Читать книгу My Memoirs - Marguerite Steinheil - Страница 5

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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.

MY FATHER 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 manœuvres, 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."