... What it has cost me to marry an artist! Oh, my dear! if I had known!
but young girls have singular ideas about so many things. Just imagine
that at the Exhibition, when I read in the catalogue the addresses of
far-away quiet streets at the further end of Paris, I pictured to myself
peaceable, stay-at-home lives, devoted to work and the family circle,
and I said to myself (feeling beforehand a certainty that I should be
dreadfully jealous), "That is the sort of husband to suit me. He will
always be with me. We shall spend our days together; he at his picture
or sculpture, while I read or sew beside him, in the concentrated light
of the studio." Poor dear innocent! I had not the faintest idea then
what a studio really was, nor of the singular creatures one meets there.
Never, in gazing at those statues of bold undressed goddesses had the
idea occurred to me that there were women daring enough to--and that
even I myself----. Otherwise, I can assure you I should never have
married a sculptor. No, indeed, most decidedly not! I must own, they
were all against this marriage at home; notwithstanding my husband's
fortune, his already famous name, and the fine house he was having built
for us two. It was I alone who would have it so. He was so elegant, so
charming, so eager. I thought, however, he meddled a little too much
about my dress, and the arrangement of my hair: "Do your hair like this;
so," and he would amuse himself by placing a flower in the midst of
my curls with far greater skill than any one of our milliners. So much
experience in a man was alarming, wasn't it? I ought to have distrusted
him. Well, you will see. Listen.
[Illustration: p151-162]
We returned from our honeymoon. While I was busy settling myself in my
pretty and charmingly furnished rooms, that paradise you know so well,
my husband, from the moment of his arrival, had set to work and spent
the days at his studio, which was away from the house. When he returned
in the evening, he would talk to me with feverish eagerness of his next
subject for exhibition.
[Illustration: p152-163]
The subject was "a Roman lady leaving the bath." He wanted the marble
to reproduce that faint shiver of the skin at the contact of air, the
moisture of the delicate textures clinging to the shoulders, and all
sorts of other fine things which I no longer remember. Between you and
me, when he speaks to me of his sculpture, I do-not always understand
him very well. However, I used to say confidently: "It will be very
pretty," and already I saw myself treading the finely sanded walks
admiring my husband's work, a beautiful marble sculpture gleaming white
against the green hangings; while behind me I heard whispered: "the wife
of the sculptor."
[Illustration: p153-164]
At last one day, curious to see how our Roman lady was getting on, the
idea occurred to me, to go and take him by surprise in his studio, which
I had not yet visited. It was one of the first times I had gone out
alone, and I had made myself very smart, I can tell you. When I arrived,
I found the door of the little garden leading to the ground floor, wide
open. So I walked straight in; and, conceive my indignation, when I
beheld my husband in a white smock like a stone mason, with ruffled
hair, hands grimed with clay, and in front of him, upright on a
platform, a woman, my dear, a great creature, almost undressed,
and looking just as composed in this airy costume as though it were
perfectly natural.
[Illustration: p154-165]
Her wretched clothes covered with mud, thick walking boots, and a round
hat trimmed with a feather out of curl, were thrown beside her on a
chair. All this I saw in an instant, for you may imagine how I fled.
Etienne would have spoken to me--detained me; but with a gesture of
horror at the clay-covered hands, I rushed off to mama, and reached her
barely alive. You can imagine my appearance.
[Illustration: p155-166]
"Good heavens, dear child! what is the matter?"
I related to mama what I had seen, where this dreadful woman was, and
in what costume. And I cried, and cried. My mother, much moved, tried to
console me, explained to me that it must have been a model.
"What! but it is abominable; no one ever told me about that before I was
married!"
Hereupon Etienne arrived, greatly distressed, and tried in his turn to
make me understand that a model is not a woman like other women, and
that besides sculptors cannot get on without them; but these reasons
had no effect upon me, and I stoutly declared I would have nothing to
do with a husband who spent his days _tête-à-tête_ with young ladies in
such a costume.
"Come, my dear Etienne," said poor mama, trying hard to arrange
everything peaceably, "could you not out of respect for your wife's
feelings, replace this creature by a dummy, a lay figure?"
My husband bit his moustaches furiously.
"Quite impossible, dear mother."
"Still, my dear, it seems to me--a bright idea! milliners have
pasteboard heads on which they trim bonnets. Well, what can be done for
a head, could it not be done for----?" It seems this is not possible.
At least, this was what Etienne tried to demonstrate at great length,
with all sorts of details and technical words. He really looked very
unhappy. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while I dried my
tears, and I saw that my grief affected him deeply. At last, after
an endless discussion, it was agreed that since the model was
indispensable, I should be there whenever she came. There chanced to
be on one side of the studio a very convenient little lumber-room, from
which I could see without being seen. I ought to be ashamed, you will
say, of being jealous of such kind of creatures, and of showing my
jealousy. But, my pet, you must have gone through these emotions before
you can offer an opinion about them.
Next day, the model was to be there. I therefore summoned up my courage,
and installed myself in my hiding-place, with the express condition that
at the least tap at the partition my husband should come to me at once.
Scarcely had I shut myself in, when the dreadful model I had seen
the other day arrived, dressed Heaven knows how, and so wretched in
appearance, that I asked myself how I could have been jealous of a woman
who could walk abroad without a scrap of white cuff at her wrists,
and in an old shawl with green fringe. Well, my dear, when I saw this
creature throw off shawl and dress in the middle of the studio, and
begin to undress in the coolest and boldest manner, it had an effect
upon me I cannot describe. I choked with rage. I thumped at the
partition. Etienne came to me. I trembled; I was pale. He laughed at me,
gently re-assured me, and returned to his work. By this time the woman
was standing up, half-naked, her thick hair loosened and hanging down
her back in glossy heaviness. It was no longer the poor wretch of a
moment ago, but already almost a statue, notwithstanding her common and
listless air. My heart died within me. However, I said nothing. All at
once, I heard my husband cry: "The left leg; the left leg forward." And
as the model did not understand him at once, he went to her, and--Oh! I
could contain myself no longer. I knocked. He did not hear me. I knocked
again, furiously. This time he ran to me, frowning a little at being
disturbed in the heat of work. "Come, Armande, do be reasonable!"
Bathed in tears, I leant my head upon his shoulder, and sobbed out: "I
can't bear it, my dear, I can't; indeed, I can't!"
[Illustration: p159-170]
At this, without answering me, he went sharply into the studio, and made
a sign to that horror of a woman, who dressed herself and departed.
For several days, Etienne did not return to the studio. He remained
at home with me, would not go out, refused even to see his friends;
otherwise he was quite kind and gentle, but he had such a melancholy
air. Once I asked him timidly: "You are not working any more?" which
earned me this reply: "One can't work without a model." I had not the
courage to pursue the subject, for I felt how much I was to blame,
and that he had a right to be vexed with me. Nevertheless, by dint of
caresses and endearments, I cajoled him into returning to his studio and
trying to finish the statue--how do they say it? out of his head, from
imagination, in short, by mama's process. To me, this seemed quite
feasible; but it gave the poor fellow endless trouble. Every evening
he came in, with irritated nerves and more and more discouraged; almost
ill, indeed. To cheer him up, I used often to go and see him. I always
said: "It is charming." But, as a fact, the statue made no progress
whatever. I don't even know if he worked at it. When I arrived, I would
find him always smoking on his divan, or perhaps, rolling up pellets of
clay, which he angrily threw against the opposite wall.
One afternoon, when I was gazing at the unfortunate Roman lady, who,
half modelled, had been so long in stepping out of her bath, an idea
occurred to me. The Roman lady was about the same figure as myself;
perhaps at a pinch I might----
"What do you mean by a well-turned leg?" I asked my husband suddenly.
He explained it to me at great length, showing me all that was still
lacking to his statue, and which he could by no means give it without a
model. Poor fellow! He had such a heart-broken air as he said this. Do
you know what I did? Well, I bravely picked up the drapery which was
lying in a corner, I went into my hiding-place; then, very softly
without saying a word, while he was still looking at his statue, I
placed myself on the platform in front of him, in the costume and
attitude in which I had seen that abominable model. Ah my dear I What
emotion I felt when he raised his eyes! I could have laughed and
cried. I was blushing all over. And that tiresome muslin took so
much arranging. Never mind! Etienne was so delighted that I was soon
re-assured. Indeed, to hear him, my dear, you might suppose----.
[Illustration: p162-173]
[Illustration: p164-175]
[Illustration: p165-176]