Читать книгу My Memoirs - Marguerite Steinheil - Страница 8

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MY drawing-room was a room about 60 feet by 80, and 18 feet high. One entered it from the verandah by doors which, when folded back, made one room of the two. At the far end there was a monumental and ancient chimney-piece of carved wood; on either side of it were cabinets filled with cameos, rare china and silver. The furniture was chiefly Louis XV. and XVI. On the left stood an organ and various stringed instruments, and on the right a grand piano. On the walls hung huge seventeenth-century Gobelins illustrating the story of Judith, Ashuerus and Holofernes, and framed with the classic fruit-and-flower border. I need hardly say that palms and flowers were everywhere in evidence. The salon communicated with the dining-room by a wide opening, so that several hundred persons could easily be entertained.

The Parisian life, brilliant and exhausting, strenuous and artificial, was above all intoxicating, and I needed such intoxication.... The wit, the culture, the taste, the flights of fancy of so many men and women around me, their enthusiasms, their sympathy, their conversations, their qualities, and even their defects, became necessary to me.

Life could not be dull with these companions, whatever their ideas and their habits or their hobbies.

There was, for instance, old M. H., a distinguished author and a man of the world, who had lived under three kings, one Emperor, and two Republics, and whom my mother called "a living encyclopædia." He was small, a dandy, whose love of detail in attire would have excited the envy of a D'Orsay or a Brummell. He was as careful of his appearance as a professional beauty, in spite of his age. His curly white hair was extremely well kept. He wore spotless white spats all the year round, and always had a flower in his button-hole: Parma violets in winter and a pale pink carnation in summer. He had one curious mania—he visited cemeteries. We frequently went together to the Père Lachaise and to his favourite Montmartre cemetery.

"The Père Lachaise," he exclaimed, "possesses the tombs of Musset, Balzac, Chopin, La Fontaine, Bizet, of your 'friends' Cuvier and Thiers, and others, but it is too fashionable, too showy.... In Montmartre there is more intimacy: one seems to recall, to see the dear dead better. We have Mürger and Offenbach here, Renan and Gautier, Lannes—which means Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland—and Berlioz and Greuze, Madame, the exquisite Greuze who had a wretched wife, but how beautiful she was!... And they represent what is best in France, those men—heroism and wit, subtle art, deep thought and clear language, logic and method, inspiration and recklessness.... And that is typically French, Madame, or I am an old fool!"

M. H. had known intimately Victor Hugo and Berlioz, "the Victor Hugo of music." But whom had he not known, this artistic and lettered old man! He had met Madame Récamier, a year or two before her death. "She was ill, old, and wagged her head. The Vicomte de Chateaubriand—who had only a few weeks more to live—sat near her in an arm-chair, his knees wrapped in a huge rug. He talked to her about himself. That was ever his favourite topic of conversation. He was, at the same time, wearied of everything and almost of himself. Madame Récamier was still good to look upon and had a noble bearing. The oval of her face was pure and her shoulders had retained their beautiful curve. I was twenty then; she was seventy and nearly blind, and although she spoke very little, I could have loved to spend long hours in the company of this woman who had once held the sceptre of perfect loveliness."

As a child, he had witnessed the first performance of Victor Hugo's Hernani. "We were all frantic.... Mlle. Mars took the part of Doña Sol. I have seen scores of actresses in the rôle since, but none, save Sarah Bernhardt, ever equalled Mlle. Mars in that romantic part...." Old M.H. had been on the best of terms with Mlle. Rachel. "It was a delirious and ... expensive friendship," he explained. "Rachel loved love, and loved gold."

There had been many strange romances in M.H.'s adventurous career, but he had remained an optimist and fondly hugged all his memories; and as he sometimes put it, in his flowery language, after a good dinner: "I have gathered as many roses as possible, Madame, in the gardens of Cypris."

There was the Comte de B. who, like M.H., loved life, but thought that France had lost the secret of the art of living. He had been young in the days of Napoleon the Third and was never tired of describing the dazzling days of the Second Empire. He had known them all: the Duke de Morny, the Duchess de Talleyrand, the Princesse de Metternich, Lafitte the banker, Marie Sasse the opera singer, D'Orsay the dandy, La Païva and other ladies fair and frail. He described fantastic parties, games at lansquenet when fortunes were made, and lost, the expedition to Rome, the Italian campaign, the war in Mexico; and he would rhapsodise delightfully on the beauty of the Empress Eugénie, the fascinations of her Court, and the unparalleled festivities at Saint Cloud and at the "Château," as the Tuileries were then called.

Among the people I received there were frivolous and worthless men who were at the same time witty, refined, and highly cultivated. Paris is the home of paradox. There were, for instance, M.X., an apparently sedate and worthy Minister of State, not without ability, who did not hesitate to disguise himself, even donning wigs and false moustaches, on his nocturnal expeditions to cheap haunts of so-called pleasure; M.T., a famous banker, who had his house so built that he could entertain fifty friends to a bacchanalian orgy without his wife knowing, although she was only on the other side of the wall.

There were women who were fascinating without being either beautiful or clever, and able women whose superior nature, talent, or even genius, it took weeks to realise.

Of the men, some cared only for costly things and extravagant pleasures; others, of a keener sensibility, saw deeper into life, but they too often spoke too little. And now and again there would come to the house a prophet, a self-styled magician, or a real intellectual giant.

Among the hosts of women I knew, there were many whose sole ambition seemed to be of becoming a queen of colifichets, as though their ideal model was Pauline Borghese. I knew two ladies, for instance, one the elderly wife of an eminent magistrate, and the other a wealthy society belle, who spent at least ten out of the fourteen hours during which they were awake in enhancing their beauty... and yet both were indeed beautiful!

A remarkable number of those who came to my house unburdened their hearts to me, whether I wished it or not. I heard dreadful secrets from excited ladies, and also confessions that were merely laughable, although the fair sinners thought otherwise, and seemed to enjoy the artificial atmosphere of danger, adventure, and terror into which they thought they had plunged with sublime recklessness, in order to satisfy their craving for new sensations.

A man of fifty, otherwise sane, clever, and reasonable, once spent three months in besieging my drawing-room, in the hope of finding me alone. At length he asked me, with the greatest secrecy... what he should do in order to become a member of the Cercle de l'Union, the aristocratic club which in former days had been adorned by the presence of the great Talleyrand. I confessed to him in the same trusted and secret tones that I did not move in exalted and exclusive circles! He had no sense of humour, at the time, and proceeded to ask me whether I thought he had any chances of being made a member of the "Jockey." And he kindly informed me that de Morny, Napoleon III.'s "right-hand" man, had belonged to that club.... He left my drawing-room in despair, and a few weeks later, I heard he had become a member of the Nouveau Cercle, the favourite haunt of the jeunesse dorée, and of the Automobile Club de France. Perhaps he thought that two accessible clubs were as good as one exclusive club.

Many foreigners came to the Impasse Ronsin, but I found that the French had the most enthusiasm, spontaneity and originality of thought. My friends said what they meant and meant what they said, and what is more, they had ideas and knew how to think things out and express themselves. I encouraged the explorer to speak of his travels, the officer of the army or of his men, the artist of art, the lawyer to talk of interesting cases, the scientist to describe his latest researches or discoveries.

A white-haired English lady once explained to me, somewhat severely, the meaning of "talking shop." She was bewildered when I ventured to remark that I liked people to talk about what they knew and to keep as much as possible from generalities and commonplace topics. A young attaché of the British Embassy who had introduced the lady to me remarked: "You would hold other views if you lived in England, Madame. The atmosphere there is so different." Just to tease him, and in order to change the conversation, I begged him to give me a definition of that handy expression, "atmosphere." He remained silent, and I thought he acknowledged his defeat. But he cleverly proved to me that I was mistaken and that Englishmen do not give in so readily. While his lady-friend and I were examining some Bartolozzi prints, he glanced at the contents of my music cabinet, found an album of songs which had been sent to me by a friend in London and begged me to play one of them, which he chose himself.

He asked with such charming insistence that I gladly consented to play while he hummed the words. When it was over, he quietly said: "There is a great deal of the atmosphere of England in that song, Madame. You see it often takes a poet and a musician to give certain definitions...."

There came to my house unknown geniuses and famous mediocrities, and I gently urged the former to make use of the latter; there came people who were aggressively biassed and prejudiced, and I gently waged war on them, declaring that impartiality was blindness or weakness, or both; and to those who were hopelessly impartial, I hinted discreetly that a person who has no opinion must lead a very tedious existence.

Among the men and women who visited my villa, there were, inevitably, a few persons who were a trifle fèlé ("cracked"). I have known three young men who wished to create a new religion, and a professor of chemistry who said he would found the United States of Europe "within ten years." That was fifteen years ago. I met a man who had made a vast fortune in the manufacture of combs, and whose palatial country-house was daintily called "Peignefin," in one word (a small-toothed comb). He looked very thoughtful one day, and I asked what ailed him. His reply was superb: "Madame, I have just made up my mind to spend the rest of my life, and my fortune, in searching for the Absolute."

I knew a sportsman who, having been crossed in love, devoted his life to the study of certain minerals, and a gentleman, otherwise sane, who decorated his house from roof to cellar, with the shells of the oysters he had eaten and the corks of the champagne bottles he had emptied, after having scrupulously inscribed on these gastronomic mementoes the dates of the merry feasts they recalled to him!

Three men stand out from this mixed crowd of acquaintances as my faithful and trusted friends—three men wonderfully gifted and yet wonderfully modest, three men with golden hearts and lofty minds: Bonnat, the painter; Massenet, the composer; and Coppée, the poet.

I knew Bonnat for nearly twenty years. He used to sign his letters to me "your old and devoted grand-father," or, more briefly, "Your... Methuselah." The great painter to whom the world owes amongst other masterpieces a powerful "Saint Vincent de Paul," and those gems of psychology, the "Portrait of Renan," and the "Portrait of My Mother," loved classic music, and what is better, understood it. During the twenty years of our friendship only a few times did he fail to attend the concerts given at my house. Like my father he had a special weakness for classic music, and I believe he would have loved to listen to Beethoven's Septett every day of his life. It was M. B., the Attorney-General, who first introduced him to me. I called on M. Bonnat at his house, which had been built by Bernier, the architect of the Opera Comique. On the ground floor were the apartments of his sister and his mother. A monumental staircase decorated with frescoes painted by Puvis de Chavannes led to the artist's rooms, and above, to the studio crowded with old carved wood, magnificent bronzes by Barye, and a number of fine paintings—including one by his beloved Botticelli—on the walls.

Bonnat—above all a portrait painter—had a curious way of working. He hardly worked at his model—directly. He preferred to watch him, or her, in a round hand-mirror which he held in his left hand—the hand which also held the palette. At the back of the studio stood a small cheval-glass, placed in such a position that it reflected the portrait. He watched both images, and... worked. Another curious method of his was to turn the canvas when he retouched this or that detail.

Bonnat worked in silence. He did not think it necessary to make his model talk so as to get at his, or her, "psychology," but was satisfied with painting what he saw. In this, he reminded me of Rodin, the greatest sculptor since Michel-Angelo, whom I once heard say: "The artist cannot improve upon nature, and Life is Beauty."

Bonnat, energetic and wiry, believed in work, work, work—which, by the way, is also Rodin's motto—and achieved wonderful portraits, although I am aware that the pointillists, the cubists, the post-impressionists, and the post-post-impressionists hold other views!

He had "his" arm-chair in my drawing-room, and would sit there for hours, listening to the music or watching my guests, and rarely opening his lips. He was fond of Marthe, always had his pockets full of "surprises" for her, and often took her to his studio, where she loved to gaze at his beautiful collection of butterflies, with which she held long, mysterious conversations.

BONNAT, BY HIMSELF "Your Old, Devoted 'Grand-Father'"

One day, when I came to sit for my portrait, Marthe, who had taken a long walk with me in the Bois, and whose cheeks, rosy from the outside air, threw into relief her dark brown eyes, sat down on the blue satin gown which I wore in the picture, and which my maid had just brought. Bonnat saw Marthe, and said to her, "Don't move, little one, I must paint you just as you are." In a few seconds, there was a canvas on his easel, his hand held the usual mirror, and—he was at work. In less than an hour, he had painted Marthe, and the likeness was so perfect and speaking, that I cried: "Stop! Don't touch your work. Don't alter or add anything! Not a stroke more!"

Alas, Bonnat persisted in perfecting his work. Then he found that the canvas was not large enough.... Marthe was "cut" across the middle of her skirt.... There was too much "air" above the head, and too little at the sides.... He would have the canvas enlarged.

But when it was returned to him, he did not like the seams, and precipitately painted out the picture.

I came with my mother and Marthe to see my child's masterful portrait and to sit for mine. When we found that the picture had been destroyed, my mother cried with rage; I shed tears of disappointment. And when I told my old friend that he might have kept the bust only, and cut the picture in a suitable oval, he was as sorry as we all were. That day I had not the heart to sit, nor did Bonnat have the heart to paint!

I spent many delightful hours in that studio. Bonnat asked me to decorate and arrange it to my taste, for he knew full well the intense joy I had in handling beautiful or rare things, and how keen was my love of proportion, harmony, and colour-schemes....

The painter, who was my husband's friend as well as mine, was one of the few men aware that we were not as happy as we appeared or pretended to be. He knew that often in Society, masks, more or less transparent, are worn by husbands and wives, and he did his best to give us those joys and interests which add so much to life, especially when the mainspring is broken and the machine has to be kept going as best it can.

Bonnat was kind to all, especially to poor artists. I once spoke to him about a young and unsuccessful painter who believed in his genius and, what is worse, had made another share his delusions; a poor little girl to whom he gave his unknown name and who gave him her love and—several children. I did my utmost to relieve their misery, and then wrote and asked Bonnat to examine the young man's work.

I went to the studio in the Rue Bassano shortly afterwards.

"Well, what is it like?" I asked.

"Nothing in it so far," Bonnat replied. "Why on earth does the fellow paint? The only way of saving him is to make him give up Art and adopt some other profession. Will you send him to me one of these days?"

"He's downstairs, waiting...." And I ran away before my old friend could exclaim his usual "Just like you!"

Bonnat questioned the young painter about his parents and heard that they were farmers. In his entertaining way he spoke of Nature, country-life, the simple life.... "And do you really think," he exclaimed in conclusion, "that if it were not for the Institute, the Council of the Légion d'Honneur, the Ecole des Beaux Arts, of which I am the director, and a score of other Societies and Committees to which I belong, I would remain here one single hour longer. No, sir! And you should consider yourself as a lucky dog. If I were free, as you are, I would go and live in my dear Saint-Jean-de-Luz, near the sea and near the Pyrenees, and breathe, and work.... As for painting, it is a wonderful thing, fascinating, ideal, sublime and all that, and I am rather fond of it myself, but there's no living in it unless you made a name for yourself forty years ago, as I did, for people liked good and beautiful things in those days, and paid for them.... If I were you, I'd paint what I pleased—in my leisure, and adopt some simple profession to earn my living. Ask your father to let you help him on his farm, and if you send me a picture every year and it's good enough, I'll try to get it accepted at the Salon.... By the way, do you care for a good cigar?"

"Rather," said the young painter, who although born in the country had spent several years in Montmartre.

"Well, then, my lad, take this box with you." And Bonnat dismissed him in the blunt manner which he assumed whenever he did a good action.

I saw the young man a few days later, before his departure for the country, where he was to become a prosperous farmer, though he never gave up painting, and he told me, with big tears in his eyes, that he had found in the box, besides the cigars, ten hundred-franc notes, and Bonnat's card with these words, "Good Luck."

"How shall I thank M. Bonnat," he kept repeating, after I had filled him with tea and cakes so that he might recover.

"I'll tell you," I replied. "By, not thanking him at all. He loathes gratitude."

Massenet, the composer of Manon, Thaïs, Sapho, Werther, and so many other delightful operas, did me, for many years, the great honour of calling himself my "respectful, obedient, and faithful accompanist." I always found him whimsical, enthusiastic, mischievous, and fond of jokes. As he entered my salon, at some crowded reception, he would wave aside the valet about to announce his name, and shout in a stentorian voice: "Massenet!"... Once, he added, "Grand officer of the legion of honour, author of a score of operas, member of several academies!" And as soon as he had greeted me and shaken hands with a few friends, he started his favourite sport: pun-making. He had a knack of ending the most serious arguments, even about music, with a bon mot, and I sincerely believe that he enjoyed the successes of his witticisms quite as much as the success of his operas. He said himself: "I am a composer, that's true and I can't help it, but at the same time I love fun and youth, and boys of sixty are incorrigible."

Once, some foreigners called on me, and Massenet begged me to mumble his name when I should introduce him. A little later, he was talking music to the newcomers, and in time mentioned Massenet, whose music he lightly disparaged, with the result that they agreed with him, as he seemed to know all about music, and even went further and declared Massenet's music quite unbearable. Thereupon the composer sat at the piano and played some of his own music as he alone could play it, and Massenet's critics went into ecstasies. "Ah, that's what one may call real music," they said. "Who wrote it?"

"A friend of mine," Massenet replied airily, and he played again, saying when he had concluded, "That was my own."

"It's perfectly sweet. You ought to have your music printed."

"I occasionally do."

"Really! Would you mind repeating your name, we didn't quite catch it!"

"Massenet," and with infinite good grace the composer handed his card, and left the room in order to have his laugh outside.

His letters were most amusing. They were interspersed with bars of music and "sketches" to emphasise or illustrate his meaning. And they invariably contained some welcome remark about his work: "I have just left the Opera Comique. I am quite done up, but the interpretation at this rehearsal was splendid; singers, orchestra, everything. And Calvé! She's divine.... Ah! The fourth act, you will see what she makes of it!..." But long before his letters reached me, Massenet came himself, although "done up," and played to me that fourth act, and made me sing it... under the eyes of my mother and of Marthe, wrapped in ecstasy! Massenet worshipped my daughter and always perched the darling on the top of the piano, where he played.

In order that Marthe might accompany me, he had the charming idea of composing a few songs for me, the accompaniments of which were very simple and easy and without octaves, which were as yet beyond her reach. On the day when she played the first of these "Do not give thy heart," Massenet indulged in an orgy of puns and jokes, which was a sign of perfect contentment.

François Coppée, an old comrade of my husband's and one of my "faithful," as he called himself, lived close to us and often came in to have a chat, to look at the flowers in my "winter garden" or to listen to music.

One day, when Reyer, the composer of Sigurd was present, he remarked that music was not only the most sociological and popular of arts, it was also the easiest. "I could not play a chord, but I feel sure that it is easier to express one's self in music than in written words...."

Reyer decreed: "It is quite as difficult to frame a melody as to frame a sonnet." But Coppée refused to believe it, and going to the piano, he struck a note mightily. "That's a war-cry," he exclaimed; then touched the same note gently, "And that's melancholy," and playing it once more as softly as possible, "And that's reverie: Music is above all wonderful because it is so simple!" It was a mere sally on his part, and Reyer laughed heartily.

Coppée was kind, tender-hearted, and sociable, the very type of the popular and sentimental Parnassien. He spoke in an artless manner, as much like a Christian as a poet, and the modesty of this Academicien, this "immortal" loaded with honours, was delightful.

He found me one evening reading some verses of Heredia. "You are unfaithful to me, dear friend," he said.

"I like all good poets," I replied, "and this one opens wide horizons to me. He seems very far...."

"You are right. I merely try to see what is near me," said Coppée with a smile.

Little Marthe was very proud of the poet, but this did not prevent her from making use of him. She made him gather shells for her, one summer, on a small beach in Normandy, and told him to store them in his large felt hat. It was there that he once took us to a huge rock in a secret hole of which he showed me a large box of cigarettes.

"The doctor strictly forbids me to smoke," he explained, "and my sister (Coppée was a bachelor and lived with his sister, who was the most devoted person one could well conceive) sees to it that the doctor's instructions are carried out. Therefore, I come here secretly to smoke. Life without tobacco, you know...." Then taking me to the other side of the rock, he pointed to the sand which was strewn with hundreds of cigarette ends, and cheerfully exclaimed: "What a cemetery!"

Marthe, who was then seven years old, had often heard that Coppée was a great man, and that all which came from a great man was worth keeping. While we walked on, Coppée and I, she gathered all the cigarette ends, hid them, and the next day, put them in a box which she would not let out of her hands. Coppée, later on questioned her about the precious contents of the box.... He believed, as I did, that it contained sea-shells, and he was very much tickled when she opened the box, and in her little fluty voice, declared: "I too want to have a keepsake from you, and I have it!"

In Paris I often saw Coppée as I passed by the Café des Vosges, his favourite haunt, a few hundred yards away from the Impasse Ronsin. He saluted me, quickly paid the waiter, overtook me, and together we walked to my house, talking of books.

He himself organised a performance at my villa of his Passant, the charming one-act play which had made him famous when he was twenty-seven, and still a clerk in the Ministry of War.

During the Dreyfus affair, in which he took a leading part as one of the founders of the Patrie Française League, I saw him less and less. Meeting him one morning in the gardens of the Luxembourg, I asked him why he neglected me.

"Ah! my friend," he said hesitatingly, "I'd love to call on you as in the past, but the trouble is there are too many Dreyfusards in your salon!"

By an amusing coincidence, Zola called that very day, but he only remained a little while.

"To my great regret, I must go, Madame." And he added in a low, confidential voice: "The fact is there are too many Anti-Dreyfusards here."

The author of the Roujon-Macquarts was manly and brave besides being an able if unsympathetic novelist, but he had, to my knowledge, one little failing: he disliked talent in others, and one weakness: he was a gourmet. Therefore on the two or three occasions when he dined with us, I arranged a menu which Brillat Savarin would have endorsed and took care not to invite any other writer.

Zola lacked in conversation what he lacked in his writing: delicacy, refinement, lightness. He was heavy, ponderous and rather aggressive.

I teased him one day: "How is the chase after human documents going on?" I asked.

"Quite well, Madame. I hunt my quarry everywhere, and all day long. Human documents, slices of life, searching character-studies, that is all there is in literature."

"But what of the writer's personality? Is that of no account whatever?"

"It shouldn't be. I try to eliminate my personality from my books...."

"And don't you succeed?" I asked.

"I have the misfortune of being possessed of a temperament which I cannot altogether get rid of, alas!" came the pompous reply.

Another time, after re-reading "La Terre," I told him "You are a pessimist, M. Zola! You see only one side of life, the ugly and animal side; and but one kind of people... the bad kind. And to cap it all, you exaggerate. You believe yourself a 'realist,' but as a matter of fact, you are an idealist... with an ugly ideal!"

It was very evident that Zola was not pleased. Without relenting, however, I went on: "I have lived in the country for many, many years. I assure you that our peasants round Beaucourt and Belfort bear very little likeness to the brutes you describe. I have loved the peasants...."

"And I, Madame," Zola retorted severely, "I have observed them."

That night, after my guest's departure, I did not go on with "La Terre," but refreshed my mind by reading, for the twentieth time, "Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard" and felt extremely thankful to Anatole France.

I remember an Argentine mine-owner whose ambition was to meet celebrities. He saw Zola and said to me: "What! Is this the man who wrote 'L'Assommoir,' 'Nana,' 'Germinal' ... this little insignificant person! I had fancied him looking somewhat like Beethoven, clean-shaven, with a powerful face, a tremendous brow, glowing eyes and a mane...."

Zola overheard the remark and smiled. He rightly appreciated that kind of indirect compliment.

I happened to meet Zola on a day following one of his defeats at the election of the French Academy. A young man, pallid and very nervous but full of good intentions, said to the great writer as if to console him: "Maître, what does it matter?... After all, not even Pascal or Molière or Balzac was made a member of the Academy."

Zola did not reply, but a little later, when cups of tea and "petits-fours" were being handed round, he began to describe the Morgue in an even more realistic and harrowing manner than in "Thérèse Raquin"!... And as he spoke, his eyes were riveted on the tactless young man, who turned livid and trembled.

Had Zola taken into account the importance of political influence in the Academical elections—as in everything else in France—he would probably have become an "Immortal." At any rate, few writers were even more worthy of a seat under the Coupole.

I spent pleasant hours at the Institute. I was present at the receptions of Anatole France who obtained the seat of M. de Lesseps and of Edmond Rostand, by M. de Voguë, and at a few more of these ceremonies which play such an important part in the literary and social life of Paris. I have always felt a deep sympathy with the récipiendaires, whatever their degree of literary merit. For even though a man may have written books which the world will hasten to forget, that is no reason why he should be compelled to listen in public, and for an hour, to a colleague's eulogies. What an ordeal and excessive cruelty when the récipiendaire happens really to deserve the panegyric!... It is positively painful to the least sensitive onlooker. The ladies, however, suffer the least, for their attention is naturally divided between the speeches and the display of new frocks and hats... an Academical Reception having long been a recognised occasion for the exhibition of the "latest creations."

Pierre Loti once described to me the mixed feelings of a récipiendaire in a way that would have made any nervous writer almost tremble at the thought that the Academy might some day elect him against his will.

Our conversation took place at the wedding of one of my cousins, the bridegroom being a relation of Loti's. The melancholy author of so many evocations, of so many exotic idyls, spoke well, but in a hollow, monotonous voice.

A concert was given after the wedding and a Breton sang several of his pieces: sailor-songs, excessively strong and free.

Loti, the naval officer, and Loti, the author of "Pêcheurs d'Islande," was carried away, and turning to me, he said: "Isn't my friend wonderful! As you listen to him, you can see the swelling ocean, you can feel the sea-breeze in your face...."

"Yes, and you can even taste the brine, smell the musty fish and... feel sea-sick!" I added, for some of the details in the song really gave one qualms.

Loti was not pleased, and to make amends I spoke about those books of his which I preferred, the "Roman d'un Spahi," "Mon Frère Yves," and "Propos d'Exil." And, as we talked, we travelled together to the Far East, and landed on an island in the South Seas, whereupon, using that gift that perhaps he alone among living men possesses, he began to describe the music and colour and even the fragrance of tropical nature with such magical power and subtlety that my senses were dazzled and bewitched....