XIV

Thus Augustine came among this sparkling set in a spirit of distrust

which no one could fail to see. She was a restraint on their freedom.

Now an artist who feels restraint is pitiless; he stays away, or

laughs it to scorn. Madame Guillaume, among other absurdities, had an

excessive notion of the dignity she considered the prerogative of a

married woman; and Augustine, though she had often made fun of it,

could not help a slight imitation of her mother's primness. This

extreme propriety, which virtuous wives do not always avoid, suggested

a few epigrams in the form of sketches, in which the harmless jest was

in such good taste that Sommervieux could not take offence; and even

if they had been more severe, these pleasantries were after all only

reprisals from his friends. Still, nothing could seem a trifle to a

spirit so open as Theodore's to impressions from without. A coldness

insensibly crept over him, and inevitably spread. To attain conjugal

happiness we must climb a hill whose summit is a narrow ridge, close

to a steep and slippery descent: the painter's love was falling down

it. He regarded his wife as incapable of appreciating the moral

considerations which justified him in his own eyes for his singular

behavior to her, and believed himself quite innocent in hiding from

her thoughts she could not enter into, and peccadilloes outside the

jurisdiction of a /bourgeois/ conscience. Augustine wrapped herself in

sullen and silent grief. These unconfessed feelings placed a shroud

between the husband and wife which could not fail to grow thicker day

by day. Though her husband never failed in consideration for her,

Augustine could not help trembling as she saw that he kept for the

outer world those treasures of wit and grace that he formerly would

lay at her feet. She soon began to find sinister meaning in the

jocular speeches that are current in the world as to the inconstancy

of men. She made no complaints, but her demeanor conveyed reproach.

Three years after her marriage this pretty young woman, who dashed

past in her handsome carriage, and lived in a sphere of glory and

riches to the envy of heedless folk incapable of taking a just view of

the situations of life, was a prey to intense grief. She lost her

color; she reflected; she made comparisons; then sorrow unfolded to

her the first lessons of experience. She determined to restrict

herself bravely within the round of duty, hoping that by this generous

conduct she might sooner or later win back her husband's love. But it

was not so. When Sommervieux, fired with work, came in from his

studio, Augustine did not put away her work so quickly but that the

painter might find his wife mending the household linen, and his own,

with all the care of a good housewife. She supplied generously and

without a murmur the money needed for his lavishness; but in her

anxiety to husband her dear Theodore's fortune, she was strictly

economical for herself and in certain details of domestic management.

Such conduct is incompatible with the easy-going habits of artists,

who, at the end of their life, have enjoyed it so keenly that they

never inquire into the causes of their ruin.

It is useless to note every tint of shadow by which the brilliant hues

of their honeymoon were overcast till they were lost in utter

blackness. One evening poor Augustine, who had for some time heard her

husband speak with enthusiasm of the Duchesse de Carigliano, received

from a friend certain malignantly charitable warnings as to the nature

of the attachment which Sommervieux had formed for this celebrated

flirt of the Imperial Court. At one-and-twenty, in all the splendor of

youth and beauty, Augustine saw herself deserted for a woman of

six-and-thirty. Feeling herself so wretched in the midst of a world of

festivity which to her was a blank, the poor little thing could no

longer understand the admiration she excited, or the envy of which she

was the object. Her face assumed a different expression. Melancholy,

tinged her features with the sweetness of resignation and the pallor

of scorned love. Ere long she too was courted by the most fascinating

men; but she remained lonely and virtuous. Some contemptuous words

which escaped her husband filled her with incredible despair. A

sinister flash showed her the breaches which, as a result of her

sordid education, hindered the perfect union of her soul with

Theodore's; she loved him well enough to absolve him and condemn

herself. She shed tears of blood, and perceived, too late, that there

are /mesalliances/ of the spirit as well as of rank and habits. As she

recalled the early raptures of their union, she understood the full

extent of that lost happiness, and accepted the conclusion that so

rich a harvest of love was in itself a whole life, which only sorrow

could pay for. At the same time, she loved too truly to lose all hope.

At one-and-twenty she dared undertake to educate herself, and make her

imagination, at least, worthy of that she admired. "If I am not a

poet," thought she, "at any rate, I will understand poetry."

Then, with all the strength of will, all the energy which every woman

can display when she loves, Madame de Sommervieux tried to alter her

character, her manners, and her habits; but by dint of devouring books

and learning undauntedly, she only succeeded in becoming less

ignorant. Lightness of wit and the graces of conversation are a gift

of nature, or the fruit of education begun in the cradle. She could

appreciate music and enjoy it, but she could not sing with taste. She

understood literature and the beauties of poetry, but it was too late

to cultivate her refractory memory. She listened with pleasure to

social conversation, but she could contribute nothing brilliant. Her

religious notions and home-grown prejudices were antagonistic to the

complete emancipation of her intelligence. Finally, a foregone

conclusion against her had stolen into Theodore's mind, and this she

could not conquer. The artist would laugh, at those who flattered him

about his wife, and his irony had some foundation; he so overawed the

pathetic young creature that, in his presence, or alone with him, she

trembled. Hampered by her too eager desire to please, her wits and her

knowledge vanished in one absorbing feeling. Even her fidelity vexed

the unfaithful husband, who seemed to bid her do wrong by stigmatizing

her virtue as insensibility. Augustine tried in vain to abdicate her

reason, to yield to her husband's caprices and whims, to devote

herself to the selfishness of his vanity. Her sacrifices bore no

fruit. Perhaps they had both let the moment slip when souls may meet

in comprehension. One day the young wife's too sensitive heart

received one of those blows which so strain the bonds of feeling that

they seem to be broken. She withdrew into solitude. But before long a

fatal idea suggested to her to seek counsel and comfort in the bosom

of her family.