The Dream Lover (28 page)

Before I could speak, however, he leapt to his feet and rushed out of the apartment.

I sat stunned for a while, then ate dinner alone, thinking about what had transpired. Then I changed into my dressing gown and wrote until night gave way to the rose gold of morning. I moved to the window to regard the street below: still quiet, but with signs of life stirring: a merchant washing down the sidewalk outside his store; a man setting up to show off his performing dogs, an artist at his easel. I stretched, yawned, arched and massaged my back. Then I performed a sleepy toilette and climbed between lavender-scented
sheets to enjoy a sweet release. I hoped for dreams I would remember, and could use.

It seemed there was something to using material from the unconscious:
Lélia
had enjoyed a first print run of fifteen hundred, an inordinately large number for the time, and it had sold out immediately. This was in spite of the fact that it garnered several bad reviews—one source called it “dangerous, teaching skepticism.” But that review served only to make it sell better. Gustave Planche had said in the
Revue des Deux Mondes
that women would understand
Lélia:

They will underline those passages in which they have found, set down in words, the memories they harbor of their own past lives, the record of their own unpublished miseries. With tears in their eyes and veneration in their hearts, they will acknowlege the impotence which here proclaims itself and reveals its torments. They will stand amazed at the courage of such an avowal. Some will blush to think their secrets have been fathomed, but in the privacy of their own minds, they will admit that
Lélia
is a speech not for the prosecution, but for the defense.

It had become the book one had to have, even if one did not read it.

T
HE DAY AFTER
M
USSET
fled from my apartment, there came a knock at the door and I was handed a note by a messenger. It was from Musset, and I sat down to read it, not having any idea what to expect. These are the words he wrote:

I have something stupid and ridiculous to say to you. You will laugh in my face, and hold that, in all I have said to you so far, I
was a mere maker of phrases. You will show me the door, and you will believe that I am lying
.

I am in love with you. I have been in love with you since the day when I came to see you for the first time. I thought I could cure myself by continuing with you on the level of friendship. There is much in your character that might bring about a cure and I have tried hard to persuade myself of this: but I pay too high a price for the moments which I spend with you. And now, George, you will say—‘Just another importunate bore!' (to use your own words). I know precisely how you regard me, and, in speaking as I have done, delude myself with no false hopes. The only result will be that I shall lose a dear companion. But in truth, I lack the strength of mind to keep silent
.

I read the note again. I kissed it.

And then I did nothing. I did not write back to him. I tried to will him away from my thoughts. If what so many people said about him was true, he was dangerous, making women fall in love with him and then discarding them with impunity; and in any case, I was not ready to enter into another love affair. Deep in my heart, I still burned for Marie.

But the next day, another note from Alfred arrived:

I was a fool to show you more than one side of myself. You should love only those who know how to love. I know only how to suffer. Adieu, George; I love you like a child
.

I sent a note back immediately: “Come to me.” And he did.

A
FEW DAYS LATER,
I had dinner with a group of my Berry friends, all of whom had renewed their friendships with me after my break with Jules. They had heard about my goings-on with
Musset, and rather than be happy about our finding the joy we both deserved, they looked like they were gathered around my casket for a final goodbye. Gustave Planche said, “To put it bluntly, my dear, I fear you have taken leave of your senses.” I told him I appreciated his concern, then stopped seeing him.

If I could not have Marie, at least I could have this besotted young poet who called me—the pants-wearing, cigar-smoking, low-voiced independent—the most feminine woman he had ever known. On more than one occasion I found myself dizzy with the delights he offered me. I did not experience that release I had found with Marie, but I loved loving Musset. Never mind Mérimée—here was the skillful lover!

Musset began our lovemaking with poetic praises of my body, with caresses so soft I could barely perceive them, and ended with the headboard banging into the wall so hard I finally had to move it out several inches. He covered me with kisses from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, he entered me from on top, from behind, from the side. He put his fists in my hair and pulled until I gasped in pleasure, he called out my name over and over as he thrust himself inside me. We made love on the floor of the bedroom before the fireplace, on a settee in the parlor, and once on the dining room table in a frenzy that was like nothing we had known previously. No china was lost, but some silver made a magnificent clatter as it fell to the floor. I arose from that session with candle wax in my hair, with my lips swollen and bruised.

We were happy outside the bedroom, too. Our politics aligned: we looked with nostalgic favor on the old days of the empire, which had at least been run with precision, as opposed to the present government, which often seemed full of confusion and at odds with itself. As advocates of civil liberty, we were sympathetic to the effects of the 1830–31 November Uprising in Warsaw, and we made friends with many Polish expatriates.

In addition, we both adored music, though he bowed to my superiority in both knowledge and practice. And he liked practical
jokes as much as I. Once, when I gave a dinner for friends, he dressed as a girl to serve us our food and “accidentally” stumbled, dumping a water pitcher on the head of the philosopher Eugène Lerminier, who for once lost his overbearing and stuffy manner: he giggled like a madman as he wrung out his hair.

T
HAT SUMMER, THE HEAT
in the city was unbearable. I got up early one morning to meet Marie Dorval for a walk at the Jardin des Plantes, but neither of us could find relief there. At one point Marie looked around, then raised her skirts high and called out loudly, “Come, breeze, to explore the place that everyone longs to visit! I invite you to come and take your pleasure, and in so doing cool my flesh!” But the air remained still, and finally Marie gave up and let her skirt fall and resettle itself. She was dressed all in white but for the blue satin ribbon around her waist and in the trim of her wide-brimmed hat. We walked slowly on, and I told her about Alfred. Only the night before, I had invited him to come to me at midnight, when I could be sure the children, who were staying with me, were sleeping. It had been a monumental effort to keep quiet.

“Well,” she said, “now that you are married, you must have a honeymoon.”

“It would be bliss to go away with him,” I said. “I long to be with him uninterrupted, day and night! But my resources are running low; it would be difficult to fund a vacation.”

Marie sighed, exasperated. “Someday you must endeavor to find a lover who has money!”

I didn't bother to disagree; it was too hot to argue. But my belief was that a rich man only feels he has more license to control his woman—as well as everything else. There may have been some frustration in making more money than the man I was with, but there was power in it, too, and a strange satisfaction that I did not feel I could easily explain to anyone else.

Anyway, the success of
Lélia
meant that I would be paid more by
my publisher as an advance against the next book, negotiations for which I had begun. In matters involving romance, I might not negotiate wisely; but when it came to business, I had become clever.

“Fontainebleau is not far,” Marie said. “You should go there. Take a riverboat; it is very pleasant. The forest there is romantic, so deep and dark and wild. And it will be cool!”

It did sound like wonderful relief. The sun was beating down so hard that my clothes burned my skin, and the heaviness of the air made it an effort to breathe. I thought of the oak trees and the Scotch pines and European beeches I knew to be in Fontainebleau, and I had heard praised the violet-colored orchids, the wild madder and cranesbill and peach-leaved bellflowers. There were imposing rock formations and gorges that invited exploration on foot, and I was an enthusiastic hiker. I had heard, too, about the great variety of birds there: woodpeckers, whose industrious rhythms never failed to amuse me, and blackcaps and tits.

I decided to propose a trip to Fontainebleau to Alfred that evening. I thought I knew what his answer would be. He would welcome the opportunity for our having more time in bed as much as I. It still astounded me, sometimes, where I had gotten to in matters of sex, considering where I had started out. It astounded me, too, that I had moved from such wariness of an individual to such love for him. But one can never untangle the intricacies of and motivation for love; one does best to simply enjoy the flowering of two hearts.

September 1822

NOHANT

“
W
hy do you laugh?” Casimir asked, lifting himself off me and rolling away.

“I can't help it,” I said. “It is comical, is it not?”

“Rather than satisfy you, your husband amuses you, is that it?” Casimir sat up at the side of the bed, and I heard a kind of hurt in his voice that I regretted causing. I put my hand to his back, but he pulled away from me and got up. “As for me, I find that sex with you is like lying on a board. Next time, should there be one, I shall give you a book to keep you occupied, so that you needn't study the ceiling so intently, trying to find something to interest yourself.”

“Casimir,” I said, but it was too late. He was putting on his clothes.

“You should have told me of your frigid nature. After all, there are only so many ways for a man to check a horse's teeth.”

“But I—”

He slammed the door, and I pulled my nightdress down and lay still in the bed. I stayed awake, waiting for him to come back and lie beside me, but he did not return. In the morning, he was cheerful at the breakfast table, and we planned our day as if nothing at all had happened.

C
ASIMIR AND
I
WERE
never compatible in
actes intimes
. Most of the time, I continued to alternate between hilarity and confusion as a reaction to his lovemaking. But sometimes his brusqueness hurt me, and on one occasion when I cried out, he put his hand over my mouth to silence me, then proceeded.

Still, we were successful enough that I was enjoying my first pregnancy in the winter of 1822–23. I learned that when a woman is
with child, her focus shifts dramatically: she cares for the one inside her with a single-mindedness, if not ferocity, that she is incapable of resisting. All her hope rests on what will be; all her efforts go toward preparation. Even when I was engaged with other pursuits, gauzy thoughts of the baby floated in and out of my brain; everything I did in caring for myself was an act for the protection and provision of my unborn child.

I was left alone often, for Casimir loved to hunt, and in long hours that might previously have been given over to reading and study and thought, I now became interested in and appreciative of the domestic arts. Much can be made of public speeches, political movements, and the might and right of various armies who take up arms in support of their ideals—or in blind allegiance to another's will and ego—but in the end we are all human beings who long for our basic needs to be satisfied in the way that only home and hearth can.

In later years, I came to believe that this inclination toward nurturing is one of the main reasons that the female is the superior sex. I saw quite clearly that if our humanistic abilities were given the worth they deserved, the world would be a far better place. But women are not naturally self-promoting; most of us quietly put ourselves last. It seems it is our nature to compromise and not make a fuss. Some think these qualities are instinctive and, therefore, inescapable. I certainly always recognized that I was as much a victim of my heart and my womb as any other female. And in spite of persistent misperceptions of me regarding my views on feminism, I never advocated for women choosing work over family, never advocated for taking women away from their homes and their children.

Did I love being an artist? Yes. But I worked because I had to, and not for one instant did I ever underestimate the importance of what a mother can do for her children. Or fail to do.

F
OR SIX WEEKS THAT
winter when I was pregnant, I was ordered to bed by Deschartres, after an episode of spotting early in my
pregnancy, the news of which I had shared with him. I was only mildly concerned and was seeking reassurance from him in his role of village doctor, but he became so alarmed, I did as he said, even though I did not really believe it necessary.

I spent that time in drowsy contemplation of what life as a mother would be, sewing various things for the layette. And then, as fate would have it, I began practicing mothering skills with my favorite species.

It was an unusually cold winter that year. The snow was high and did not melt, and birds were dying of hunger. They were so weak and desperate, they put aside all fear of humans and allowed themselves to be taken in hand. Deschartres first brought in a blue-hooded chaffinch so weak he appeared dead. I believed he brought him to me so that we might mourn together, despite the fact that Deschartres would never admit to any sentimental or anthropomorphic feelings. But we soon noticed a bit of movement, a flicker of the bird's eyelid, a jerking in the legs. I took him gently under the covers with me to warm him, laid him on my breast so that he might feel my heartbeat, and hoped that something about that universal rhythm could comfort him. He soon revived, and we gave him some crumbs and water. Then he hopped across the bedcovers, took off for a brief tour of the room, and came back to me to rest.