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 cœur 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....