I was hesitant to discuss it with Antoine, though he was now the one to whom I must learn to turn for help in all things. How could I tell him that I disliked his mother at first acquaintance? Young and inexperienced though I was, instinct told me not to divide his loyalties. It would be up to me to get along with his mother. But how?
To my relief Antoine himself brought up the subject at our next meeting. “I scolded Maman for her rudeness on Sunday. It was I with whom she was angry. She should not have been angry with you.” Away from her presence, he sounded manly and determined, but I remembered how he had stood like a scolded little boy while her ire was heaped upon us. “She asked me to give you this with her apologies, and she hopes you will visit again soon so that she will have the chance to get to know you properly.”
He handed me a small jeweler’s box. I lifted the lid in anticipation but instead of gold or silver I found, nestled on velvet, a miniature portrait of Antoine, younger, his face thinner and his hair not yet tinged with grey. I didn’t know what to say.
“It was painted when I returned from Italy eight years ago. She commissioned it from––” He named one of those who made their living from faces, reliable and talented but of no grand ambitions such as Antoine’s and mine. “She asked if I had given you a portrait yet, and when I said I had not, she asked me to give you this one.”
What an appropriate expression of a fond mother’s love. His words were reassuring, but my doubts remained. My subsequent meetings with his mother were better, but we never felt any genuine warmth for each other. I was always wary of more barbs and slights.
The courtship moved inexorably forward. All too soon, on 10 June 1809, it was time for the families to meet with Monsieur Robin, our notary (Papa’s friend, in whose house we still lived), to draw up the marriage contract. Antoine came with his mother; Maman and I came with Pauline and Henri. The latter, as the man of the family, would be a witness to the contract. Monsieur Robin, who had prepared it in advance after discussions with both parties, read it aloud. Antoine would bring assets worth over one hundred thousand francs to the marriage. Madame Gros gave him a proud smile. This was clear evidence of his success: three important government commissions completed in the last four years, two others now under contract, and a steady stream of portraits. The Empire was then at its zenith and we expected official favor to continue for years to come.
Robin then turned to the assets that I would bring to the marriage: one-quarter of my father’s estate, approximately fifty thousand francs, only half that amount. My heart gave a leap of hope. Perhaps the wedding would not go through after all.
Then my mother spoke up. “I will give to Augustine my own portion of the estate, so that she will have one hundred thousand francs and be on an equal footing.”
“Maman!” Three voices protested simultaneously.
Robin was properly concerned. “Are you sure about this, Madeleine? You are giving away one-third of your combined capital. You still have two children at home. When Pauline marries, she will take her portion with her. Henri will not be earning for several years.”
“I still have money of my own that I brought into the marriage. Neither my children nor I will starve. If we have need of aid in the future, I know my daughter and future son-in-law will not leave me in need.” Madame Gros nodded approvingly and emphatically. “They will see that we do not want.”
I was not about to give in easily. “Maman, think about Pauline and Henri. It’s not fair to them to give me all your share!” My brother and sister looked grateful. We were too well bred to engage in a family disagreement in front of strangers, but they could not have been pleased at Maman’s abrupt decision. Perhaps she announced it in public without prior discussion precisely to forestall arguments.
“Tine, I have made up my mind. I am only doing what is best for you.”
I glanced at Antoine and his mother, who remained silent during this exchange. Gros had been watching the scene with interest but looked away when he saw me observing him. Madame Gros, her eyes lowered, was busily doing mental math with the aid of her fingers, calculating how much additional income the extra capital would bring. Antoine nudged her to stop; her air of calculation was replaced by an elaborate detachment from the mere mention of money.
Robin made the change in the draft, and the reading continued.
While his clerks were making the several copies needed – one for each party, one for his office, and one for the mairie, the administrative office for the district – he brought out the champagne and cakes he had prepared for a celebration. He gave a charming little speech about watching me grow up into a fine young woman – how proud my father would have been at this moment!
I thought, If Papa were still alive, there would not be this moment. I would not be married off like this. I gave a little sob.
Maman did not reach out to comfort me. It was Antoine who took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I realized that I had been transferred to his care.
I signed the contracts where Robin indicated. The marriage was going forward, and I would simply have to make the best of it.
Chapter 5
Toulouse and Paris, 1809-1812
Antoine chose Toulouse for our honeymoon. He had always wanted to visit this, his late father’s native city. We spent a happy three weeks here. For the first time I was able to look after my husband without his mother telling me how her son had always liked things to be done – and therefore how they should be done. I do not know whether Antoine noticed the difference between one woman and the next as long as they looked after his needs, but freedom from Maman Madeleine certainly raised my spirits. At last I felt like a proper wife. We had tender moments. I recall the day he bought me a red silk rose. We also had a chance to discover the pleasures of intimacy in a place out of her earshot. We were excited when I was late and thought I might be pregnant. It was a letdown to find out two days later that I was not. We assured each other that we had plenty of time.
But there was a darker side to our visit, bringing each of us face to face with our individual memories, ones too painful to share, leaving the other without a way to bring solace and comfort.
I had thought, in traveling from Paris and the places Charles and I had spent so many happy hours together, to put him from my mind. Instead, I found Toulouse a staging site for sending troops and supplies into Spain, its barracks full of soldiers. The many foundries powered by the swift-moving Garonne sent thick smoke into the air as they labored night and day to make guns and ammunition for the troops. Army supply wagons full of their manufactures rumbled to and from warehouses. Far from leaving Charles behind, I saw many like him, as raw and eager as he had been. My heart ached for them and for myself.
Antoine, on his part, met up with an old acquaintance from his time in Italy ten years earlier when he had been assigned to the army as one of Bonaparte’s gatherers of artistic treasures. Sergeant Desnoyers greeted him fondly as a comrade-in-arms, and they spent an evening in the sitting room of our hotel suite swapping stories and recollections, while I, relishing my new role as wife and hostess, replenished their glasses and listened with wide eyes as I sewed baby clothes.
I saw a new side of Antoine, at home with army men far removed from the salons and museums of Paris. Like everyone else, I had been stirred by his image of the young whip-thin general Bonaparte striding to take possession of the bridge at Arcola during his first glorious campaign in Italy. During our engagement he had told me stories of his travels to Perugia, Milan, and Rome and the works of art he had seen there. But this was the first time I had heard about the hardships of the French retreat and his brush with death in the starvation and disease that gripped Genoa during the British siege in 1801. I learned how close I had come to losing my husband before even meeting him. The years fell away from the men as they talked, and I caught a glimpse of an Antoine almost as young as I.
When Antoine asked Desnoyers about Spain, clearly expecting to hear that the French were trium
phing there as elsewhere in those magical years of Napoleon’s zenith, my stomach clenched in dread. His friend’s harsh reply – “They are a savage people. They do not deserve the liberation we are bringing them. They do not appreciate their privilege of our presence.” – confirmed my fears. His face contorted with anger and he spat into the fire. Immediately he looked contrite and begged my pardon. “I forgot there was a lady present.”
I nodded gravely, unable to smile. My hand trembled as I drew the thread in and out of the cloth. I fought hard to keep back my tears. I could not help glimpsing again the horrors of Charles’s final moments. I did not want to speak to Antoine about the images this conjured up.
Instead I kissed him very tenderly that night and told him how happy I was that he had survived the siege. To my astonishment, he began to cry, my brave husband who only an hour before had shrugged off hardships as though they were one of the pleasures of youth. I held him and stroked his hair and face and murmured endearments, until his crying fit had spent itself. “It was––” Words failed him. His face grim, his haunted eyes looked past me. “When I finally reached home six months later, I swore I would never leave Paris again. It’s taken eight years.”
“Only to run into old memories,” I finished for him. “Are you sorry we came here?”
“No, of course not.” But when we went to bed, he did not reach out for me; he rolled on his side facing away and shrugged off the light touch of my hand on his back meant to comfort him. He did not seek out any more of his old comrades, and he watched the military preparations without further comment. It was several days before I could cheer him up again – and cheer myself. Our wedding trip, I thought, was no place for melancholy and I wished he would put it aside. In time he did, but that young vulnerable man I had glimpsed was gone, replaced by the middle-aged one who had built a cocoon of safety in Paris. There was afterwards a degree of reserve in his attitude to me, as if he regretted his tears.
Ours was a marriage of convenience – for our mothers. Could we make it work for ourselves?
Upon our return to Paris, I began married life by redecorating our apartment on the rue des Saints-Pères, the shabby state of which I had noted during my previous visits. Madame Gros, whom I was now allowed to call Maman Madeleine to distinguish her from my Maman, moved out of the largest bedroom, which now became ours. She preferred to keep her furnishings in her new room but was happy to have me take on the rest of the apartment. I was given a generous allowance for the services of house painters and carpenters, as well as new furniture and other decorations, on condition that I was guided in my purchases by Jacques Amalric, Antoine’s brother-in-law. This I was happy to do. I realized it was a means of ensuring that at least some of the money would remain in the family, but I respected Antoine and his mother for their prudent handling of the funds.
Jacques, the husband of Antoine’s sister Marie was a marchand-mercier, a merchant of all those luxury goods so useful in outfitting the homes of the wealthy and powerful. French and Chinese porcelains, crystal punchbowls and glasses, silver flatware and dishes, centerpieces and candelabra, clocks of all sizes, fine furniture with marquetry veneers, chandeliers hung with drops of rock crystal,; gilt bronze wall lights and fire dogs were just a few of the items in his shop. The trade in such goods had suffered with the demise of so many of the old aristocracy during the Revolution but recovered during the creation of a new aristocracy of the Empire.
Together with Jacques, I visited the studios of the menuisiers-ébénistes – the makers of both plain wood and upholstered furniture. For our bedroom, I ordered a mahogany wardrobe and dressing table from Bernard Molitor and a new bed from the firm of Jacob-Desmalter – not, mind you, as elaborate as the elegant swan bed they had created for Joséphine, nor with such a profusion of expensive gilt bronze mounts. From Jacob-Desmalter, too, I purchased a settee and chairs for our salon. From Jacques’s shop I commissioned a new frame in the current style for the mirror over the fireplace and purchased bronze and porcelain ornaments. I made note of nursery furnishings that I would like when the time came.
When my purchases were delivered and installed in the newly repainted apartment, I could look around me with a sense of accomplishment and take pride in my up-to-date home. I invited Maman, Pauline, and all my friends to tea so that they too could admire it. Fortunately, Maman Madeleine was on her best behavior that day.
Jacques invited me to select a wedding gift from the shop. I chose a tête-à-tête, a delicately decorated porcelain tea service for two made by the Sèvres Manufactory. When I showed it to Antoine, however, he was upset: “But there are three of us!” Clearly I had married the mother as well as the son; by then I knew better than to debate the issue. I returned the tea set, knowing that Jacques would be sympathetic. As an in-law he understood the challenges of dealing with the formidable Madame Gros. He made me laugh by referring to her as “Madame Mère,” the official title given to Napoleon’s mother.
The following Sunday, he brought us a mantel clock surmounted by the gilt bronze figure of a woman painter at her easel, “for the new artist in our family.” I was delighted with it and kissed him on both cheeks. Clocks of such quality and decoration were a luxury item far above anything I could have hoped to purchase. Maman Madeleine was torn between admiration of a son-in-law who could afford to give such an expensive gift and disdain for a new bride who started her marriage on a note of such luxury. She hoped I would not think I could continue acquiring items of this sort! I put the clock in our bedroom, moving it after Antoine’s death to my painting studio in his mother’s old room. There I hoped its extravagant ticking would keep her ghost at bay.
“But there are three of us!”
It was clear from the beginning that the dowager Madame Gros was an all-too-integral part of our married life. She ran the household, and her son’s life, as she had done since Antoine’s return from Italy eight years before. She knew his tastes, or perhaps she dictated them. She knew how to please him; she’d hired the servants, chosen which local tradesmen to patronize, and conferred with the cook about the day’s menu. She kept him up-to-date on his sister’s family, who came over every Sunday for dinner at any rate. My role, I quickly discovered, was not the normal prerogative of a bride to create new routines, but to apprentice in the ones his mother had laid down, so that I could take them over when her health began to fail. Even then she ruled the household with the iron rod of the invalid. I could neither manage things to please myself nor carry out her routines well enough to suit her. I appealed to my husband, but his pained expression indicated how much he hated to be bothered with domestic questions. He took his mother’s side in any case. Antoine and I married in 1809; his mother lived until 1831. Antoine and I had only four years to ourselves before his death in the summer of 1835.
Nor could I escape by going out to my own studio, as he could. While he produced his larger works in his Versailles studio, he painted portraits and sketches for the large scenes in his Paris atelier, a cell in the former Couvent des Capucines. He had taken me there only once during our courtship. When I suggested that I too might set up my easel there, he rejected the idea without hesitation. Oh, no, that would not do! He had to work alone; only Girodet, his best friend in the neighboring cell, was allowed to interrupt him at will. Besides, all the artists there were men, it would be awkward. “It’s a convent,” I snapped. “Perhaps it is time to let the women back in.” I was rewarded with a wan smile, but the tenor of his objections did not change.
“You’ll only need a studio until the children come.” I could set up a studio in the room designated as the nursery until it could be put to its intended purpose; it would be so much more convenient for me! Oh yes? I thought, and Maman Madeleine can add her well-meaning comments about my painting to her comments on my lack of domestic skills. As a miniaturist, Antoine’s mother had always worked on a small space, a palette table. She didn’t understand my need for a larger space in which my ideas could expand. Besides, any d
ecision made by her son was immediately endorsed.
But I had no choice. Renting a studio of my own would cost more than I could afford, and I had so little of my own, barely enough for canvas and paints. As my husband, he had control, by law, over the income from my dowry and gave me an allowance for my personal expenses. I was forced to paint at home, like a dilettante. Both mothers felt it was a small compromise to make.
I was not the person to whom Antoine opened up easily. In times of worry or extreme emotion, it was to his mother or Girodet that he turned. Although he was not sexually drawn to other men, his closest emotional bond was certainly with them. In the presence of the great, pompous, self-important, money-grubbing Jacques-Louis David, he quivered with suppressed excitement. Rude braggadocio for which he would have excoriated another, he accepted in David without demur.
No, Antoine did not treat me as a helpmeet, a companion, and a source of comfort. I was merely his wife. I had to put up with his sulks and depressions, with long days when he would not speak except to ask about dinner, when tears were never very far from his eyes. I know that his friends found me unsympathetic, that they will say I was a bad wife. But I tried. Truly I did, with all the love of a young bride, a young wife. Maman Madeleine watched us and tried in her own way to give helpful advice, but I think she was secretly pleased that she, not I, was the woman to whom he turned most often.
Nor could my own mother help very much. Not for the first time, I missed my beloved father, thinking that he was someone whom I could have asked. Maman told me not to worry, that all couples went through a period of adjustment. Once the children came it was on them that my life would be centered for my emotional fulfillment. “Pray for a beautiful baby who will love you,” she counseled. So I did, with fervent hope that dwindled month after month for twenty years, until it died.
An Artist in her Own Right Page 7