"She by no means realized my ideal Mme. Heine. I had fancied her
refined, elegant, languishing, with a pale, earnest face, animated by
large, perfidious, velvety eyes. I saw, instead, a homely, dark,
stout lady, with a high colour and a jovial countenance, a person of
whom you would say she required plenty of exercise in the open air.
What a painful contrast between the robust woman and the pale, dying
man, who, with one foot already in the grave, summoned sufficient
energy to earn not only enough for the daily bread, but money besides
to purchase beautiful dresses. The melancholy jests, which obliging
biographers constantly represent as flashes of wit from a husband too
much in love not to be profuse, never deluded anybody who visited
that home. It is absurd to transform Mme. Heine into an idyllic
character, whilst the poet himself never dreamed of representing her
in that guise. Why poetize at the expense of truth?--especially when
truth brings more honour to the poet's memory."
One is sorry that Heine has not risen again to enjoy this. One can
easily picture his reading it and, turning tenderly to his "Treasure,"
his "Heart's Joy," with that everlasting boy's look on his face,
saying: "Never mind, Damschen. We know, don't we? They think they
know, but we know." And with what a terrible snarl he would say, "My
ideal Mme. Heine!"
"My ideal Mme. Heine!" No doubt "la Mouche" thought she might have
been that, had all the circumstances been different, had Heine not
already been married for years and had he not been a dying man.
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