Читать книгу My Memoirs - Marguerite Steinheil - Страница 6

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....