In considering the character of Pauline one has to look more closely at the influence of this elder sister’s life and fame. She was much older than Pauline, who was a child when her sister was already celebrated in Europe and America. In her scholarly life of Pauline Viardot and her indispensable account of her relationship with Turgenev, The Price of Genius, published in 1964, to which all writers on Turgenev owe a debt, April Fitzlyon tells us that La Malibran became the incarnation, the goddess of the Romantic movement. Every poet worshipped her. Beautiful and of great independence of spirit she had caused an upheaval in the Garcia family by quarrelling with her father and marrying Malibran, an American banker, when they were in New York. Manuel had been unrelenting and even cruel in the training he had given his daughter and she had married Malibran to get away from him. She was not cast down by the failure of her marriage—her husband went bankrupt at once and became unimportant in her life—she eventually divorced him and after many love affairs married a gifted Belgian violinist. The extraordinary girl was not only a singer but a talented painter and a daring horsewoman.
One early adventure of the Garcia family—of which Pauline and all of them were proud—occurred when Manuel, having done well in New York, dragged his family to Mexico, where again they made a small fortune and decided to go back to France. On the rough and dangerous journey from Mexico City to Vera Cruz they were attacked by brigands who soon disposed of the frightened escort of soldiers and robbed the party of everything. Although Pauline was frightened—she was only seven—she used to say in old age “all this was terribly beautiful, I liked it.” And apparently, the excited and cheerful Garcias laughed all the way to Vera Cruz afterwards.
Pauline had scarcely known her marvellous and tragic sister. La Malibran was killed at the age of twenty-eight in a riding accident when she went to sing in Manchester. The father was more tender with Pauline. She would have preferred to have been a pianist and was very accomplished, but singing was the family tradition and she was persuaded by her sister’s fame to emulate her. To La Malibran singing had come by nature, she had an unmatched ease and range of voice and could move from tragedy to comedy without effort. She was indeed lazy. Not so Pauline: she worked at whatever she was doing (the family said), “like an ant.” By temperament she was an intellectual; she applied her will and very good mind to her task of acquiring range by will and this quality was to have a special appeal to Turgenev’s deep regard for critical intellect. Throughout her life, music critics were amazed by a singer who studied the literary texts of the operas she sang in. There are two more aspects of her character as an artist: the story of her sister’s life warned her against a reckless marriage and the Bohemian love affairs that had followed. Pauline was no rebel. And there was the influence of her shrewd mother who embodied the cautious business sense of a family of geniuses who put their art first.
When Turgenev was carried away by Pauline’s voice in Petersburg he was listening to an achieved artist who had worked hard as he had not and, who although three years younger than himself, was already an idol. She was well-educated. She was a quick linguist. She was married and a mother. Her French husband, Louis Viardot, was in his forties. He was the capable and honourable son of a respectable judge and, in addition to being her impresario, had a modest reputation as a translator, a writer of travel books and studies of European painting.
There was nothing reckless in this marriage, even though Pauline’s husband was in his forties, twenty-one years older than herself; she respected him, she relied on him absolutely but was not in love. The curious and sensible marriage had been arranged by George Sand, who had known the Garcias and Louis Viardot for years: and it can be said, at any rate, to have satisfied George Sand’s ruling maternal passion. More than once, after her own unhappy marriage, she had been attracted to young women and in the young Pauline she saw a girl whose independence as an artist of growing powers would need protection from the dangerous temptations and illusions from which she herself had suffered in her own early scandalous days. In middle age, however, George Sand’s motives were never quite simple: her jealousy was aroused when she heard Musset, one of her own disastrous and discarded lovers, was courting the girl, who, luckily, was disgusted by his drinking and his libertine life; but that would still leave her open to folly. George Sand worshipped the artist in Pauline and indeed was using her as a model for the ideal artist-heroine of her longest and most famous novel, Consuelo: Pauline always said that the portrait perfectly described what she herself was like and wished morally to be, although the wild adventures of the book were romantic invention.
Louis Viardot might be thought a comic middle-aged figure: he was short, he had a large nose which was a gift to caricaturists, he looked as if he were going to tip over; people found him dull, inclined to fuss and a pedant. (In one of his Prose Poems, “The Egoist,” Turgenev is thought to have portrayed him as the imperturbable right-thinking man.) He was a decent man of principle. If public opinion in France or, indeed abroad, was to be considered—he shared the Republican and anti-clerical opinions of George Sand and particularly of Lerroux the Radical politician who had been her lover; but Pauline’s mind was in her art. She knew he lacked the engaging, child-like qualities; if she did not love him she respected him and, with the utmost dignity and consideration, he loved her deeply. She had never loved anyone except her father and, perhaps, in Louis she saw a father reborn. It was noticed that she often called him “Papa.”
Turgenev went night after night to hear the singer. He pushed into his friends’ boxes—he couldn’t afford one of his own—and he shouted his admiration. His gentleness and shyness vanished as his shrill voice screamed applause, his mad behaviour was the joke of the season. There is nothing like the sight of a giant who is out of his mind. There was no performance without it. People told Pauline that the noisy ass with the long chestnut hair was a young landowner, a good shot and a feeble poet. The young singer had the pretty tactics of fame at her finger tips: an admirer who was far richer than Turgenev had given her a huge bearskin which was spread on the floor of her dressing-room and there she sat like an idol and four of her admirers were allowed the privilege of sitting at a proper distance on the paws. It was a long time before Turgenev was allowed to join her privileged admirers in her dressing-room and win his right to a paw. Once there, the quick, serious charm, the wit and his power of telling and acting amusing untrue stories came back to him. His French and German were perfect. But surrounded as she was by more important admirers, Pauline took little notice of him.
Turgenev had to be content to concentrate on Louis Viardot, who, like himself, was often pushed into the background and, in the classic fashion of such triangular beginnings, it was the men who became friends first. Writing his books of travel and art, managing the opera company and Pauline’s career, seeing to it that she would indeed be another Malibran, developing her distinct personality and style—these were the lasting preoccupations of Louis Viardot’s busy life. But once business was over, Louis Viardot saw a flattering and aspiring young writer with whom he had a quite unexpected taste in common. It was decisive. Louis was fanatical to the point of comedy as a sportsman: he loved slaughter, as Pauline once said. He loved shooting birds in season and out. The sportsmen of Spasskoye and of Courtavenel in France, where Louis had bought a converted medieval chateau and estate, had a subject less strenuous than a love of music.
And there was more than that. The man of forty and the young man of twenty-five had other things in common. Pauline’s Spanish spell had also caught Louis. He had written a book on Spain and had translated Don Quixote—not very well, they say. There was also the bond of politics: the two men were rationalists and democrats. Viardot was even thought to be politically dubious by the Russian secret police. The pair were at one in their hatred of serfdom. Louis was much taken by the clever young man and saw he could be congenial and useful. He saw that Pauline could clinch her popular success by singing a few Russian songs and that
Turgenev was the man to teach her something of the language. Certainly they all met for this useful purpose, in the Viardots’ apartment in Petersburg.
Pauline herself was captivated by the mixture of Oriental barbarity and polish in Court Society in Petersburg where everyone spoke French. She was persuaded to sing some Spanish gypsy songs to Russian gypsies: both parties were convinced that Russia and Spain had far more in common than they had with Western Europeans and in this their instinct was right. It is an irony that Turgenev, the Westerner who believed the future of Russia lay in learning from Europe, should have been brought to his one great and lasting passion by what looks like an atavism: her Spanishness had its Islamic roots; his own, remote though they might be, had something of this too. The Andalusian wit and feeling that underlay her French upbringing responded to his lazy, open Russianness. There was more than the buried image of his mother in Pauline, more than the attraction of a common love of music and the belief in the supremacy of art, more even than the conventional attractions of a handsome man for a plain woman, or of a young Quixote for a young woman who was set on the practical matters of her career.
The Viardots left Russia. The following year they came back to Petersburg and then went on to Moscow, where Turgenev took his mother to hear Pauline sing. His mother had heard the gossip about his absurd behaviour. She was annoyed. She did not mind him going to bed with serf girls or having an older mistress of his own class—he had been having an affair with a miller’s wife when he was out shooting near Petersburg just before meeting Pauline—but to dangle so seriously after a foreign actress killed any chance of the marriage his mother had hoped he would make. After hearing the singer she sulked, but came away saying “It must be admitted the damn gypsy sings well.”
The embittered, ill and ageing sovereign of Spasskoye was at this period of her life, showing her own ever-increasing powers as an actress. She had, as we know, broken with her son Nikolai because of his disgraceful marriage; cutting Ivan’s allowance to next to nothing had not prevented him from stooping to literature and accepting an invitation from the Viardots to visit them in France. (He went, on the pretext that he had to see a doctor about his eyes.) She could not stand the company of her brother-in-law who had come to live in the house and got rid of him. Worse: the old gentleman had married and very happily. In spite of everything, she longed for the sons who would not obey her and she put on fantastic and malevolent scenes. One year she announced that there would be no Easter Festival—an appalling sacrilege in the eyes of her peasants and her neighbours. She ordered the priest to stop the ringing of the church bells and though the servants laid the great table in the hall with the Sèvres porcelain and had set out the bright red eggs, the lamb made of butter and the Easter cake, she made them clear it all away untouched.
In another scene she sent for the priest to hear her confession, but when he got there she called for her house serfs to be assembled and told the priest she wanted to be confessed publicly. The priest protested that this was against the laws of the church but she shouted and threatened till the terrified man gave in.
The most powerful scene occurred on the date of Ivan’s birthday, a sacred day for her. She ordered him to come home. Budding orange trees were placed in tubs on the verandahs, the cherry trees were brought out of the forcing sheds. A great feast with the foods Ivan loved was laid out on the tables in the stone gallery, the flags of the Lutovinovs and Turgenevs were hoisted over the house and she had a signpost erected on the road on which the words Ils reviendront were painted. Neither son came, and retiring to her room she announced that she was dying. She called for Ivan’s portrait and called out, “Adieu, Jean. Adieu, Nikolai. Adieu, mes en-fants.” As the household wept she ordered them to bring in the icon of the Holy Virgin of Vladimir. She lay on her bed imitating the death rattle with her favourites kneeling at her bedside—they knew it was all a farce—and obliged the forty servants from the highest to the lowest to come in and kiss her hand in farewell. When this was done she suddenly called out in a stentorian voice to Polyakov, her chief servant: “Bring some paper.” Her box of loose sheets for making strange notes was at her bedside and when it was given to her, she wrote down:
Tomorrow the following culprits must appear in front of my window and sweep the yard. You were overjoyed that I was dying. You were drinking and celebrating a name day and your mistress dying!
The next day the drinkers, from the principal servants downwards, were made to put on smocks with circles and crosses on their backs and clean out the yards and gardens with brooms and shovels in sight of her terrifying window.
In the following year—in 1846, according to Mme. Zhitova—Ivan did come home to ask her to recognise his brother’s marriage and to give him money. She stormed and refused. They got on to the subject of serfdom. Mme. Zhitova says she heard a conversation. It could have been matched, in this period, in landowners’ houses in Ireland or in the American South.
“So my people are badly treated! What more do they need? They are very well fed, shod and clothed, they are even paid wages. Just tell me how many serfs do receive wages?”
“I did not say that they starve and are not well-clothed,” began Ivan Serfevitch cautiously, stammering a little, “but they tremble before you.”
“What of it?”
“Listen mama, couldn’t you now, this minute, if you wanted, exile any
one of them?”
“Of course I could.”
“Even from a mere whim?”
“Of course.”
“Then that proves what I have always told you. They are not people—they are things.”
“Then according to you they ought to be freed?”
“No, why? I don’t say that, the time hasn’t come yet.”
“And won’t come.”
“Yes it will come, it will come soon,” cried Ivan Sergevich passionately in the rather shrill voice he used when excited and he walked quickly round the room.
“Sit down, your walking about worries me,” his mother said.
“I see you are quite mad.”
The Viardots’ third season in Petersburg lasted until the spring of 1845 and they returned to France. Turgenev resigned from his post in the Civil Service on the excuse that he was having serious trouble with his eyes and accepted an invitation to stay with the Viardots at Courtavenel. There are signs that Pauline had lost her indifference and was falling in love against her will, and Turgenev spoke of this time as “the happiest time of my life.” From any other man these words would indicate that he had conquered, that the love was returned and fulfilled; but one notices that when he became the master of the love story, he is far more sensitive to the beginnings of love than to its fulfilment, to the sensation of being—to use one of his titles—“on the eve” of love, of standing elated as he waits for the wave to curl and fall. The spring—and also the autumn—mean more to him than high summer.
He went back to Petersburg and had some small successes writing for The Contemporary, a new review which was making an impression, and was distraught at being unable to see her. At last, in 1847, he borrowed money and went to Paris again and the Viardots let the penniless writer stay on at Courtavenel whether they were away or not. They were often away for months on end, as Pauline travelled from success to success all over Europe. If, as some believe, they ever became lovers, it was in the next three years and if they did not, it was the time when what has been called “a loving friendship” sparkled and crystallised.
Courtavenel was a strange and spacious house. It was close to Rozay-en-Brie and lay in dull but good shooting country, convenient for Paris. Louis Viardot had bought it from a Baron. It had two faces. The older face dated from the sixteenth century and had towers, a moat and a drawbridge; the modern one suggested bourgeois wealth and respectability, just the place for a prosperous family who entertained largely and would soon acquire a town house in the rue de Douai in Montmartre where they would go in the winter. When the Viardots went off
they left behind them Pauline’s mother and her in-laws, her little girl and her governess, and a crowd of servants and gardeners, guests and visitors continued to come and go. When Dickens stayed there with the Viardots he complained that there was a general air of transience about the place; it was like a railway junction where people were changing trains, but to Turgenev such a life had all the easy-going openness of life in a Russian country house, without the provincial stagnation. The lonely young man who had not been able to stand life with his mother at Spasskoye had found a home and a cheerful family. He became a great friend of Mme. Garcia, Pauline’s mother, who was affectionate and full of salty Spanish proverbs. Pauline wrote letters to her mother and occasionally to him and they were read and re-read aloud; and he wrote amusing letters on his own and the family’s behalf and showed them to her mother before he sent them so that she could add postscripts of her own.
It is on the letters that Turgenev wrote to Pauline at this period—and indeed all his life—that we have chiefly to rely for our conjectures about their mysterious relationship and especially for our sight of his character. He wrote to her constantly about what he was doing, the people he met and especially about his reading and about her music and her performances, for he followed every report of them. Our trouble is that although she made time to write to him in her distracted life, only a handful of her letters have survived. He longed for them; occasionally some—to judge by his replies—were delightful for a lover to receive; but there is not a sensual or even an extravagant word of feeling in the few we have. She chattered away but is reticent and no more than affectionate.
The Gentle Barbarian Page 5