeed pitiful, for Adolphe had genuine talent and could have made a great name for himself. But, besides working hard, he would have had to pay certain visits, take certain steps, and he would leave his studies only to take me to the houses of his friends or to hear me sing.

He often spoke to me about his uncle and master, Meissonier, but had ceased to call on him, after a little family misunderstanding, and Meissonier died without my having seen him.

Certain paintings by my husband looked so much like the work of his celebrated uncle that in America a number of "Steinheils" have been sold as "Meissoniers." Adolphe, like his master, painted miniatures in oil and used much the same kind of "subjects." He told me many anecdotes about his uncle, and here is one of them in his own words; "Meissonier was very small, smaller even than I am, and his diminutive stature was quite a trial to him. He came often to my studios and I believe he liked me chiefly because I am small. He would sit on my stool, examine a picture on which I was working, glance at my model, caress his long white beard and say, 'It's fine... but somehow, I don't see things as you do. There seems to be something wrong with the perspective.... Oh! I have it. I forgot you are so very small. I must stoop in order to see like you. Give me a lower stool....' And he chuckled with glee."

In days gone by Meissonier and Louis Steinheil (my husband's father) had worked and struggled together. Then Geoffrey Dechaume, who was to sculpture so many wonderful statues for Notre-Dame in Paris and the Strasburg Cathedral, joined the two friends, and the trio toiled and lived together in one room. Meissonier married the sister of Louis Steinheil. Louis Steinheil became the father of a large family and devoted his attention chiefly to stained-gla.s.s painting, which was then very well paid for--a special branch of art which my husband also took up for a time.

I soon became acquainted with the majority of well-known painters and sculptors in France. Among others, I often visited Bartholdi in his studio. The sculptor of the colossal statue of "Liberty illuminating the World," on Bedloe's Island in New York Harbour, was an old friend of my husband. He was a man of keen intellect and had much originality of thought, but his conceit was as colossal as his famous statue. Showing me once the small model of "Liberty," he said quietly: "The Americans believe that it is Liberty that illumines the world, but, in reality, it is my genius."

I never met a man quite as naturally and unconsciously conceited, excepting perhaps a certain Orientalist, who was as learned as he was celebrated. I remember meeting him once at the _Inst.i.tut_. He wore the green uniform and the sword of a member of the _Inst.i.tut_, and on his breast there shone a ma.s.s of orders. He pointed one out to me with his parchment-like forefinger, "You see this little thing here," he whispered. "There are but three Europeans who have the right to wear it--one emperor, one king and--myself.... I don't attach the slightest importance to it." And, leaving me, he went off to tell exactly the same thing to all who stopped to listen to him.

I met Gounod, who came several times to the Impa.s.se Ronsin, and I sang with the old composer a duet of his of which he was very fond, ent.i.tled "D'un cur qui t'aime." Once he played to me many pages of his "Redemption," the sacred trilogy which he had dedicated to Queen Victoria. I did not know him very long, for he died in 1893 at Saint Cloud, where, two years later, another great man, Pasteur, was to die.

I also met Ferdinand de Lesseps, _le grand Francais_. He was eighty-seven then and very weak. I never knew a man whose kindness and modesty equalled that of this giant, who had given the world the Suez Ca.n.a.l.

Eleven months after my marriage my daughter was born and I nearly lost my life. The birth of my child was a source of pure delight to me, and I forgot all my worries and bitter disappointments. My happiness, however, was short-lived. For a reason which I will not reveal, and at which I will not even hint, I determined to divorce. I consulted on the matter M. B., my husband's closest friend, a famous barrister and Attorney-General. He advised me to go to Beaucourt with my baby, and not to make an irrevocable decision. Twice a week during the many months I spent at Beaucourt with my mother, I received letters from the Attorney-General, and their burden was always the same: "Come back to Paris and to him. Forgive.... We will all do our best to make your life a happy one. Don't divorce, for your child's sake...." My mother, who was indulgence incarnate and had a holy terror of divorce, gave me similar advice, and one day I returned home, had a long and painful conversation with my husband, in which it was agreed that, for the love of little Marthe, we wouldn't divorce, and would henceforth be "friends," each living in his or her own way. M. Steinheil, later on, said to an intimate friend, who repeated the remark at my trial, "My wife is only a friend to me; she has full liberty, and I don't control her actions...." It was further agreed that when we would have to discuss some matter of importance we would do so in writing. Thanks to this method, no one ever guessed that, although living under one roof, my husband and I were separated. Indeed, this way of discussing by letter had many advantages, and even the most united couples should adopt it. It helps you to avoid bitter, hurtful words, prevents quarrelling, and servants cannot overhear.... Moreover, it often happens that while reading over a letter you have just written, you grow calm and realise the futility and uselessness of what you said. The letter is torn to pieces, and common sense comes, smiling, on the scene....

Notwithstanding the separation, I continued to do all that I could for my husband. I looked after the house and a.s.sisted him in his work just as I had done before. But need I say that my dream of love and happiness was hopelessly shattered, and that had it not been for my little Marthe my life would have been almost unbearable.

It has often been said that an unsuitable match or the failure of her conjugal happiness urges any intelligent or sensitive woman on towards adventures and new interests, and leads her to live on illusions. I do not believe that I ever deluded myself with chimeras, except, perhaps, in the days when my father built up around me a real and yet fairy world of ideal joys, but there is no doubt that after I had shaken off the dejection which weighed upon me like a heavy and unbearable cloak, I realised that in order to live at all I would have to occupy my mind, find an outlet for my energy, and seek new interests everywhere. I was quite incapable of dumb resignation. With me, to strive and accomplish has always been a necessity. I clearly saw that I should live only if I lived intensely, ardently, even feverishly, and had more to do every day than I possibly could do. I took a pa.s.sionate interest in people, in things, in events; I studied music, art, even politics; and my life from that time belonged to my daughter and to society.