A Perilous Advantage: The Best of Natalie Clifford Barney

by Natalie Clifford Barney

  Renée Vivien played an important role in my life, as, no doubt, did I in hers.

  Born at the same time, she in England, I in the United States, from adolescence onward the same center of attraction drew us both. And that was Paris.

  I spent my childhood in the outskirts of Cincinnati, running about with my playmates. Our French governess, being too heavy to follow, would sit under the great lime tree in our garden and wait for us to come back panting for breath. Once we were comfortably settled, she would read Jules Verne to us, or the books of the Bibliothèque rose. That was how my little sister and I learned French, in the company of our neighbors, Violette and Mary S.. It was they who were to introduce me to Renée Vivien, around the year 1900, when we were about twenty years old and all living in France.

  But that was not my first trip to France.

  Some years before the new century, my father, feeling that we needed a more serious course of study, had decided to take us to Europe. Being separated from our pets: two dogs, a bulldog and a Blenheim, a goat, some baby alligators from Florida, a little parrot and a big one, made us more unhappy than saying goodbye to our friends. It was heartbreaking to leave behind my Shetland, Tricksy, that tiny, shaggy little pony which I used to drive in our pony-cart with my little sister, and which I was learning to ride, not without incident!

  When we left Ohio we even missed the little river which, seen through a veil of tears, became unforgettable, like our house which had already sheltered the shy tenderness of first love.

  The child who does not start off life in love with their mother, or their father, has been deprived of one of the most absolute of human emotions. Such was the feeling I had for my mother, and when she bent over my bed before she went out to a party, she seemed more beautiful than anything in my dreams; so, instead of going to sleep, I would stay awake, anxiously waiting for her return, for whenever she went away I was afraid something terrible might happen to her.

  When she came home with my father, often very late at night, I would hear the rustling of her skirt as she passed my bedroom and tiptoe barefoot toward the ray of light which shone under her door. I could not pull myself away, though I trembled with cold and emotion, until she put out her lamp.

  My father was known at his club as a bon vivant. Of medium height, well-dressed, his hair still blond, he was popular with women, who were misled by his assiduous attention. He cared only for his family, however. His affection for me was demonstrated with gifts and bruises: he would pull me back from the traffic with such vigor that I would have preferred the accident. In the streets of Cincinnati, trying to keep step with him, my attention would be seized by the painted wooden Indians which the tobacco shops used as publicity.

  When we came home again safe and sound, Mother would scold us for having scared her, albeit unintentionally. She was by nature happy and self-sufficient; we worried her all too often and at times she would almost resent loving us. She hugged us only infrequently, moved by one of her rare surges of emotion. The desire to control and any feelings caused by mere habit, were foreign to her. Her motto was "Live and let live."

  I consoled myself for being uprooted from my past with the thought that we were going away with Mother. But would I see her as often, could I watch over her as well as I did at home? What's more, my father had invited one of his two favorite nieces to come along.

  But no sooner had we set off than childish gaiety took over, our tears changed to giggles at every strange novelty we encountered both on board ship and on the old continent. The shape of some of the hotel furniture and our first sight of a bidet sent us into fits of laughter. This latter, which I baptized the "French bath," is to this day a rare object in America, viewed with suspicion.

  Before settling in France, we visited Belgium. Our parents, wanting to linger at their leisure in the Belgian museums whose horrific paintings scared us, entrusted us to a guide with instructions to take us to the Zoo. The animals there made us miss our pets. How indignant we were (this may have been in the Netherlands) to see a woman and a dog pulling a milk cart together while the man sauntered alongside, calmly smoking his pipe. From that day on we were feminists.

  My apprehensions about my mother came true only too soon. I saw much less of her, for she preferred to go out with my big cousin. I accepted it as best I could since her sketch book, which she filled with drawings of all the people who captured her attention, seemed to make her happy, engrossed and full of life. Night after night we would laugh at the caricatures which distorted the figures and caught the tics and mannerisms of the hotel guests whom she watched closely at the tables d'hôte.

  Unlike her usual, indulgent self, when she ran into old friends she would see them in a new way and would portray all their peculiarities. If travel broadens young minds, it is more likely to deform those who are no longer young...

  Our cousin, dazzling and bedazzled, was fascinated by everything. Sometimes when there weren't enough beds, I would sleep with her. Since I was no longer in a position to watch for the ray of light under my mother's door, I turned my eyes and ears toward this blonde presence beside me and she began to interest me more than the surprises of the trip. I wondered a lot about the photograph of the young friend she kept hidden in her suitcase. Was he her fiancé? Her future husband? I was filled with anxiety the night I saw her kiss the photograph before slipping into bed with me. My sense of impending unhappiness for her if she married the young man got confused with feelings of jealousy. But a good sleep dissolved these night fears and I woke up to see my cousin smiling again, already dressed and ready to greet me with a kiss as fresh as her seventeen-year-old joie de vivre.

  So that they might travel unencumbered, our parents sent us to Les Ruches, in Fontainebleau, as boarders—the same Les Ruches where Olivia had been a few years before. The atmosphere of feverish passion which permeates her little book no longer existed. The school had changed hands. I like to imagine that the grounds of that long red brick building, still visible from the road, have stayed as they were when we "little ones," used to play at croquet rather than "grand passion." Though there were torrid affairs, as in any boarding school.

  We witnessed two small scandals. The first was caused by two of the "big girls," American sisters who imagined they were as free here as they had been back home. Flattered by the glances of two cavalry men on maneuvers, they conducted a correspondence with the officers which was later intercepted. The second scandal affected us more directly. One of our classmates was the subject of great admiration because of her long braid of chestnut hair which would coil serpent-like beside her at night. Someone cut off her braid while she slept, but who? Was someone jealous of her? It was we who solved this mystery, but much later and in a most unexpected way.

  In class we continued to learn cursive handwriting, drawing, singing, deportment and how to curtsey, dancing, horse-riding, composition and French poetry: La Fontaine, Victor Hugo and poems by Racine and Andre Chénier to learn by heart.

  We also learned to love our neighbor, in the person of one of the "big girls." Her Greek beauty and all that poetry inspired me so much that I wanted to express myself in verse.

  Before enrolling us at Les Ruches, my mother asked Carolus Duran to do my portrait. Not wanting any passing fashion to date this picture of me at ten, she dressed me as a page. This was, perhaps, imprudent for I continued to play the page with my beautiful schoolmate who encouraged my attentions by calling me sweetly, her "little husband." After a prize-giving ceremony in which she won the Golden Bee award, given to older pupils who had done brilliantly in their studies, she and I were separated.

  My sister and I stayed at Les Ruches about eighteen months and then moved to our new house in Washington, which had been built according to a plan of my mother's. The city, designed by a French architect, enchanted us with its squares and parks full of magnolias where we could play, while the little negro children invaded the waste ground and the empty lots for sale between the houses. Sometimes an Italian
with a barrel organ and a monkey would pass by and all the children, black and white alike, would gather round, attracted by the music. Swaying to the rhythm, tapping their bare feet against the asphalt, the negro children would begin to dance. All this took place under the watchful eye of Fraulein von N., our favorite school mistress from Les Ruches whom our parents, at our insistence, had brought with us to America. She was pleased by this arrangement too, because she would meet up with her great friend, Mlle C., who was now governess to the five daughters of the new Vice-President, our nearest neighbor.

  I often went riding with my favorite of these sisters. Too big for my Shetland pony, I rode a plump, capricious cob. We were proud of our mounts, and of our riding habits. Drunk on freedom and the balmy air, we would skirt the woods, now full of new buds, which surround the capital.

  One day, we caught sight of the most beautiful of the Washington belles at the end of one of the avenues, driving a phaeton with a pair of horses which had won the latest horse races. At her side was an attache from the British Embassy who had hopes of marrying her. We galloped so quickly to catch up with her that her horses bolted. When she had finally managed to bring them back under control, she told us off in no uncertain terms instead of admiring our skilled horsemanship as we had hoped. She was lovelier still when she was angry. My companion had a crush on the future Lady C., who was to become vicereine of India. She was finally appeased by our excessive admiration, forgave us, and gratified us with a smile.

  When we were alone together once more, I told my companion about my own crush, whom I counted on seeing again over the summer at Bar Harbour. My feeling for her was kept alive by our letters, in which I assured her of my faithful devotion.

  My mother hired a studio not far from our schoolroom where the most interesting, or the most beautiful, women of Washington society would sit for her. I would sometimes be present at these sessions, perched at the edge of the platform on which the models sat. One day one of these beauties, still tense from the ball the previous night, posed so badly that she begged me to soothe her nerves by softly stroking the palms of her hands. This calmed her down, so much so in fact that she relaxed into a half-doze, ruining the pose. I began to caress her ankles, which were so slender I could encircle them with my fingers. From there I would survey her from head to toe, and, if she began to bend even slightly, it was easy to call her to order. Using the art of touch in this way, I learned not only to soothe my mother's headaches, but also to calm my classmates nerves. How many hands were held out toward my fingers, especially at exam time, though the healing influence only worked on friends of my choosing!

  My mother, adding architecture to the long list of her skills—which she inherited from her father, (and he from his distant ancestor, King Solomon, perhaps)—had just fitted out in Bar Harbour the second of five houses she had had built.

  One of the first nights we were there, when my sister and I were settling into our new bedroom, we heard the dogs barking. We got out of bed, and saw our Fraulein going down the main staircase in her nightshirt and bare feet. In her hand was a pair of scissors and as soon as she reached the vestibule, she began to cut up Papa's boater as well as one belonging to an old friend of the family who was staying with us at the time. He was transfixed with fear at that bizarre sight. Once she'd finished her act of intricate destruction, the sleep walker climbed back up the stairs with haggard eyes and a heavy step, passing the landing where we watched in horror, and returned to her room which was next to ours. As we went back to our twin beds, we were convinced it was she who had cut off our classmate's braid at Les Ruches, walking in her sleep again.

  After this revelation we fell into a light sleep. When the visitor told them about the scene he had witnessed, our parents had no choice but to let Fraulein go. As she waited to return home, she even made an appearance at our neighbor's house. Alarmed by this visit, we had to put one of the Blenheim's collars on her ankle and chain her to the foot of the bed. What anguish we felt when, night after night, we would hear her take a few steps then, startled awake by the sudden jolt, go back to bed!

  She was replaced by a handsome Austrian with beautiful manners, who hid her pale, tear-filled eyes from all but me. Comforted by my sympathy, she told me about her broken engagement to the son of a great Austrian family and how she had been sent away despite his love for her. Each time I saw her looking sad I would slip over to her and murmur kind words. As she seemed inconsolable and her black hair had begun to be threaded with white, I tenderly put my head on her shoulder and spoke to her in a low voice as though I were her lost fiancé. The words I offered seemed to soothe her bruised heart, for she pressed me against her breast. I would go on talking, as though her fiancé missed her and was loving her through me. Little by little she took heart and smiled her beautiful comforting smile once more.

  At the end of the fall, since Mother and I were to set sail for Europe, we sadly said goodbye to each other but parted the closest of friends.

  My mother had by now advanced from Carolus Duran to Whistler. So that she could take lessons with the latter, she rented rooms for us in a family pension called the "Villa des Dames" in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, on the corner of the Rue de la Grande-Chaumière where the Carlo Rossi School was situated.

  In this pension next door to her painting classes, we lived in rather antiquated conditions surrounded by old wood panelling. The only bathroom was reached via a back staircase.

  Mother had brought letters of introduction from her cousins in Washington but Whistler waved them away with a dismissive: "Who are all these ridiculous people?" Indeed, he needed no introduction to enjoy Mother's company. Every week after class, during which he would warn her not to try to be "too clever," he would come and take tea with her.

  I am sorry now that I never met him for all I needed to do in order to see him was push open the door of the small sitting room. But instead I stayed shut up in my room writing letters—and God knows what letters! Later my mother was due to meet my father in London; he preferred that city to Paris where men take second place. Before she left, she entrusted me with a sum of money to be given to Whistler who had promised to do my portrait. But I never went to his house in the Rue du Bac to sit for him, and with good reason: when the opportunity presented itself, and even when it didn't, I spent all the money on flowers and presents for various ladies—and what ladies they were!

  When I rode as far as the Avenue des Acacias in the Bois de Boulogne, accompanied by a relative or a would-be fiancé, superb creatures would drive past in Victorias displaying their beauty. I was captivated by one of them, whose angelic slenderness singled her out from the others. My escort that day was the young hopeful who told me, to dampen my ardor, "That is Liane de Pougy. She is nothing but a courtesan."

  I did not really understand what he was trying to say. Young American women of my generation knew very little of the demimonde, but I had no trouble imagining that this young woman was in danger. I even went as far as thinking that I would find it easier to save her if I married my fiancé, though I never actually did. But after I had sent her several letters and lots of flowers, Liane agreed to meet me and I ordered a page costume from Landof's in which to throw myself at her feet. As I went into her darkened boudoir, I saw a figure stretched out on a chaise-lounge. Moved by the sight, I had sunk down on one knee to offer her a bouquet of flowers when I heard someone laugh. Looking up I realized that the figure in front of me was not my idol but a stand-in and I got to my feet right away. A ravishing face with short curly hair like a Fra Angelico angel appeared from behind a curtain. Liane had hidden away so she could observe me... Seeing my embarrassed face she sprang forward, saying in her languid way, "Here I am." She was dressed from head to foot in diaphanous white. I was surprised to feel her white hand with its tapering fingers land on my shoulder with the weight of marble, and by how strong her grip was.

  As she took her leave, Liane's confidante—whom she called Altesse—more experienced in affairs of i
ntrigue than she, invited me to pay her a visit so that she could show me her studio in which stood the famous stained glass window she had had made, an allegory of the visit paid her by Napoleon III, her most renowned guest.

  Liane's carriage was announced. She sat at her dressing table, I on a pouf at her feet. She contemplated me with a kindly, ambiguous look in her eyes as she retouched her lipstick and mascara, and suggested that I accompany her to the Bois. I was to sit at her feet in the carriage like a page so that no one would see me through the window. Then she took off her indoor gown, made of soft material rather like a monk's robe, sprayed herself with White Rose, adorned her neck and fingers with pearls and slipped into a town suit her maid had laid out, with matching hat, gloves and hand bag. I for my part had put my hair up and thrown my beige coat over my page costume. Liane swept me off toward the door declaring, "I already love your hair and the way your mind works," and we set off at a trot, drawn by two big white horses, toward the Path of Virtue.

  What became of all that? A novel by Liane, the title, quite simply: Idylle Sapphique [Sapphic Idyll]. But one fine day my father found me in my bedroom reading a long letter from Liane. He was not pleased and brought me back to America where I stayed for two years, leading the life of polite society in more discreet company.

  Even after I had come out I continued to send flowers, notes and poems to those I admired. Since I could only write blank verse, my old friend and confidante, Jules Cambon, then stationed in Washington, advised me to learn French prosody. During one of his leaves, when we were lucky enough to meet in Paris, he invited me to dinner at Fayot's so that he could introduce me to Professor B.C.

  Despite our divergent interests—or maybe because of them—His Excellency observed my life with interest and pleasure, while I enjoyed watching him watching me, not from vanity but because he was a clear-sighted, warm-hearted, shrewd observer. If, in our literary conversations, he expressed a greater liking for Marivaux than I, it is because the wheeling and dealing of diplomacy also requires one to make "false confidences." As for "principles." as Philippe Berthelot was later to inform me, "One has only to lean on them and they crumble!" That playful wit used to say, in that voice which rapped out every syllable: "Everything works out—for the worse!"