I could not have articulated the exact meaning of her words, yet I felt the truth of them. I recalled her arm about my waist, the way she laid her cheek on top of my head after she made her sad pronouncement, and how, in spite of the great number of years separating us, I had felt a bond with her.
Souls are ageless and care nothing for external circumstances. There are times in life when one soul recognizes something in another, and they touch. This is something beyond the boundaries of normal human discourse, something nearly beyond our understanding, but it is a true phenomenon. That is what happened to me that day; I saw that Madame de Pardaillan had endured terrible heartbreak; and she saw that heartbreak would be my fate as well. Our souls touched, and I knew.
Later on the day of Marie’s visit, I received a note from a friend who no doubt thought herself helpful in telling me about Marie Dorval’s betrayal. I responded to her in this way:
You say she has betrayed me. I am well aware of that, but which of you, my dear friends, have not done as much? She has betrayed me once only, but you do it every day. She passed on something I told her, but every one of my friends has put into my mouth words I never uttered. Leave me the freedom to love her still. I know her, and what she is worth.
A few days later, when I tried to contact Marie, I learned that she had gone on tour without telling me. I had no idea where she was. In desperation, I sent a friend to get her address from Vigny. I wrote to her, asking why she had not told me where she was going. I would have gone with her, to be her dresser. I told her I had wept after hearing she had gone. I told her my heart belonged to her:
Nowhere can I find a nature so frank, true, strong, supple, good, generous, great, odd, excellent, and, in a word, so complete as yours. I want to love you always, to cry with you, to laugh with you. If you are sad, I will be sad, too. If you are gay, then long live gaiety! Send me a line and I will come to you at once. Should occasions arise when I might be in the way, you can pack me off to work in another room. No matter where I am, I can always find something to occupy my mind. I have been told more than once to beware of you, and no doubt you have been similarly warned against me. Let the prattlers prattle, you and I are the only persons concerned.
Answer soon. You need send only the single word “come” and I shall set off at once.
She did not answer soon, or at all.
January 1822
NOHANT
Before my grandmother died, when I was seventeen, my cousin René de Villeneuve had come to spend a fortnight with me. It was in an effort for us to get to know each other better, as he had learned of my grandmother’s desire for him to be my guardian. I had always liked him, but being alone with him in this way made us like each other even more. He found me interesting where others found me odd: we shot pistols together and stayed up until the early hours of morning, as had become my preference. We galloped through the countryside on horseback, and he did not chastise but instead applauded me for jumping over ditches. We took long walks and discussed politics and philosophy in ways even more satisfying than when I had had such discussions with Deschartres. He sincerely praised my writing abilities.
When it was time for my grandmother’s will to be read, René came to Nohant, followed soon afterward by my mother, who arrived with her sister, my aunt Lucie Maréchal, and her husband.
My mother was overly rouged and rough in her behavior, yet I nonetheless felt a lurching in my heart, a reflexive movement toward her. She descended from the carriage with her chin held high and quickly embraced me. “Now, at long last, we shall see what we shall see.”
The reading of the will did not go smoothly. For one thing, my mother’s allowance was to be cut by one-third. Then, when she heard that I had agreed to live with my father’s family, she became incensed and carried on hysterically, rising up to shout that my grandmother’s wishes did not supersede her rights as my mother, that she would go to court if necessary. With this last, she looked over at me. “Must I remind you of the countless entreaties you made to live with me? How you wept when I left Nohant, how you begged to leave the convent to be with me?”
I spoke quietly, directly to her. “You hurt me when you did not take me to live with you. Now you go against what my grandmother thought so carefully about and believed to be in my best interests? Can you not see that you are hurting me again by not letting me do what I, too, feel is best?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You have been manipulated by your grandmother and by Deschartres into this way of thinking. You believe yourself too good for me and my way of life—a life, by the way, that your father believed in and adored.”
My parents had been happy together, it was true. But it was always my father’s wish that his wife and mother would get along, and he struggled mightily to accommodate both of them in his life; even as a young child I could see that. But I knew, as well, that if he had had to choose between them, he would have picked his wife.
And so in honor of my father and because, despite everything, I still loved my mother, who had collapsed into her chair and covered her face with her small hands to weep, I agreed to do as she wanted and place myself under her authority. However, rather than live with her, I asked if I might live at the convent as a boarder. My mother seemed amenable to this, and I could tell that my father’s family saw it as a reasonable compromise. René left me with words of comfort, saying that he himself would see about finding me lodging there.
In the end, though, my mother disallowed my living at the convent or at Nohant. My distress at this decision did not make my mother reconsider.
Instead, we left immediately for Paris, where we planned to stay with my aunt Lucie, until such time as legal matters were settled and we could move into my grandmother’s apartment.
So it was that I abruptly left the house and the gardens and the fields, the wildlife, and my excellent horse. I left my room, with its comfortable bed and afternoon sun and books and papers and guitar and harp. And I left my dear, bereft Deschartres, who watched the carriage drive off with his hands empty at his sides, his hair disheveled, his body leaning to the left, as though he no longer knew how to balance himself.
—
WHEN MY MOTHER AND I lived with her sister, I was reunited with Aunt Lucie’s daughter, my cousin Clotilde. She reminded me that one’s life is meant to be full of much more gaiety than I had experienced. She loved me as I was, oddities and all, and I was heartened by her cheerful nature and by her belief that matters of the human heart always take precedence over teachings in a book. With her, I was not so studious, and although I missed the richness of contemplation and serious dialogue, I enjoyed the relief of plain fun and girlish laughter, which I had last experienced what seemed like a very long time ago, in the convent. And I enjoyed Aunt Lucie, as I always had: I liked her plainspoken ways and forthrightness, her habit of indulging and praising. And I liked the way she handled my mother: she was not at all intimidated by her, as so many others, myself included, were.
One day when my mother was out, I sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes with Aunt Lucie; she was making her delicious potato leek soup. “So, Aurore,” she said, “is it not wonderful that you are back with your mother at last?”
I smiled but said nothing.
She leaned in so close to me our foreheads nearly touched. “You know, your approach to her is all wrong. Shall I tell you how to handle her?”
I put down my knife and sat up straighter. “Yes.”
She looked briefly at me and smiled, then resumed peeling. “First of all, it is your nature to be calm and reasonable, which only serves to feed the flames when she goes off on one of her tirades. Instead, scream back at her! It is only in raising her ire to the maximum that you force her to dispel it; once she is at the top, there is nowhere for her to go but down. Serve her up the same drama she offers you, but do her one better. If she yells, yell louder. If she tears up, then you must sob loudly—pretend you are an actress at the theater. Believe me, if you respond to her
in this way, she will quickly exhaust herself, and then you can carry on normally.”
I saw the reason in my aunt’s words, but I knew I could never behave like that. It was not in me; nor did I want it to be. As my mother had influenced me, so had my father. And he was, after all, the man who, rather than face up to my mother, rode away from her histrionics on that fateful rainy night, looking for peace—and got more peace than he’d bargained for. I appreciated my aunt’s advice, and I told her so; but I think she, too, knew that I could never do as she suggested. I would have to find another way to escape my mother’s rages and cruelty. Easier to say than to do, when the one who is cruel to you is the one lodged permanently in your heart.
March 1833
QUAI MALAQUAIS
PARIS
My fever was raging; when I coughed, it seemed I rattled the walls. I knew no one would want to be around me, and I did not blame them.
Still, at such times one longs for the comfort of another presence. And so when I heard the door open, I rejoiced to think that one of my neighbors had come by for a visit. But it was not a neighbor; instead, it was Marie Dorval, bright as the sun on this stormy day, stomping the wet off her little boots, dropping her coat to the floor and rushing to my side, never mind my disheveled appearance or flushed face.
“But what have we here?” she said. “Ah, petite, I heard you were ill. But look at you, it is worse than I thought. Well, I shall attend to this. But first, a kiss—I must offer a greeting for my wild darling, laid so low!” Not a word from her about her abrupt disappearance, and, as grateful beneficiary of her attentions now, I did not want to bring it up.
I held up my hand in a weak effort to keep her away, but she would have none of it. She kissed my cheeks, my forehead, the angle of my jaw, cooing in sympathy like a turtle dove. She pressed me to her bosom and rocked me back and forth.
“Oh là là là, how warm you are. I shall prepare a cool compress for you. Have you eaten? Where is the soup? Has no one brought you soup?”
“There is bread and cheese,” I said.
“Bread and cheese! Might as well say nails and bricks! You need soup! After I have made you more comfortable, I shall go out and get what I need to make it for you. But first I shall bathe you and refresh your linens.”
“No, Marie.”
She ignored me; instead, she bustled about, gathering a basin, towels, sheets, and pillowcases.
“You have rehearsal,” I said, and she looked over her shoulder at me, so bright and beautiful, the color high in her cheeks, her dangling earrings catching and then refracting the light.
“I have canceled rehearsal. What need have I of rehearsal when I already know my lines perfectly? And in any case, my audience will forgive me everything. You know that!”
“But—”
“And now you are to say no more about anything. Instead, you will only listen to me tell you of the scandal I witnessed last night. It concerns Victoire Adeaux. Perhaps I need say no more than that! You know her name; you know she has earned her reputation. And I shall also need to talk at length about the entertainment I enjoyed last night with a most lavish suitor to the melody of my husband passing gas in the next room over. Oh! And I am having made a dress that is a dream, a confection, one I will wear for my next play; the dressmaker came this morning with thousands of yards of silk as blue as the deepest sea—I shall be remarkable in it. Are you awake? Stay awake. Later you can sleep, after I have…”
She clasped her hands beneath her chin, sighing dramatically. “But mon Dieu, look at you! You must not have slept in days! I shudder on your behalf. And you haven’t even a single rose beside you!”
I began to cough violently, and she widened her eyes and watched me until I finally stopped and fell back against the pillow, exhausted. “Oh, poor George. Yes, close your eyes, dear one, but listen to me, are you listening? I shall make you well, I shall make you soup with the sweetest carrots and onions and potatoes. And when you have eaten and are bathed, I shall sit beside you and read to you from whatever book you choose. Poetry, perhaps, short bits?
“And you will wear my new necklace as I read to you—look what the gentleman last night pressed into my hand upon arrival! Emeralds are not my favorite, but this is an exceptional cut, and I think it will look well on you; I will give it to you if you promise to keep it and not hand it over to some suffering soul.
“No, you will not be alone in misery, I shall see to that; we will make your illness a little holiday, we will travel together through this day, and when tomorrow comes you will be much improved—I must insist upon it, for I cannot be distracted from my performance tonight because of worries about you!” At last, she drew a breath. “Have you at least one lovely plate on which I may serve you one perfect slice of fruit?”
“Marie,” I said. “Where have you been?”
A miracle: quiet from Marie Dorval. Then: “George,” she said softly. “Here I am.”
Easy to comprehend that when I was ill, I was helpless before her. But even when I was not ill, such was always the case. She swept me away from my woes and reminded me of my capacity for joy. She seemed to work miracles that were personal and intricate in nature, and that were a testimony to her understanding and generosity. She ridiculed me for my automatic defense of anyone who suffered, but her sentiments in that regard were the same as mine. Beneath the glitter and the gaiety and the fame and the storms of temperament and the constant hyperbole and the demands and the wants and the waste was a truly compassionate being. When I was with her, I brought her most fully to herself. She did the same for me. I thought we held true mirrors to each other’s souls.
—
MARIE’S SOUP HAD THE curative powers she had said it would. Three days after her visit, I was back to myself. I worked well during the day, and that night I went to Marie’s show and then let myself into her dressing room. I wanted to surprise her. I lit a fire and sat before it, watching as the flames leapt up, separated, met again.
I sensed her coming before she arrived; I smelled her perfume before she turned the knob on the door. She entered like a glittering whirlwind, her voice hoarse, but speaking rapidly. “At long last, to be finished with a night that I thought would never end! My God, my feet, my throat! They use me up, they grind me out, they can never get enough! Oh, look, my husband has made a fire for me!” I started to answer, then saw that she was not speaking to me at all. Behind her was a tall, strikingly handsome young blond man, someone I did not know; nor, apparently, did Marie.
“Tell me your name again, my darling, and then help me out of my dress,” she said. “I am looking forward to—” She stopped then, having seen me standing quietly in the shadows.
“Forgive me,” I said. “I wanted to surprise you.”
She laughed. “Well, you have succeeded! I am surprised.”
The young man cleared his throat, and I picked up my coat.
“Where are you going?” Marie asked.
I pointed to the door. “Call on me tomorrow.”
“Stay,” she told me.
She took hold of the young man’s arm and looked up at him. “You, I shall see on another occasion, perhaps?”
The man started to speak, and she stood on her toes to kiss him quickly, multiple times. “Ah, you are delicious, you turn my bones into water. But run along now and find someone else to play with.”
He stood crushed, unmoving, and she laughed and shooed him out the door.
Then she came to kiss me.
“A bit cruel, no?” I said.
She shrugged. “By now, he is telling all his friends that he had me. Ah, let them talk; I appreciate the worth of gossip in keeping alive a reputation I no longer have the energy to maintain.”
She flung her fur-trimmed cloak to the floor, along with a huge bouquet, then stepped out of her dress, her petticoats, and her undergarments. The dress, lavender in color, had a pelerine en ailes d’oiseau, “wings of a bird,” a look of which I was particularly fond. She wrapped
herself in the dressing gown she kept draped over her Oriental screen, then sat at her dressing table to rub cream over her face. By now, her post-performance routine was familiar to me, and I loved watching it.
“Thank heaven you are here, George! Now that I see you, I realize again how much I need you! You always have such a wonderful effect on me. Come and sit by me, take down my hair.” I went to her, put my hands in her silken mass of curls, and began removing pins.
She sighed deeply, then cocked her head. “And how are you, my darling, did you love my performance?”
“Of course I loved your performance. There is no one like you. You devastate us. We all were on the edges of our seats every time you spoke. How fully you become your characters!”
“Yes. As do you! We are both instruments of our art—we give ourselves completely to it. And yet is it not completely exhausting? I often wonder if it is wrong to have such passion for one’s work. Or even a sin! Why are we so utterly devoted? Tell me, do you think it is a curse?”
I began to massage her shoulders, and she closed her eyes and leaned her head back; her throat was white as a swan’s, her lashes a black filigree. I felt a rising up of a strong desire and had to struggle to keep my voice level as I answered her question.
“I think it is our nature, not our decision,” I told her. “And I think, furthermore, that it is a blessing and not a curse. Our work sustains us, rewards us, and it endures. It does not attempt to contain us or call us names or try to make us suffer for what we cannot help being. It is how we go to bed satisfied, and why we get up in the morning.”
She opened her eyes and sought out mine in the mirror as she spoke. “It is true, all that you say. Yet is there not in you a longing for a deeper connection to something else, something more?” She sighed. “Always, always, something more?”
I spoke carefully. “Are those your feelings, Marie?”