We presented an 18th century comedy, Le ton de Paris, by the Duke of Lauzun as a kind of intermezzo: preceded by Wanda Landowska on the harpsichord.
Rémy and I were pleased to be alone together again after the party. There was a tapestry nailed to the wall inside his doorway representing the head of a clamorous viperine, no doubt symbolizing for him that which came from outside. As soon as he recognized my ring, he would tear me from the doorstep as though rescuing me from danger. Sitting opposite him, I would observe his eyes of a pure, youthful blue, the color of young flowers under glass. Like two children living in a ruin, his eyes spread an audacious gaiety all around, soon to be troubled by a shiver of anguish... I reached impetuously across the table, putting my hand on his which were dry as parchment but, at the same time, warm, a warmth which always surprised me, as much as the sight of his thick, ruddy neck bent over a library shelf. Seated sight by side, we would set off on calm sailing trips in the old navigation book he had just brought to light. Too weak in body for pleasure, too clear-sighted to be ambitious, it did him good to sail away on the arms of an Amazon.
That summer in La France he recorded the various stages of a three day trip we took from Paris to Normandy on Le Druide, a boat I had hired. We would stop each evening at a little town or village so that Gourmont could spend the night at an inn.
Every morning, before he joined me on the boat, Gourmont would write his article "Idées du jour" for La France; it is not surprising, therefore, that so many are on country or riverside themes. This real journey lent a new savour to his reclusive life, whose horizons had been limited to the south by the bookstalls of the Quai Voltaire and the photographs of the Gare d'Orsay, to the east by his "Café du Flore," to the north by his garret at 71 Rue des Saints-Pères and to the west by my little temple of friendship.
We sailed as far as Caudebec where the engine drank salt, got seasick and had to take a break and continue in fresh water. Stopping at Saint-Wandrille, we went to visit Maeterlinck. That great man, already going grey, seemed forever about to take flight as the ever-moving pupils of his eyes, with their two grape green flecks, darted here and there. The gothic walls of the abbey were less his natural habitat than two large modern leather armchairs which stood in the chapterhouse.
Maeterlinck had the Belgian good sense to season his use of the mystic arts to the tastes of the day. The stew sniffed like a master chef covered him in such a cloud of steam that his real character was blurred. He spoke to Gourmont about the Latin Mystique, and then whispered to me, "That man is an inkpot."
Maererlinck, the mystic on a motorcycle, looking for a life to renew, would amuse himself at home by setting up a rifle on a balcony wall and shooting a fan-shaped volley across the plain, a young girl beside him to change cartridges. Was it the same girl he married in the end? My sporting sense was affronted by such a comfortable arrangement. And that is how we left him.
Georgette Leblanc, who had accompanied us as far as the boat, climbed aboard the prow, liberty veil to the wind, but the breeze was too light and the mast too small for the figurehead she was trying to resemble.
We continued on our way, which Gourmont describes as follows:
The Seine was luminously beautiful in the morning sun... How sweetly the days passed with you, my friend! And how natural it felt to live beside you, how I love looking at you, listening to you, cherishing you! Only with you can I speak freely, albeit hesitantly, of the things which give life meaning and are the foundations of my thoughts. I am so accustomed to silence and solitude that I hardly know how to speak any more, but what deep companionship there is in the presence of Natalis, even when she is silent, or dozing in the hammock! We are fortresses to each other, impregnable fortresses perhaps, but they open their doors a crack and allow the thoughts which inhabit them to fraternize a moment, join hands and play together. Though distant I feel you still, as I stretch out my arm I can touch you, be comforted that I have sensed your presence... I felt as though those three days would never end and that is how I lived them, like a little eternity. Last night I was rocked again by the gentle rolling of the boat ...I watched your boat leave, my friend. At seven o'clock, Philippe the pilot sent to ask whether I was sailing too. Alas no. Though I was ready to and I stepped back on land with all the melancholy of those who stay behind.
You will not read this letter with your full attention, for you will no longer be alone, in Mantes, but know at least that though you have left me, you have not entirely gone. There is a thread running between us, bringing you my thoughts every moment of the day, unless there be interruptions which I do not like to contemplate. I know you are always at the end of that line but I know too that you are not always listening.
Perhaps never, almost never, and I speak too softly and my voice does not carry above the noise outside me. At least it does not wound your ears nor revolt your nature, which you obey so deliciously. When one loves ones destiny, one is no longer its slave.
...My friend, I hope you find the Yonne as pleasant as the Seine and that you are not delayed by the delights of Mantes, for it looks as though the weather will break and if the storms start they may well last a long time. My boat! Say that again, and think of your boating companion. Your voice lingers in my ear and from time to time I really hear it. As I leave in the morning I catch sight of the Touring Club's landing stage. For the last few days it has been occupied by a little white boat, smaller than yours. The first day, from far off I had the illusion that you had returned and felt that little quickening of the heart when we think we see the one we love. It always gives a moment's pleasure (or half a second's) and proves we do indeed have a heart...
Fresh water is still my favorite element for its tranquil flow and the reflections which hide its depths.
I abandoned Le Druide, which was only hired for the summer, and was happy enough rowing on the lake in the Bois, accompanied at times by Rémy who, never very steady on his legs, would lean on my arm as we landed. We walked on, arm in arm, and he confided to me that if I had to go to the United States, as it seemed I might, he would be happy to go with me!
He was haunted by the idea of my leaving:
It was not until I arrived home that I found the news of your absence. No more Sundays, adieu my dream. But my friend, your letter was so tender and so delicate that I forgive it that little piece of bad news. Besides, we should not be causes of constraint to each other. You will go away again and, alas, I too will leave you! How good a letter is, then, for he who is far away and for he who stays behind!... You will get my letter tomorrow morning as though you were at the Rue Jacob and, if you were alone, I would hurry to meet you in Boulogne quite easily. If I sound so reassured it is because at the mention of the word "journey" I was filled with anguish, absurd I know, but nonetheless real. Like a flash of lightning the dreaded Ohio passed over me. London, what a relief!
In Souvenirs de mon commerce André Rouveyre analyses in his inimitable style Rémy de Gourmont's friendship with the Amazon; thus all that is left for me to do is to put my own adventure into perspective.
Friendship is, perhaps, an imported sentiment in which most French people have little interest. Inclined toward material and abstract pleasures they have no room for this extravagance. And even a Celt like Rémy de Gourmont might never have enjoyed such a singular sentiment had he not discovered the use of his most secret aspirations.
Devastated of flesh, in revolt against God, resisting all belief systems, he at last found in friendship, that religion of intimacy, a compromise between love and religion.
As for the letters which sprang from that friendship, they were often a reply to some question raised during our conversations, which he would develop at leisure when alone. His head bursting with ideas which he had been unable to express in my presence, no matter how habitual it became, he would go and write them down and, before he sent them to the Mercure, I would comment as I read them with him. I would read and he would watch me reading, and that was the moment of intens
ity he had been waiting for. What would I say about it, what would I not say, preoccupied him so passionately that I got the following impression: panting as he stood on the lookout for my thought, he would intercept it before it was half-formed. Thus he had the joy of seeing his privileged reader react directly to the impression he had just created... and of feeling that he was able to communicate with all his readers through me.
This is how Rémy de Gourmont recalls the first of his Lettres à l'amazone which I read in manuscript:
You know that nothing passes unnoticed before my eyes which, though they do not see very far, see extremely well close up. So you will not resent my having watched you living and breathing while you read my first Lettre à l'amazone...
...I hope the proofs of the fifth letter will arrive tomorrow. I am not very happy with them. Your opinion will be very useful. You are the only person to whom I have ever submitted if not my feelings, at least my intelligence. If! dared I would have you read everything I write...
...Precious friend, I have taken the greatest advantage of your clear thinking. I have worked on this bungled letter for most of the morning, cut out many words and added some phrases. So it will be less unworthy of you...
The feelings which developed between us, from 1910 until his death in 1915, make clear to me his touching constancy with regard to me, if not mine toward him. He wrote to me:
I no longer expected or wanted anything from life. You came and resuscitated me. I live, I loved you, I love you. I owe you that, I owe you everything, sweet friend.
Despite the most absorbing of passions, I do not believe I ever failed our friendship which continues to obsess me, as he himself recognized in the last letter he sent:
Yesterday, my friend, I was made more than ever aware of your goodness and tenderness. You wanted to console me and in place of my sadness you aroused deep joy. How many times have I repressed the impulse which propels me toward you in an unconquerable emotion! Yesterday my heart leapt out despite me and I could not resist. What a moment! I nearly fainted and, divinely wounded, I remained for a long time in a state of agitation. The strange, injurious power I have over myself suddenly abandoned me when I saw the blue eyes I so love dilate and your eyelids redden... My friend, I can scarcely think, scarce write, I would like you to read my heart, and you can read it, can you not?... I begin to recover myself again in my weakened mind. I have never been so happy, have perhaps never suffered so much from being a feeble invalid for so long and will perhaps never fully recover my strength. I need you're comfort me for that too.
Here are some flowers…
Here are some fruit...
I cannot say that. I feel as though I come to you with empty hands! What pain in the midst of joy! But there is something I can offer you, sweet friend, the love which grows each day in my heart.
—Rémy
During the summer of 1914 I was summoned to return home. My luggage had already been packed up and shipped out from Le Havre on one of the last transatlantic liners, but I could not make up my mind to follow, leave France during such an ordeal, and tear myself away from the love that was indispensable to me and from the friendship which counted on my presence.
Detained in Normandy during the autumn of 1915, I did not see Rémy critically ill, nor dying, nor on his death bed.
I did not go to his funeral, I hardly know where his grave is.
Each of us is devout in their own fashion, each of us lives with our dead and keeps them alive in ourselves.
Ceaselessly contemplating an end is a way of creating it. I did not go and gaze upon his absence through the half open door. I did not walk through the ante-room, past his book-shelves to the largest room where his table spread out beneath a latticed window. I did not muse over his reed pen, the dried ink in the hidden ink well, the letter format paper awaiting his tiny handwriting, each word neatly separated, its silhouette clearly outlined on the evenly-spaced lines and, between the lines, here and there a burn from a cigarette spark, a punctuation mark showing that his attention had been seized by some unattainable thought, or simply the rolling of another pinch of tobacco which, too thick for the skimpy paper, flared and fell.
I did not see him show me out, one last time, and stand on the landing, watching me go down the stairs. He could see no more than my hand on the bannisters, polished by much use, or my smile floating up to him through the gas lights on the spiral staircase, interminable as that of a tower. The walls slid smoothly between the floors, with no other roughness than the Gas Company boxes. When I reached the courtyard (where a rabbit grazed peacefully round the lone tree), I would give a last glance upward. He was there. Moved at feeling so discreetly observed, I would go out. I never saw his door close behind him...
Gertrude Stein*
This is a tentative approach to Gertrude Stein and to a variety of her writings as yet unpublished.
The title of this fourth volume is to be As fine as Melanchtha, which, itself is an appreciation that cannot be surpassed.
How did this title come about?
An editor asked Miss Stein to write something as fine as her story Melanchtha from Three Lives; and so she did. Did she?
I have not yet received the manuscript of the book I have been asked to preface, and because a book may not need a preface but a preface certainly needs a book, I have in the meantime been given carte blanche to write whatever I like. Therefore, leaving the future readers to their diverse impressions, I prefer to relate my personal experience and points of contact and discord with this author, whose companionship I delighted in and now cherish.
In recalling so magnetic a personality, how not, first of all, evoke this magnet to which so many adhered? For she attracted and influenced not only writers, but painters, musicians, and least but not last, disciples. She used to declare "I don't mind meeting anyone once," but she rarely kept to so strict a limitation. Although the most affirmative person I ever met, she was a keen and responsive listener.
"Life is as others spoil it for us," concluded a beautiful friend of mine who had become a derelict through her fatalism. How many spoilt lives came to Gertrude with their misfortunes, due to some inexplicable situation or sentimental rut? She, instead of offering helpless sympathy, often helped them out, by changing an idée fixe or obsession into a fresh start in a new direction.
As an appreciative pupil of William James, her study in reactions also proved salutary to the spoilers of lives. In these she sometimes detected a genius for deceit which she would aid them to confess, or she would indicate means to liberate them of their victims, since as Henry James—was it not?—wisely remarked, "There is only one thing worse than a tyrant and that is a tyrant's victim."
Even more interested in cases than in their curse, many served as characters in one of her plays and stories. Some of them may even discover themselves in this very book... that is, if they are sufficiently initiated into Miss Stein's game of blind man's buff, or blind man's bluff, in which the reader is blind-folded—obscurity being the better part of discretion as to who is who. At other times she issued works of a most penetrating and acute quality, filled with subtle analysis, like Things as they are.
Even I, who am not in the habit of consulting anybody about my dilemmas, once brought a problem of mine to the willing and experienced ear of Gertrude. In a moment, in a word, she diagnosed the complaint: "Consanguinity."
She never appeared to hesitate or reflect or take aim, but invariably hit the mark.
Our Walks
Often in the evening we would walk together; greeted at the door of 5 rue Christine by Gertrude's staunch presence, the pleasant touch of hand, the well-rounded voice always ready to chuckle. Our talks and walks led us far from war paths. For generally having no axe to grind nor anyone to execute it with, we felt detached and free to wander in our quiet old quarter where, while exercising her poodle, "Basket", we naturally fell into thought and step. Basket, unleashed, ran ahead, a white blur, the ghost of a dog in the moonlight side-s
treets:
Where ghost and shadows mingle—
As lovers, lost when single.
The night's enchantment made our conversation as light, iridescent and bouncing as soap bubbles, but as easily exploded when touched upon—so I'll touch on none of them for you, that a bubble may remain a bubble! And perhaps we never said "d'impérissable choses." (Baudelaire)
We also met during Gertrude Stein's lionized winter of 1934-35 in New York, and walked into one of its flashing, diamond sharp days, where what one touches brings sparks to the finger tips.
Witnessing with apprehension Gertrude's independent crossing of streets without a qualm, I asked her why she never wavered on the edge of curb-stones, as I did with one foot forward and one foot backward, waiting for a propitious crowd and signal.
"All these people, including the nice taxi-drivers, recognize and are careful of me." So saying, she set forth, her longish skirt flapping sail-like in a sea-breeze, and landed across 59th Street in the Park, as confidently as the Israelites over the isthmus of the Red Sea—while we, not daring to follow in her wake, risked being engulfed.
She accepted her fame as a tribute, long on the way but due, and enjoyed it thoroughly. Only once, in Paris—and indeed the last time I saw her—did the recognition of a cameraman displease her, for he waylaid her just as we were entering Rumpelmeyer's pâtisserie. In order to satisfy her need for the cake, and the photographer's wish, she was photographed by him, through the plate-glass window, eating the chosen one. Her eagerness was partly caused by a disappointing lunch we had just experienced at Prunier's, where each sort of sea-food we ordered—prompted by appetites accrued by our recent war-time privations, and still existing restrictions,—was denied us, until at last (this was in 1946), driven to despair of a better world, Gertrude dropped her head between her hands and shook it from side to side; and not until we reached that rue de Rivoli pâtisserie did her spirits and appetite revive and meet with partial compensation.
A Perilous Advantage: The Best of Natalie Clifford Barney Page 17
