My Memoirs. Marguerite Steinheil

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"!

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      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!

      

MY DAUGHTER AND I, IN 1901

      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!