YOUTH--MY FATHER'S DEATH--MY MARRIAGE
I made my début in society at seventeen. The circle was quite small, for
there were Japys and ramifications of the Japys wherever we went, and,
of course, as I knew them all, they were nothing new to me. It was only
in Belfort that I met people whom I did not know. They were, however,
for the most part only passing acquaintances that I made, for my parents
guarded their "Puppele" most jealously....
I remember my first ball at Belfort. I wore a very simple gown, made of
tulle in three shades of blue, and had a spray of apple-blossom in my
hair and another at my waist. My father, taking a seat where he could
survey the whole room, said gaily to me: "Meg (an affectionate
diminutive for Marguerite), I distrust all these young men. Your
entrance has caused a sensation, and all the officers of the garrison
are staring at you. I hate it, but, on the other hand, I would have been
furious if my daughter had passed unnoticed.... I allow you to dance...
with your brother."
Julien was now a second lieutenant, having left the military school of
Saint-Maixent, where he had passed brilliantly through his examinations.
I admired him very much in his new uniform, and, besides, I had a deep
affection for this big brother of mine, who was bright, witty, a little
irresponsible, and very much of a _mauvais sujet_.
During the whole of the evening we danced together, under the amused
eyes of my father, who, surrounded by a small crowd of officers of all
ranks who were anxious to dance with me, said to them: "Gentlemen, you
may sit down by my side. I will not forbid you to look at my daughter
and I am even willing to introduce you to her; but she absolutely
refuses to dance with any one but her brother, and you know the proverb:
'_Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut_'" (Woman's will, God's will).
I asked my father later on: "What have you against dancing, and why am I
allowed to dance only with my brother? Did you, in your time, dance only
with your sister?"
He did not reply directly to my question, but said: "I only care for
slow, graceful, stately dances--dances from a distance, such as the
minuet, the gavotte, or the pavane, in which the partners only touch
fingers."
"But, father," I said, mischievously, "have you never danced modern
dances--polka, mazurkas, valses?"
He assumed the expression of a child "caught in the act," and, with head
bent down, whispered, as though he were making a confession: "The truth
is I have loved, and still love dancing, any dancing, and I have spent
whole nights dancing!" Then, raising his head, he added: "Only, you see,
when one loves, one is illogical, and you don't know, my 'Puppele,' how
I love you."
My mother said that my father's attitude was not fair to me, and that it
was not right to close our door, as he seemed to wish to do, to all men
under forty. We entertained more than ever, and at our evenings I played
and sang... with my father. I saw a new meaning in our love-duets; I was
a little intoxicated, my imagination ran loose, I sang with more feeling
than I had done before.... And my parents were overwhelmed with suitors
for my hand. My father consulted me, although he had quite made up his
mind to do as _he_ pleased in the matter. I always said "no," and he
exclaimed: "Ah! how right you are.... It is really wonderful what a
sensible daughter I have!... When you are twenty we will talk of
marriage. Meanwhile, think a little of your father."
"A little!" When I thought of no one but of him! The following year he
said the same thing to me, but with a slight alteration: "When you are
twenty-_one_..." And I gently pinched his ear, as Napoleon did to his
grenadiers.
[Illustration: MY FATHER]
[Illustration: MY MOTHER]
And I did listen, the more readily because it would have been
impossible for me to have caused this father whom I worshipped the
slightest pain.
It was about this time that I noticed that my father, in spite of his
good humour, was not so happy as he pretended to be. He had long hours
of despondency. Perhaps this was nothing new, but I had not noticed it
before. Heedless childhood observes things rather than people. His
nature knew revolts and disappointments of which I was dimly aware,
although I did not understand them. I believe that, intensely artistic
and imaginative as he was, he had formed an ideal which became more and
more unattainable. Besides, he was a man of great enthusiasm and strong
emotions, a man who put all his force and feeling into everything he
did. His joys were ecstatic, his sorrows abysmal. The slightest trouble
became, in his sensitive heart, unbearable grief, but on the other hand,
music, a gallop over the countryside, the strong, pure light of heaven,
a favourite book, a kind word, a colour-scheme... these things
intoxicated him like wine. My mother, calm and sweet, knew no such
emotion and was incapable of passion. My father told her that nothing
could be great without passion, but she shook her head and said in her
quiet way: "I have no temperament. I shall never be an artist or a poet.
I like the earth and feel comfortable on it... and please don't be angry
with me, _mon ami_." And with much common sense she would add: "You love
to suffer... that's your trouble."
Sometimes, my father would improvise on the organ in order to forget his
troubles and to relieve his sorrow--the worst of all sorrows because it
was without cause--and his music was so inexpressibly mournful that it
wrung my heart. Or he would strike the ivory keys fiercely, almost
viciously, as though he were trying to crush his grief. I always tried
to console him and often succeeded.
Between those fits of depression, he was merry as ever, and fairly
radiated vitality around him, so much so that I could feel in an empty
room whether he had just been there or not.
In the summer-time there was a constant going to and fro of people, and
we made up many large parties of relations and friends. Often the
officers of the neighbouring garrisons joined us and organised games and
rallies (a kind of paper chase on horseback). And at other times we made
excursions to the beauty spots of that beautiful part of France, to the
Ballon d'Alsace, the Saut du Doubs.... My father and my brother were of
course present, and my dogs, two big Danes and two Saint Bernards,
followed me everywhere. In the winter, we hunted the boar near
Mulhausen.
* * * * *
It was when I was seventeen that I had my first love-affair. As I have
stated, my brother's best comrade was M. Sheffer, now, like Julien, a
lieutenant at Belfort. I had known M. Sheffer for several years, and he
often came to Beaucourt. My parents thought him charming and clever, and
I thought the same--gradually there grew between us a kind of poetical
intimacy. He wrote verses for me, and I learned them by heart; we read
together under an oak-tree or by the cascade in the park, and, one
evening, between two songs, Edouard--his name was Edouard, like my
father--told me that he loved me.
His mother, a widow, came from Geneva, where she lived, to see us. My
parents and I were at once drawn to this modest and gifted lady, with
her silvery hair and her smooth pure brow. My father, who had a sincere
affection for Lieut. Sheffer, would not make any promises, however, and
when I told him that I was fond of "Edouard" he uttered vague words....
But he allowed him to come to see me, and he even promised that we
should write to each other, from time to time.
A year later, my father quite unexpectedly told me that I must "try to
forget young Sheffer." He could not consent to the marriage.... I was
too young, he was too poor.... And the thought that I should marry an
officer, who might be called upon, at any moment, to move from one
garrison to another, did not please my father. And he concluded, gently:
"Believe me, 'Puppele,' it will be wiser to part as soon as possible.
You'll soon forget this little idyl. You are still but a babe; your
whole life lies before you.... In order that you may forget the more
easily, I will send you on a holiday to Bayonne with my son-in-law (M.
Heir, my eldest sister's husband, who was then spending a few days at
Beaucourt)." I was broken-hearted.
A few days later, I went with my brother-in-law to Lieut. Sheffer, and
handed back to him whom I had for a year considered my fiancé, the
letters he had sent me, and received in return those I had written to
him.
I saw Lieut. Sheffer once again, and it was in the following terms that
he described that final meeting, to the examining magistrate in January
1909: "Wishing to see Marguerite once more, I drove to Montbéliard
[where the train was to pass that would take M. Herr and me to the
South]. I wore civilian clothes and had a marguerite in my button
hole.... It is a childish detail, but I haven't forgotten it. I was able
to exchange one last glance with her. I never saw her again...."
Thus ended this pretty romance, so tender and so pure, but one which,
like every page of the book of my life, like every one of my actions and
words, was to be interpreted in an unfavourable way, during my
examination and at my trial. My past was searched, pried into, ransacked
and misconstrued, and even this naïve and delightful romance, with my
first emotions and my first dreams, was not spared, and failed to find
grace in the sight of my tormentors. As my counsel declared in court:
"They tried to find out, not only whether there had been intimate
relations between Mlle. Japy and Lieut. Sheffer, but even whether, such
relations being proved, a child was not born, who, having years later
become an _Apache_, committed the double murder of the Impasse Ronsin,
and spared his own mother!"
Nothing, however, it need hardly be said, was found against M. Sheffer
or myself... except one thing! It appeared that I had once spent six
days in Bâle, and this was at once construed into an elopement with M.
Sheffer. But exhaustive investigations established the fact that the
lieutenant was away at the time attending manoeuvres, and it was
finally discovered that the elopement to Bâle was nothing more serious
than the visit of my mother and myself to the dentist, there being none
in Beaucourt!
It was at the Paris Court of Assize, in November 1909, more than twenty
years after the end of my short-lived engagement, that I met once more
the man who had been the hero of my first love-dream. I was sitting in
the dock, on the "bench of infamy," as barristers call it, accused of
having murdered my mother and my husband, and Major Sheffer came to the
witness's "bar" in the well of the court and told our innocent little
romance of long ago.
My dream was broken. Life did not seem worth living.... But youth soon
forgets. "We are not even capable of being unhappy a long time," Pascal
said.
I spent two months in Bayonne and Biarritz, wrote every week to my
parents, and received nearly every day long and delightful letters from
my father.
Then, suddenly, I heard that my father had died. While drinking a glass
of icy water he had fallen stone dead... of heart failure. It was on
November 14th, 1888. I was nineteen years old. I thought I should lose
my reason. They put me in the train and I reached Beaucourt, too late,
alas, to see once more the beloved face of my father. He had already
been laid in his coffin.
My father had been loved by all, and the Beaucourt temple was crowded at
his funeral. All the musical societies of the neighbourhood came to pay
him a last honour, and, massed together, they played Chopin's funeral
march.... My poor mother was so prostrated with grief that she was
unable to attend the funeral.... I will not say any more about a day
which was one of the most painful in my life.... Besides, I was so numb
with grief that my memory of it is blurred.
During the days that followed, everything at home was thrown into such
confusion, and the sight of all that my father had touched or loved was
so distressing to me, that I begged my mother to let me leave Beaucourt
for a while.... She raised her tear-stained face and said pitifully:
"And I?" I felt ashamed of my selfishness, and we fell into each other's
arms... and, of course, I thought no more of going away....
Mimi, my younger sister, was ill, and I should have fallen ill too, had
I not had to nurse her and my mother. When they recovered, I spent
whole days in the woods and by the lakes in our estate, in all those
hallowed spots where my father and I spent so many unforgettable hours
together.
For a year I was unable to take my violin from its case, or to open the
piano. Everything was changed, and I felt like a lost soul.
Towards the end of the summer of 1889, I went to Paris with my sisters,
to visit the Exhibition. Mme. Herr, who had come to Beaucourt to fetch
me, had spoken a great deal to my mother about a great friend of hers, a
certain M. Steinheil, a nephew of Meissonier, and I had been asked to go
to Bayonne later on with the Herrs.
We stayed six weeks in Paris and as true "Provincials," anxious to see
everything, we entered the Exhibition as soon as the gates were thrown
open and left it at night only when we found ourselves almost too tired
to stand. This lasted for a month, and then it occurred to me that there
was something else to see in Paris besides the Exhibition.
I had not been in Paris since the time when I had gone there with my
father to see a live elephant, and I drank in the beauties of the
capital with avidity, under the happy guidance of a friend who was both
an artist and antiquarian.
We went, on a certain Sunday, to a concert, and I heard for the first
time Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, of which my father used to say: "If the
whole of music were to be destroyed and forgotten, and only one work
left, that work ought to be the 'Ninth.'"
When I returned to Beaucourt I found my mother had started on the
building of large, sumptuous and extremely expensive greenhouses. We
begged her in vain to have the work stopped. My mother loved building,
and, as she said herself: "Every human being has his disease. Your
father's was loving to suffer. I have the 'stone' disease. I love
bricks, cement, sand, stone. To build has become my passion and at my
age, you don't get cured of your passions."
A few days later, my mother, somewhat anxious about my health, suggested
that I should go to Bayonne with the Herrs, and spend a few weeks in the
South.
During the journey, they told me all kinds of wonderful things about M.
Steinheil, to whom, they admitted, they had often spoken of me, and who
was now in Bayonne, decorating the cathedral there.
At my sister's I was shown the photograph of the painter, a shortish man
of at least forty, thin, with small eyes, a dark moustache, and a
pointed beard. "No, thank you!" I exclaimed, "I'd never dream of
marrying a man like that. Why, I'd look as though I were his daughter!"
I was, however, persuaded to meet him. One day, my sister said to me:
"To-morrow, we'll go to Biarritz to have tea with some friends."
"All right," I replied, "while you are with your friends, I will play
with my nieces on the sands."
The next day, just as we were going to board the narrow-gauge train
which connects Bayonne with Biarritz, I saw my brother-in-law walk up to
a small man, clean-shaven save for his moustache, and wearing a
frock-coat that was far too long for him. I did not recognise him as the
painter of the photographs. The two men came towards me and M. Herr
introduced M. Steinheil to me. At that time I was still as frank and as
impulsive as a child, and could not help remarking on the artist's
changed appearance. Quite confused, he explained: "My beard was getting
grey and I decided to shave it--yesterday."
In the train, my sister scolded me. "You have laughed at this poor M.
Steinheil, and you have hurt his feelings. He is abnormally shy, but he
is a charming fellow, a great artist, and the pupil of his uncle
Meissonier whose talent you admire so much."
I rose and walked straight to M. Steinheil: "It appears I have hurt
you," I said quite simply. "Please forgive me. You must not be angry. I
always say what I think, and after all, what do I care whether you wear
a beard or not!"
My sister, in despair, tugged at my skirt, but the painter said: "I
admire your sincerity, Mademoiselle. Frank and impulsive people are
becoming so rare nowadays."
He didn't please me at all.
I saw M. Steinheil very often after this first, uneventful meeting. And
then, one day, I was persuaded to go to the Cathedral to see him at
work. His conversation interested me very much, but I could not help
teasing him.
I had pictured him wearing a black velvet coat or in ordinary attire,
but this is what I saw when I entered the Cathedral: a tiny man lost in
a white smock, like a house-painter, holding a gigantic palette, and
perched on the top of a huge scaffolding.
I burst out laughing in spite of the solemnity of the place. M.
Steinheil wheeled round, saw us, dropped his brushes and his palette,
which fell noisily on to the flagstones beneath, came down from the
scaffolding at top speed, and, when he reached the ground, greeted me
with a number of quick, jerky little bows, all of the same depth, just
as I had seen President Carnot bow in Paris a few weeks before.
Meanwhile, my little nieces and I were forcing our handkerchiefs in our
mouths.
Disconcerted, M. Steinheil took off his smock... and we had a fresh
surprise. I thought that underneath that smock he was dressed like any
man, but no, he wore a thick knitted brown sweater over his waistcoat,
and that sweater reached down to his knees and gave him a most comical
appearance.
We went slowly round the Cathedral, and the painter described to me all
the frescoes, those that were the work of his father and those he had
himself just completed. He spoke about his father with such feeling
that, remembering my own father, I became quite serious, and thenceforth
listened with keen attention to all that M. Steinheil said.
Afterwards, we examined the stained glass windows. "That is a branch of
art," he said, "to which I have devoted many months. My father was
master of it, and handed me his secrets. There is, for instance, a
certain antique red which he alone knew how to produce--and now I am the
only person who knows. It was my father who restored the windows of
Strasburg Cathedral and of that Gothic gem, the Sainte Chapelle in
Paris." And with obvious joy he added: "The great Ruskin himself wrote
about my father's windows in the Sainte Chapelle where the whole story
of the Bible is painted: 'So well has M. Steinheil matched the colours
that it is not easy to distinguish between the modern glass and the
little that still remains of the thirteenth century.'"
I began gradually to be interested in the artist.... He came and dined
with my sister and I tried to be more kind to him and promised I would
never tease him when he spoke to me on art.... A few days later, M.
Steinheil added himself to my list of suitors, which already included
two officers, a barrister, a wealthy nobleman, a lecturer, and a stout
manufacturer. I felt no affection for any of them, but it was
undoubtedly with M. Steinheil that I preferred to talk. We chatted not
only of art and of Paris, but of Beaucourt and my mother. He told me the
story of his life, of his career.... I heard he had "brought up" his
sisters, and soon found that his timidity and reserve did not mean--far
from it--a lack of intelligence and generous feelings.
He gave me painting lessons and spent more time at my sister's house
than at the Cathedral. He became smarter in his dress: changed his
necktie every day and shortened his frock-coat.
I was given to understand that he had intended to leave Bayonne for his
home--at No. 6, Impasse Ronsin in Paris--eight days after my arrival. I
remained six weeks in Bayonne, and he did not leave the town until the
day after my departure. His friends chaffed him about this constantly
protracted delay, but he replied with his usual far-away voice: "There
is a fold in the cloak of my Saint Martin which is not yet finished."
That never-completed fold almost became a proverb afterwards.
I returned to Beaucourt with my brother-in-law, and was overjoyed at
being once more near my mother.... Alas, during my absence, she had not
only gone on with the building of the great greenhouses, but had started
upon a luxurious piggery, large enough for hundreds of pigs, and I heard
she had been with an architect to an estate near Mulhausen, where she
had inspected the famous model farm of a German prince, an exact replica
of which she wanted to have built at Beaucourt.
Twice a week I received painting lessons by post. I sent my work to M.
Steinheil, in Paris, and he returned it to me duly corrected and with
pages of comment, which I eagerly read. The "Parisian painter," as my
mother said, "had already a place in my thoughts."
Then, without warning, his letters ceased... after one in which he had
mentioned that he was unwell.
In January 1890, my mother was visited by my aunt, Mme. Octave Japy, who
brought a letter from M. Boch, an intimate friend of the Steinheils and
the Meissoniers. In his letter M. Boch said, that after having seen how
ill Adolphe (Steinheil) was, he had talked with the Steinheil family and
had discovered that the painter "had no longer any desire to live," that
he was desperately in love with Mlle. Japy, but dared not ask for her
hand, as he knew only too well "that she would receive such a proposal
with a shout of laughter." M. Boch's letter--which was handed to
me--contained warm eulogies of M. Steinheil and ended as follows: "I
should be glad to know whether Mlle. Japy might, some day, consent to
become the wife of my old friend, or whether he must give up such
hopes."
I was moved, but frankly told my mother that I had never seriously
thought of M. Steinheil as a husband. Thereupon my aunt offered to go to
Paris "to investigate things."
When she returned, she spoke of M. Steinheil, of his house, his
position. Then, gaily, she confessed that she had been rather
disconcerted when she had arrived at the villa in the Impasse Ronsin. "I
found M. Steinheil," she exclaimed, "wearing a blue sweater and...
wooden shoes. It was raining and he was about to walk across the garden
to the studio of his brother-in-law who makes stained glass.... He was
most sympathetic, however.... Of course he is furious that his little
secret has been discovered. He loves you with all his heart and says he
would do anything to make you happy.... I promised to talk to you and
plead in his favour. I have done so."
I had several long talks with my mother and my aunt.... They both
declared that happiness was far safer and lasting with a man of mature
years than with the average young man.... And then, I wondered what my
father would have thought of such a marriage, and it seemed to me that
he would have approved of it.... M. Steinheil seemed grave and kind, two
qualities which my father thought essential, and he was a talented
artist, to which my father would certainly not have objected. Again, he
used to tell me that an ideal married life is only possible when the
husband and wife can be a good deal together.... Now M. Steinheil being
a painter would spend much of his time at home, in his studio.... And
then, the prospect of living in Paris appealed to me, as it did to every
girl in our distant province. Finally, every one seemed in favour of
that marriage....
Gradually, I saw this projected union in a new light; I grew used to the
idea that I _might_ become Mme. Steinheil, and at length I consented to
meet the painter in Beaucourt.
He arrived a few days later, put up at my grandmother's, called on us
every day and made the acquaintance of the whole family. He pleased
every one, and his slow, serene and dignified ways, were in such perfect
accord with my mother's character that she asked me how I could hesitate
to marry such an ideal man. M. Steinheil's timidity was taken as the
delightful sign of a deep love.
He was most attentive to me, spoke so convincingly, though without any
passion--of the happiness that would be ours, and seemed so desperately
anxious to hear me say "yes" after he had proposed, that I had not the
heart to say "no."
Our engagement lasted four months, during which we exchanged letters
that became longer and more frequent as the weeks passed by. Such noble
feelings were expressed in his letters that I grew more and more happy
at the thought of becoming the wife of Adolphe Steinheil.
Towards the end of June my fiancé reached Beaucourt with his family,
whom I had met in Paris a few weeks before, when I had gone there with
my mother to purchase my trousseau. M. Steinheil at once set to work on
a portrait of me--a small oil-painting on wood--_á la_ Meissonier, which
was never to be completed. I was to discover later on, that my husband
seldom went to the end of an idea or a plan, and was possessed of an
unconquerable dread of all final decisions.
Our marriage took place in July at the Beaucourt Temple--the dear temple
where I had spent so many hours, including the most tragic one of my
short life.
M. Steinheil was a Catholic, but had consented to our marriage being
celebrated in a Protestant church and had also agreed that our children,
if we had any, were to be brought up in the Protestant faith. The Japy
family--all staunch Huguenots--had been most strict on this point.
Two days before the wedding, I received the following letter, which is
worth mentioning, for it recalls a pretty tradition, which, like most
pretty traditions, is on the wane or has already disappeared.
"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
glass 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 Besançon, 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....