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 mass, 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 _bergère_, 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 gratitude 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 glass
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
assisted 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-glass 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 _Institut_. He wore the
green uniform and the sword of a member of the _Institut_, and on his
breast there shone a mass 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 Impasse Ronsin, and I sang
with the old composer a duet of his of which he was very fond, entitled
"D'un coeur qui t'aime." Once he played to me many pages of his
"Rédemption," 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 Français_. 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
Canal.
* * * * *
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 assisted 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 passionate 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.
Without clearly realising what was taking place in me and in my home, my
friends instinctively showed me renewed sympathy, especially M. B., the
Attorney-General. He called almost every day, read to me, filled my mind
with new ideas, introduced all kinds of interesting people to me, and
created around me an atmosphere which, although artificial, had a
wonderful fascination, and made me almost forget all that I wanted so
much to forget.
My husband and I often spent evenings in his salon, where scores of
magistrates and famous barristers gathered. It was there that I met an
extremely beautiful and elegant woman, surrounded by an eager circle of
admirers, and her husband, who paid me many commonplace compliments. I
afterwards met them in many drawing-rooms. The man was M. Trouard
Riolle, and was to be, years afterwards, the Public Prosecutor at my
trial. He struck me as an extremely well-groomed and boring _poseur_,
who seemed to think that every woman at once fell in love with him, and
that directly he was introduced any glance or remark of his would
fascinate her. I soon saw that he was an ambitious and scheming man. His
wife, the daughter of the head of the Havas Agency, was as wealthy as
she was beautiful.
From one drawing-room I went to another, and very soon I knew what is
usually called _le Tout-Paris._
Among the many able men I met who paid their addresses to me none was
more sympathetic to me than M. B., and I was gradually conquered by this
Attorney-General's eloquence, his refinement, which reminded me of M.
Doriand's exquisite courtesy, his self-control, and his capable and
masterly way of dealing with affairs, which contrasted so impressively
with the attitude of too many of the men whom I saw around me, lounging
lazily and carelessly through life. He was tall and fair, wore side
whiskers, and had small, shrewd, and sensuous eyes; he was a witty
_causeur_, on whose words every one hung fascinated. People were anxious
to be admitted to his salon, and he was a great favourite, especially
with women, for although he was inevitably _blasé_, he had still that
natural and romantic charm which very soon wins a woman to its owner.
I entertained a great deal, gave parties, concerts, dinners. I held a
reception once a week, and between two and seven three to four hundred
persons would pass through the salons of the villa in the Impasse
Ronsin. There came statesmen and diplomatists, famous authors and famous
composers, generals and admirals, scientists and officials, business
magnates and great financiers, State-councillors, explorers, men with
historic names, men who were making names for themselves, and judges, a
whole body of judges....
And there were the opera, charity bazaars, visits to the poor of my
district, chamber music, private theatricals, hunting, the Salons, the
_grande semaine_, first nights, concerts, receptions at various
Embassies and at the Elysée.... And there came every year a stay at
Biarritz or on the Riviera, a month or two at the seaside.... And there
was my husband's work, and the work I did with him... and music... and,
above all, my daughter, my little Marthe....