What can be the matter with him? What can he complain of? I cannot
understand it. And yet I have done all I could to make him happy. To be
sure, I don't say that instead of a poet I would not rather have married
a notary or a lawyer, something rather more serious, rather less vague
as a profession; nevertheless, such as he was he took my fancy.
I thought him a trifle visionary, but charming all the same, and
well-mannered; besides he had some fortune, and I thought that once
married poetizing would not prevent him from seeking out some good
appointment which would set us quite at ease.
[Illustration: p089-100]
[Illustration: p090-101]
He, too at that time seemed to find me to his taste. When he came to see
me at my aunt's in the country, he could not find words enough to admire
the order and arrangement of our little house, kept like a convent, "It
is so quaint!" he used to say. He would laugh and call me all sorts of
names taken from the poems and romances he had read. That shocked me a
little I confess; I should have liked him to be more serious. But it
was not until we were married and settled in Paris, that I felt all the
difference of our two natures.
I had dreamed of a little home kept scrupulously bright and clean;
instead of which, he began at once to encumber our apartment with
useless old-fashioned furniture, covered with dust, and with faded
tapestries, old as the hills. In everything it was the same. Would you
believe that he obliged me to put away in the attic a sweetly
pretty Empire clock, which had come to me from my aunt, and some
splendidly-framed pictures given me by my school friends. He thought
them hideous. I am still wondering why? For after all, his study was one
mass of lumber, of old smoky pictures; statuettes I blushed to look at,
chipped antiquities of all kinds, good for nothing; vases that would not
hold water, odd cups, chandeliers covered with verdigris.
[Illustration: p094-105]
By the side of my beautiful rosewood piano, he had put another, a little
shabby thing with all the polish off, half-the notes wanting, and so
old and worn that one could hardly hear it. I began to think: "Good
gracious! is an artist then, really a little mad? Does he only care for
useless things, and despise all that is useful?"
When I saw his friends', the society he received, it was still worse.
Men with long hair, great beards, scarcely combed, badly dressed, who
did not hesitate to smoke in my presence, while to listen to them made
me quite uncomfortable, so widely opposed were their ideas to mine. They
used long words, fine phrases, nothing natural, nothing simple. Then
with all this, not a notion of ordinary civilities: you might ask them
to dinner twenty times running, and there would be never a call, never
a return of any kind. Not even a card or a bonbon on New Year's day.
Nothing. Some of these gentry were married and brought their wives to
see us. You should have seen the style of these persons! For every day
wear, superb toilettes such as thank heaven, I would wear at no time!
And so ill-arranged, without order or method. Hair loose, skirts
trailing, and such a bold display of their talents! There were some who
sang like actresses, played the piano like professors, all talked on
every subject just like men. I ask you, is this reasonable?
Ought serious women once married to think of anything but the care of
their household? This is what I tried to make my husband understand,
when he was vexed at seeing me give up my music. Music is all very well
when one is a little girl and has nothing better to do. But candidly,
I should consider myself very ridiculous if I sat down every day to the
piano.
[Illustration: p098-109]
Oh! I am quite aware that his great complaint against me is that I
wished to draw him from the strange society I considered so dangerous
for him. "You have driven away all my friends?" he often used to say
reproachfully. Yes, I did do so, and I don't regret it. Those creatures
would have ended by driving him crazy. After leaving them, he would
often spend the night in making rhymes and in marching up and down and
talking aloud. As if he were not already sufficiently eccentric and
original in himself without being excited by others! What caprices, what
whims have I not put up with! Suddenly one morning, he would appear in
my room: "Quick, get your hat--we are off to the country." Then one
must leave everything, sewing, household affairs, take a carriage, go
by rail, spend a mint of money! And I, who only thought of economy! For
after all, it is not with fifteen thousand francs (six hundred pounds)
a year that one can be counted rich in Paris or make any provision for
one's children. At first he used to laugh at my observations, and try
to make me laugh; then when he saw how firmly I was resolved to remain
serious, he found fault with my simplicity and my taste for home. Am
I to blame because I detest theatres and concerts, and those artistic
soirées to which he wished to drag me, and where he met his old
acquaintances, a lot of scatterbrains, dissipated and Bohemian?
At one time, I thought he was becoming more reasonable. I had managed to
with-draw him from his good-for-nothing circle of friends, and to gather
round us a society of sensible people, well-settled in life, who might
be of use to us. But no! Monsieur was bored. He was always bored,
from morning till night. At our little soirees, where I was careful to
arrange a whist table and a tea table, all as it should be, he would
appear with such a face! in such a temper! When we were alone, it was
just the same. Nevertheless, I was full of little attentions. I used to
say to him: "Read me something of what you are doing." He recited to me
verses, tirades, of which I understood nothing, but I put on an air of
interest, and here and there made some little remark, which by the way,
inevitably had the knack of annoying him. In a year, working night and
day, he could only make of all his rhymes, one single volume which never
sold, I said to him: "Ah! you see," just in a reasoning spirit, to bring
him to something more comprehensible, more remunerative, He got into a
frightful rage, and afterwards sank into a state of gloomy depression
which made me very unhappy. My friends advised me as well as they could:
"You see, my dear, it is the ennui and bad temper of an unoccupied man.
If he worked a little more, he would not be so gloomy."
Then I set to work, and all my belongings too, to seek him an
appointment, I moved heaven and earth, I made I don't know how many
visits to the wives of government officials, heads of departments; I
even penetrated into a minister's office. It was a surprise I reserved
for him, I said to my-self: "We shall see whether he will be pleased
this time," At length, the day when I received his nomination in a
lovely envelope with five big seals, I carried it myself to his table,
half wild with joy. It was provision for the future, comfort, self
content, the tranquillity of regular work. Do you know what he did? He
said: "He would never forgive me." After which he tore the minister's
letter into a thousand pieces, and rushed out, banging the doors. Oh!
these artists, poor unsettled brains taking life all the wrong way! What
could be done with such a man? I should have liked to talk to him, to
reason with him. In vain. Those were indeed right, who had said to me:
"He is a madman." Of what use moreover to talk to him? We do not
speak the same language. He would not understand me, any more than I
understand him. And now, here we must sit and look at each other. I see
hatred in his glance, and yet I have true affection for him. It is very
painful.
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