CHAPTER V

MY SALON (_continued_)

Amongst the "faithful," I must not forget to mention Henner, "the great painter of the flesh," as he called himself in one of his rare poetical moments.

Henner was dumpy, coarse-featured, and almost bald; had a shaggy grey beard, and ever-begrimed hands, and wore the shabbiest and greasiest of clothes. And it came as a shock to hear this old man, unspeakably unkempt and slovenly, talk with the worst Alsatian accent about the Beauty of the Nude, and the splendour of woman, which he did in a very matter-of-fact and unpoetical manner. But besides being a great artist, he was kind, honest and simple-hearted, like his old friend Bonnat.

The painter of "Chaste Susanna," "The Magdalene," and "The Levite of the Tribe of Ephraïm," enjoyed nothing better than a good dinner and old Burgundy.

I was a little apprehensive when he called, for the spoilt old child could not help speaking his mind bluntly. I was once begged by an acquaintance to use my influence to make the painter accept an invitation which had been extended to him several times. The aged bachelor, who disliked all functions save good dinners in congenial and familiar surroundings, accepted, after a great deal of coaxing. He arrived late, as usual, and unkempt, as usual. He had broken his stud, after having fidgeted with it for a long time, for there were very evident marks of a struggle in the centre of his shirt front. He saw me at once and instead of going straight to the hostess he rushed up to me and exclaimed: "Why didn't you tell me you were coming too; I should never have hesitated to accept?" Then, turning to the host, he said: "Well, well, and so you are the famous M. H.... who made your fortune years ago by selling shirts. I suppose if I made a sketch of you, you'd pay me with a dozen collars. I am told you own a fine art gallery here. I daresay you got all those modern pictures in exchange for shirts and hosiery, eh?" And he burst out laughing.

The tactless surmise happened to be correct. As a matter of fact, M. H. had once called on my husband and abruptly proposed to supply him for life with shirts and collars in exchange for a certain painting which he fancied. I tried not to be angry. "My husband," I said, "wears only the very best shirts...."

"I quite understand that."

"And he gives them away when he has worn them once...."

M. H. saw his mistake and withdrew the offer.

I never knew Henner to be embarrassed. We treated him like a member of the family, and, one day, wishing to make him understand that his nails were really too grimy, I asked him whether he wished to wash his hands before dinner.

He looked at his nails, understood, and quietly said: "I am in mourning for Alsace and Lorraine."

But if he were never embarrassed, he had embarrassing habits, the worst of which was that of examining the shoulders and arms of ladies in _décolleté_ with unperturbed insistence. And not infrequently he would say: "Allow me, just one second; I want to feel the grain, the quality of your skin." And before the victim had time to move he would press down his hairy and grimy forefinger on her bare arm, or even on her neck.

Withdrawing his fingers, he would pass some such remark as this: "It's really wonderful. I never grow tired of feeling flesh.... It is all made of little dots--blue, white, green, pink, purple, yellow... that is what flesh is."

Countess S., a handsome lady of the Hungarian aristocracy, who had come to Paris on her honeymoon, raved about Henner's art. Meeting him one day in my house, she offered to sit for the painter. Her French was not fluent, and she meant, of course, that Henner should paint her portrait. He readily accepted, for her complexion was milky and transparent, and her hair had that glowing copper tint which he loved so much.

A few days later I met the fair Hungarian Countess.

"How is the portrait?"

"Don't speak about it," she replied. "Your Henner is a wretch. I went to his studio with my husband. Henner said to me quickly: 'Please undress.' Then, as if he were talking to himself, he added: 'Her body stretched on the black velvet of this couch, her hair loose... and a dark background.... It's going to be a masterpiece!' My husband was mad with rage.... At last M. Henner saw his mistake. He had only seen my hair and my complexion, and had not stopped to think whether I were a lady or a model. He apologised profusely, and offered to paint my portrait in any dress I chose, but my husband would not listen to him...."

He made a joke once of which he was very proud. Having been asked who were his favourite composers, he replied: "There are two, and they have the same name. When I want serious music I ask for some Sebastian Bach, and when I want gay music I ask for some Offen-bach!"

Henner adored music. He said so, at least. But music is usually played after dinner, and after dinner, Henner retired to the smoking room in the company of a glass of brandy, and soon went to sleep. The noise of the instruments being tuned woke him up, and he came rushing into the drawing-room shouting: "Bravo, bravo; Ach.... What a nice piece that was." And he added: "And now that I have heard this masterpiece, I must retire. I have had a good dinner, I have heard excellent music, I have met charming people, and I am going away very pleased...." And the dear old man disappeared.

I often compare him to my friend Julius Oppert, the world famous Assyriologist, a bent, thin, old man, with an endless nose, who wore a threadbare coat with numberless pockets, each of which contained one or several manuscripts or books. What a good, dear man he was, and what a character! He was full of sweet little attentions to my daughter, although she never missed an opportunity of playing tricks on the old savant. He had a curious habit of filling the tail-pockets of his coat with sandwiches, and my mischievous Marthe one day put some cream puffs among some sandwiches on a plate. Oppert did not look when, according to his custom, he filled his pocket, and in went the puffs with the sandwiches, with the result that presently the cream was oozing out from his coat-tails, much to Marthe's glee.

Did he guess who was responsible for this little joke! I could not tell.... All I know is that at Christmas that year he sent Marthe, instead of a doll or a toy, a Sanskrit grammar, and on New Year's day, to me, whom he perhaps thought my daughter's accomplice, instead of flowers or marrons-glacés, his huge work on "The People and the Language of the Medes."

Assyriology leads me to mention M. and Mme. Dieulafoy, well known for their excavations at Suse, and their books. Every one knows that Mme. Dieulafoy is one of the three or four women in France who are authorised to wear men's clothes. This brings back an amusing incident to me.

Mme. Dieulafoy was kindly helping me to dress, one evening, for a theatrical performance in her salons. My maid, a country girl quite new to Paris, was nowhere to be found. When I returned home, I asked her why she had left the Dieulafoys' house when she knew I wanted her. She blushed, spluttered, and finally said: "Forgive me, Madame, but I was late, and when I opened the door of your dressing-room, I saw a gentleman at your feet fastening your costume.... So I ran away, feeling that I was not needed at all!"

I laughed at the incident, just as I had laughed a few years before, when, in the Forest of Fontainebleau, I saw a short, white-haired man, wearing a smock, and painting, whom I congratulated. The "man" was Rosa Bonheur, the celebrated animal painter.

Being the wife of a well-known artist, I made the acquaintance not only of sculptors and painters, but of art lovers and collectors, amongst them Chauchard and Groult.

Of Chauchard, the millionaire founder of the Louvre stores, the philanthropist and grand-cross of the Legion of Honour, there is little to say. Camille Groult, on the other hand, was interesting because he had no false pride and really loved his pictures. He had an estate near Paris close to my summer villa, and I often met him. He had made a fortune as a manufacturer of _pâtes alimentaires_ (farinaceous foods) and was proud of it. He was the only man I ever met who could talk romantically of tapioca, rice, spices or sago. I remember how once he told the story of his sago business. It was an epic. He made us--we were a few friends listening to him--travel to Borneo, to Ceram and other isles of the Pacific, described the sago palm and its mature trunks gorged with precious food-starch, the marshy and unhealthy river-banks where the palm grows, the life of the native packers, the price of the gunnybags in which sago travels, the competition between European, Chinese and Eurasian traders and what not.... After that I really did keenly relish Groult's sago-flour and see the romantic side of what I had always considered a prosaic business.

Groult once took my husband and me to his old "hotel" in the Avenue Malakoff, to show us his famous collection, which was quite a favour, for he guarded his pictures jealously and rarely let them be seen.

He showed us not only his pictures, but also his collection of Gobelins, and the way in which he spoke, for instance, of the Birth of Bacchus--a wonderful tapestry copied from a cartoon by Boucher--was a sheer delight. He possessed exquisite "Aubussons" with the most delicate pastel hues, old Chinese porcelains, a collection of snuff-boxes, unique pieces of antique furniture (which he caressed as one caresses a lover), a series of fans, the folds of which were as light as the wings of the rare butterflies in the cabinet hard by. And the paintings....

There was a room the walls of which were covered with works by Watteau; another, the gem of which was the portrait of La Guimard by Fragonard, Boucher's pupil and friend. And there were pastels by La Tour, the portrait of a woman in blue by Nattier, that of Chardin by himself, several Goyas--to say nothing of a whole gallery of Hubert Roberts.

Groult's collection of English masters was almost as wonderful. It contained masterpieces by Gainsborough, Reynolds, Hoppner, Raeburn and Lawrence, and a gallery of Turners, though Turner would perhaps have disowned a number of them. Groult's collection of paintings of the British School was well worth seeing, and, as my husband remarked: "One cannot say as much of that possessed by the Louvre, most of the pictures in which could not have been painted by the master to whom they are attributed. Gainsborough, for instance, is represented at the Louvre by two landscapes in the Italian style, the sight of which would have revolted the painter of _Mrs. Siddons_, the _Blue Boy_ and _Little Miss Haverfield_ if he had seen them."

* * * * *

To deal at length with all the politicians, functionaries and diplomats I have known is beyond the scope of this book of "Memoirs," the essential portion of which must be that devoted to the mystery of the Impasse Ronsin--the events which preceded and followed the crime, my arrest, my life in prison and my trial.

Besides, very few among those holders of important offices really did "matter" or did achieve anything beyond their ambition--which was, of course, money and promotion, till they could reach no higher in their particular sphere of activity, when their only thought became that of "retaining office"!

* * * * *

I met King Edward VII., then Prince of Wales, several times.

He asked me one day, quite unexpectedly, what I thought of his French. "Your Highness," I replied, "speaks our language unusually well...."

"For one who is not French!"

"For one who is not always in France. But, perhaps, your Highness speaks it too grammatically."

"I see," said the Prince cheerfully, "my French is too perfect to be... perfect."

His power of observation and his memory were amazing. He once recalled every detail about the dress which I had worn at a certain performance at the opera, where I had been seated exactly opposite his box, and then proceeded to describe the diadem of a friend of mine who had sat near me at the same gala performance. He explained that he so much admired the original design that he had had a similar one made for a wedding present. He then spoke of music, knowing how I loved music, and further astounded me by naming, during the conversation, nearly all the items of the programme on that night.

He had a charming sense of humour, and I remember his saying: "In France, I enjoy myself, look round and talk; in Germany, I observe and let others talk; in England... I shan't tell you what I do in England. I should be divulging State Secrets!"...

* * * * *

Among those that at one time or other came frequently to my salon, I must mention Admiral Gervais, whose visit to Kronstadt with the French squadron marked the first stage of what was to become the alliance with Russia, that counterpoise against the Triple Alliance; M. Sadi Carnot, son of the President, and great-grandson of the great Lazare Carnot, the "organizer of victory"; M. Dujardin-Beaumetz, the sympathetic, obliging, and apparently _inamovible_ Under-Secretary of State for Fine Arts, who dined at my house only a month before the tragic night, and my old friend Poubelle, Prefect of the Seine and afterwards Ambassador at Rome, who just before he issued the famous and wise regulation which made it compulsory for every householder to have dust-bins, the contents of which are removed every morning by the city scavengers, sent me a mass of orchids in one of these bins which, as he designed them, are called _poubelles_ by the ever-facetious Parisian to this day. My maid was furious and said it was a gross insult to "Madame" to have sent her flowers in a dust-bin!

Many foreigners came to my house.... I remember a Spanish family--the P. L.--who, dreading the icy winds which blow from the Guadarrama, left Madrid every year to spend the winter in Paris, up north. The mother had a passion for hot chocolate and for "Grand Guignol" thrills... and her eldest daughter never tired of admiring the old gargoyles on Notre Dame which, like Victor Hugo, she called a "symphony in stone." She was bitterly disappointed when, having introduced her to M. Viollet-le-Duc, I told her that it was this gentleman's father who was responsible for a very considerable portion of her beloved mediæval chimeras.

I had several Dutch friends. The ladies dressed simply, though clearly, and were somewhat narrow-minded; and, apparently, their one great care was to be _deftig_, that is, _comme il faut_, "good form" with just a touch of culture. They talked constantly of their homes at the Hague or Amsterdam, with such pride and even fire, that I wondered how they could have left Holland at all. I knew some Swiss folk who talked of Eugène Rambert as of a very great poet, and of Secrétan as the Last Metaphysician. I knew Rou-[I think hyphen should be removed]manians who all talked about oil and wheat, who described Sinaïa, Carmen Sylva's summer residence, as the most beautiful mountain-home in the world, and who acquainted me with their country's songs and popular ballads, which have delightful names: _Stellele_, _Sarutatul_, _Doina_, and which took not only me, but my mother and my little Marthe, right out of the world. I received several Germans, whom I learned to know at once, and many English people whom it took months to make out... but it was often worth it.

I met a young Bolivian couple, who before leaving Paris kindly invited me to spend a few days with them, any time I chose, at La Paz... only a five or six weeks' journey. And there was a very distinguished Chinaman who had become my friend because, as he put it; "You are one of the few women who have never stared at me with wonder or curiosity, who have never asked me indiscreet questions, and who have never begged me to sign my name and title in an auto-graph-book... 'and in Chinese, please.'"

As a matter of fact, I never possessed an autograph-book, and that is probably the reason why I have so many letters from great men and "celebrities."

I have been on excellent terms with many Russians, including a young princess, tall, green-eyed, and white-skinned, who had the soft graceful movements of a cat, and smoked cigarettes from morn till night; whose dresses seemed always about to slip off her shoulders and whose favourite poet was Baudelaire... and who, in spite of her many weird and morbid eccentricities, managed to be a most devoted wife, a most loving mother, and a most faithful friend.

What extraordinary people there are amongst the Russians! They seem to have twice as much vitality as the average person, their nerves are always highly strung, and yet never seem to snap; they have a tremendous capacity for work and equally tremendous capacity for wasting time, and are altogether greater "living paradoxes" than the French themselves!

I remember a great Muscovite official, who one evening left the drawing-room to return into the dining-room, where he rapidly emptied not only every bottle and decanter but also the glasses of my forty guests, even those glasses which contained only a few drops of wine. He fell dead drunk, and had to be carried to the garden, where a railway director and the Minister of Public Instruction played the hose on his head.

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the drawing-room, and captivating us all by his sober, vivid, and extremely clear-sighted account of the political situation of Europe from the Russian Government's standpoint!

A pretty incident occurred one afternoon at my house, in which another distinguished Russian was concerned. He was my friend, General Eletz, who could be called "the bravest of the brave."

My uncle, General Japy, often said to him in his blunt manner: "What a pity you are a Russian. You are the very kind of officer we like in the French Army!" General Eletz had written a book on the "Hussars of the Imperial Guard," and he had hardly been in the room a few minutes, before there entered the French General de Chalandar, who had written on the "Hussards de Chamboran." Now, each had sent the other a copy of his book, and so the two had become great friends, by post, but this was their first meeting.

The two men stood face to face, both very tall and athletic.

"General de Chalandar, General Eletz," I said, introducing them.

"What... Hussar of the Guard?" asked the one.

"What... Hussar of Chamboran?" asked the other, and the two delighted giants shook hands for fully ten minutes in the most ardent and energetic manner.... Then suddenly, General Eletz turned pale, staggered, and collapsed. My mother and I attended to him, and when he had sufficiently recovered, he drove away, without telling us the cause of his collapse.

I found it out afterwards. He had stopped a runaway horse half an hour before calling on me, and had been dragged along for some distance. His shoulders and his knees had been badly injured, but he had promised to come, and after brushing off the dust, he came.... But the ten minutes hand-shaking had been too much for him.

Of all these foreigners, my sympathy went out, above all, to the Russians, because I found them brave, intelligent, and kind; to the Americans on account of their straightforwardness, and their delightful disregard of conventionalities; and to the English, because of their healthy minds and their stolidity, which was often refreshing and soothing to me in my restless life.

* * * * *

For over fifteen years, then, from my marriage to the fatal date of May 30th-31st, 1908, I experienced that peculiar sensation which you cannot easily do without when once you have known it, the sensation which comes from being always surrounded by many people, from having near you scores of friends (and a few enemies too), day after day, until solitude becomes unthinkable--as distant and fanciful a notion as that of life on a desert isle--from hearing every day something fresh or unexpected, from constantly renewing your little stock of knowledge, the sensation of unending giving and taking.

Whether you wish it or not, you wear your mind, your nerves, your heart and your vitality; and you receive in return thoughts, suggestions, ideas, and often genuine sympathy. You belong less and less to yourself and more and more to others, to what is called _le monde_.... Sometimes you receive less than you give, and you return home exhausted from a soirée at which you have talked, struggled, conquered, advised, persuaded, consoled--and also sung and played, and listened; and if you are not too tired to think about it all, you say to yourself: I am the dupe, not only of life, but of my own heart. I wear myself away for others, and when I come back and cry out to my heart for admittance, I find that I cannot enter and be alone with myself. You must be selfish to live happily--or even to live--at all....

But the next day, after all too short a night, how eagerly you take up and open the letters the maid brings you--often a whole tray full of them--and how your heart thrills once more to the world as you read....

Three invitations to dinner... and one of them says, "Please bring some songs with you, the great So and So will accompany you."... A lady friend begs me to come to tea that very afternoon, she needs my advice, something dreadful has happened.... A member of my family, a functionary, has lost his temper; will I see his Minister and save him.... Mme. Z. gambled and lost... heavily; what is she to do?... My dear mother feels lonely. Will I come to Beaucourt for a few days?... Marthe's governess is ill; will I find some one to replace her for a week or two?... I am reminded that there is a reception at the English Embassy, I must not forget to come.... My friend Mustel relies on me to come and listen to his new organ, an orchestra, a marvel.... The Duchess of Y. is impatiently waiting for those fifty children's dresses I said I would send for her "_ouvroir_."... My dressmaker will come at four.... Mme. C. writes she'll call at two to take me to the Geographical Society, where her husband, who has recently returned from a perilous expedition, will lecture. She'll never forgive me if I don't come.... And here are letters from poor people I know.... A mother's appeal for her starving children, an old workman who has lost his job... he hails from Beaucourt, and years ago worked on my father's estate.... Two poor girls to whom I often give some sewing to do, are dangerously ill.... And there is the rehearsal of an oratorio at the Temple, and a sale of old silver which I have promised to attend with the newly-married Countess de M. who knows nothing about old silver, and wants to learn, because her husband collects.... And here comes my darling Marthe: "Mother, do spend the whole day with your little girl... please!"...

How I would love to!

What a life! I feel like the owner and captain of a ship. I have built it; I have launched it on unknown seas, and have started upon an expedition to the land of Nowhere.... Society-life has no object since it has itself as object.... And yet I feel I cannot desert my ship, if only because I sometimes pick up a shipwrecked sister or a drowning brother, and because I have lost my bearings....

What a life! You sigh, you complain, and then comes the reaction.... I have wasted a precious half-hour dreaming, lamenting. "Quick! Clotilde! my tailor-made dress, the navy-blue one, my toque and a pair of gloves. It is already ten o'clock. I shall never manage to do all I must do to-day!"

Of course, they are not real duties these "Society" duties but you do them more or less conscientiously and always with energy--for you are in a hurry! And meanwhile you neglect the other duties, the real ones, including the duties to yourself.... That is Parisian life. And when you have tasted its exquisite poison you cannot do without it, no more than a "Society queen" (Oh! the emptiness of such a title) can do without elegance, chocolates, scent, cosmetics, compliments, and other indispensable things!

I have been criticised because I sometimes received men and women whose standard of morality was not of the highest.... But in Paris, if you were to receive only paragons of virtue, you would indeed, receive very few people.... Yes, there came to my house men whose talk went a little further than I could have wished, and ladies whose minds were not so pure as the transparent gems they wore in profusion.... There came to the villa in the Impasse Ronsin people who were ingeniously romantic, wickedly childish and recklessly unconventional; but whatever their moral shortcomings, they were never dull. And that is a great deal.

And what pleasant and brilliant conversations, even when the _causeurs_ were too short-sighted or too far-sighted in their views. Thus I had friends who wished all music was destroyed and forgotten except the works of Richard Strauss, others who would have given their lives for Maeterlinck, and quite a number of men who wanted to _save_ France (there is an amazing number of people in France who believe that the country is irretrievably lost unless their advice is followed). All these persons may have been rather foolish, but they never bored; their ideas were often wrong but never absurd.... And there always happened to be present some one who made them agree--with themselves.

I have been further criticised for "doing everything myself." "Everything" is an exaggeration, but I certainly did a great deal in my house, and I am proud of it. At Beaucourt my father made me do as many things as possible in our home, although he was wealthy. I then made at least half my dresses and hats, and fulfilled a thousand and one household duties. I thought my father was right, and marriage did not change my views on the matter.

Should I have given up my salons and my receptions, the pleasant and interesting relations with men and women of the world, with men of talent and men of genius, just because my husband and I had not an unlimited account at the bank? Should I have deprived myself of those intellectual and artistic joys which add so much to life because I could not entertain as lavishly as did some of my wealthier friends?

Yes, I helped with the household work in the morning, and when I thought that a room would be improved by changing the position of a piece of furniture, I helped the servants to move it.... I may here mention that all this was carefully noted, after my arrest, and the examining magistrate, M. André made the following argument in all seriousness: "A woman who is strong enough to assist in moving a cupboard or a sideboard is strong enough to strangle one or two persons with her own hands."...

Although I loved that "mundane" life, it was not on account of its "brilliant" side, but because I found there satisfactions of the mind which to some extent made up for my unfortunate married life, and also because I was able to make some use of my numberless acquaintances--those especially who held high office--to help in their careers my husband's relatives or mine, or any friend.

But there were hours of bitter dejection, when it seemed to me that of the crowd of people I knew who proclaimed themselves my devoted friends, there were not ten men and women on whom I could absolutely rely and who fully deserved the beautiful name of "friend"; hours when the compliments with which I was overwhelmed rang formal and untrue, when sympathy was hypocrisy or calculation; hours when I loathed the artificiality of Parisian life!...

I sought then a refuge in long conversations with my husband in his studio, where I helped him in his work, and in the tender love of my mother. Or I pressed my little Marthe to my heart and a fierce craving would seize me to flee with her to Beaucourt, to beautiful Beaucourt, the home of my happy youth, and lead there a modest, normal life with my child! But Paris does not let go of its victims....