FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

759.092 G35f
Georges-Michel $4.00
From Renoir to Picasso.

57-07582

759.092 G35f 57-6750^
Georges-Michel $4.00 ^
From Renoir to Picasso.

7

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PUBLIC LIBRARY

UA i c. DUt

1 77

-f:

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

The Author by Picasso

FROM RENOIR
TO PICASSO

Artists in Action

by
MICHEL GEORGES-MICHEL

With fifty illustrations
by or of those artists

TRANSLATED BY
DOROTHY AND RANDOLPH WEAVER

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON

W$t &iberdifee $re* Cambridge

1957

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION 1957

COPYRIGHT 1954 BY F. BROUTY, J. FAYARD ET C IE .
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE

THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 57-9025

FIRST PRINTING

CAMBRIDGE MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

CONTENTS

Foreword 9

FROM MONSIEUR DE GAS TO COUNT TOULOUSE-LAUTREC 1 1

Degas Lautrec

FROM MONET'S RAINBOW PALETTE TO RENOIR'S ROSY FLESH-

TINTS 19

Claude Monet Renoir

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 30

Matisse Renault Thirteen, Rue Bonaparte: Segonzac
Derain Vlaminck Robert Delaunay Othon Friesz
Raoul Duty Van Dongen Marie Laurencin Marval
Henri Rousseau Courteline's Douanier Rousseau Pictures

THE Six SIDES OF THE CUBE 76

Picasso Georges Braque Juan Gris Hayden and Mar-
coussis Leger Ozenfant Gromaire Jacques Villon A
Lesson by Andre Lhote

FROM THE SNOWS OF Moscow TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS OF

THE RUSSIAN BALLET 114

Bakst Jusseaume J.-M. Sert Nathalie Gontcharova

THE REALITY OF THE UNREALISTS 127

Chagall Giorgio de Chirico

THE UNREALITY OF THE SURREALISTS 137

Max Ernst Kurt Seligman Miro Tanguy Dali From
New York's Bohemia to that of Saint- Germain-des-Pres

IN THE TEEMING JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 142

Modigliani Chaim Soutine Kremegne Zarraga Molse
Kisling Fujita Man Ray

THE PAST OF THE FUTURISTS 172

Severini Balla Depero Marinetti

6 CONTENTS

THE PlCARESQUES I?4

Picabia James Ensor Henry de Groux Tolentino

IN THE WORLD OF THE SOCIETY PAINTERS 215

La Gandara Sem Boldini Jean-Gabriel Domergue
Albert Besnard Carolus Duran Harpignies Paul Chabas
Werboff Jan Styka

LITHOGRAPHERS AND ENGRAVERS 241

Vertes Touchagues

IN THE SHADOW OF UTRILLO'S TRAGIC DRUNKENNESS 248
Two METHODS IN OILS 258

Goerg Yves Brayer

THE SALAD GENERATION 264

Bernard Buffet

THE SCULPTORS 267

Rodin Bourdelle Bartholome, The Victim of Bartholome
Maillol's Last "Work" Archipenko Laurens Zadkine
Matteo Hernandez Despiau Lipschitz

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I wish to thank Messrs, Albin Michel and Brentano
(under the direction of Robert Tenger) for their
courtesy in allowing me to reproduce in an expanded
form several passages from previous books in order that
the present work should be more complete.

FOREWORD

IT has not been my intention in these pages to write either a book
of art criticism or a series of biographical sketches. My aim has
been simply to record some of the conversations I have had over
the last fifty years with a great many artists at different periods of
their lives. Most of them were good enough to give me an idea
of theii views and theories on art in general, and at the same time
to explain to me some of the details of their respective techniques.
It is my hope, therefore, that this book may serve as a kind of
History of Contemporary Painting, and indicate the various trends
and movements which have so violently affected it from time to
time.

I have purposely dwelt to some extent on the picturesque side
of the lives of certain painters, and have included any feature which
I thought might help to recapture the atmosphere of their environ
ment and time. By allowing them to express, in their own words,
their doubts and aspirations, their minds and characters, one can
often convey something of the essence of their work.

If some readers accuse me of having given too much space to
anecdotes, I must reply that I have, after all, only written about
what I have personally seen and heard. Though an anecdote may
be objectionable in a painting when it takes precedence over the
painting itself, it can, nevertheless, be of value in writing. In fact,
a well-chosen anecdote, or even an epigram, will sometimes give
better insight into the mentality of a human being than a dozen
chapters of psychological analysis.

If these few lines, then, should amuse, interest and instruct
the reader, I shall feel that I have accomplished my purpose and
I shall rest content.

M. G.-M.

From Monsieur de Gas
to Count Toulouse-Lautrec

DEGAS

1 WAS NOT yet twenty when I went to call on Monsieur Degas.
"He may eat you alive," I had been warned. But he received me
cordially enough in his studio in the rue Victor-Masse. His famoys
servant Zoe had let me in because of my youthful appearance.

"What can I do for you?" Degas inquired.

I swallowed hard; for this was Degas, whom even the boldest
never dared to address as anything but "Monsieur de Gas"; 1 the
impeccable draughtsman, who, though a disciple of Ingres, had
supported the realist movement by his paintings of ethereal little
ballet girls, and raged whenever he was classed with the Impres
sionists, as Petit Larousse has him listed even today! True, he had
given the Impressionists the support of his great authority at the
time of their first exhibitions in 1874 an( i '75> at Durand-Ruel's,
for he realised their importance and, besides, Monet had sponsored
them. But after that Degas had retired to his studio, which, in his
opinion, was the only place for a painter to do his painting. ... I
remembered his biting mots and devastating quips, which were
the talk of Paris.

1 Degas' family name. He was the first to call himself Degas. [Trans
lator's note.}

12 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"What do you want?" he asked me again.

"To see you/' I mumbled.

"Oh? Some people come to see my painting; but you come to
see me. Who sent you?"

"No one. I "

He doubtless forgave me on account of my youth, for he said
quite gently :

"Well, sit down."

He began to hunt around among his portfolios, glancing at me
over his shoulder as he did so. Finally, he said:

"Well, now youVe seen me. Are you a painter?"

"No Yes No "

"Ah. You're afraid to admit it?"

"I like painting too much to try to paint."

"So. You love God too much to go to church "

"I go to art galleries."

"Well, if you go to church, you ought to pray. If you go to art
galleries, then you ought to paint. In fact, at your age, that is the
only place where you should do your painting."

I did not have occasion to see him again till some time after
wards. It was when I went to the exhibition of Claude Monet's
Water-lilies^ which today line the walls of the Orangerie. I was
with Henri Bernstein, and, just as we were entering, we ran into
Degas, wearing his "Kronstadt" hat and flowing cape, as he has so
often been depicted.

"Well, well!" Bernstein said to him. "I thought you had quar
relled with Monet and all the other Impressionists."

"Nonsense," replied Degas. "I wanted to see these Water-lilies
he's been working on for so many years. Everyone's been telling
me about them."

"And how do you like them?"

"Well, as I said to him, 'Your little cups of camomile aren't so
bad'."

"Indeed? But that certainly can't have brought about a recon
ciliation!"

"Bah! I made it up with him just to have the chance of saying
that."

FROM DE GAS TO TOULOUSE-LAUTREC 13

LAUTREC

One afternoon in the spring of 1901 I was standing near the
entrance of OUendorf 's bookshop when I heard the girl at the
cash desk exclaim:

"Oh, look! Here come the three beavers !"

The girl, who was young and pretty, looked very much like a
Lautrec drawing herself, with her coils of hair piled up on her
forehead, her waist pinched in by her corsets, her skirt swaying
about her hips, and her high-buttoned bootees reaching half-way
up her calves.

I glanced towards the door and saw the three "beavers" coming
in, looking like actors out of an Offenbach comedy. The one on
the left was Thadee Natanson, editor of the Revue Blanche and
founder of the Cri de Paris:, on the right was Tristan Bernard,
whose beard was still black at that time; while in the middle, his
top-hat barely level with their shoulders, was a sort of dwarf with
short twisted legs, a long straight body, and massive arms which
ended in enormous hands with well-trimmed nails. From the

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

high, stiff collar at the top of the body emerged an incredible
head. The slightly protruding eyes, which were very gentle in
their expression, gazed out through pince-nez perched on a long
red nose; and the lips were two folds of purple flesh in a dark circle
of beard.

But no one thought of laughing at the dwarf; first, because his
two companions showed him such marked respect, and secondly,
because, although he was deformed, his whole being radiated a
sense of purpose and a natural distinction which was entirely de
void of affectation.

I don't know why his extremely dignified bearing reminded me
of Verlaine, whom one of our professors had taken us to see at the
Cafe du Rocher. The recollection I have of Verlaine is not the one
ascribed to him by legend, but of a figure sitting up very straight
in front of the paper he was reading. I have no idea what he was
drinking. But I recall my surprise, when an acquaintance went up
to speak to him, at the distant way in which the poet greeted him
with the back of his hand, as if to wave him away.

I was well acquainted with two of Lautrec's "models". La
Goulue and Yvette Guilbert, of whom I have written at some
length in another book. ] Neither of them was in the least aware of
the tremendous talent of the man who was painting them, nor had
they any notion of the fame that would one day be his. Yvette
Guilbert, for instance, once sent back to Lautrec one of the por
traits he had done of her, with these words scribbled across it:
"You little monster, you have made me out a perfect horror!" It
is true that at a later date Yvette confessed to me that she had re
fused to pose for Burne- Jones, the painter. "I've enough portraits
of the kind you turn out as it is'," she had informed him.

As for La Goulue, I sometimes went to see the famous music-
hall artist in her circus caravan, for in her later years she became a
lion-tamer.

One day she said to me :

"By the way, my lad, you haven't got eight hundred francs,
have you? Even five or six hundred would do. I've got to pay for
my lions' keep, and I'd be glad if you'd take off my hands those
rolls of canvas I've had lying about here for so long."

The "rolls of canvas" were none other than Lautrec's Moulin
1 Cinquante ans de Glair es Thedtrales (fidition A. Bonne).

FROM DE GAS TO TOULOUSE-LAUTREC 15

Rouge, with the portraits of Valentin-le-desosse (Valentin, the
Boneless Wonder), Feneon, Oscar Wilde and Tapie de Celeyran.

Before 19 14, eight hundred francs, or even five hundred, repre
sented quite a sum for a young man of my age. I went back to the
office of Gil Blas y the paper I was working for at that time, and told
them about my interview. I was always listened to seriously when
I talked to my colleagues about painters, not because I happened to
know many artists personally, but because of an incident that had
once occurred on my return from a visit to Rodin: on that occasion,
the whole staff had thrown themselves on me and tried to snatch
away the handful of drawings the sculptor had tucked under my
arm as I was leaving.

In the editorial room there was a young man who had been
listening to my story. Without saying a word he slipped away, ran
downstairs, went into a jewellers' which was in the same building,
and bought himself a watch on credit. (I don't know if he ever
paid for it; but he married the jeweller's sister.) I have often
wondered whether he pawned or sold the watch. In any event, the
fact remains that he had enough money to go that very day and
buy La Goulue's "rolls of canvas", which he then sold to Messrs.
Barbazanges and Hodebert, who cut them up into eight pieces, not
counting some "scraps". (In spite of all that wealth of canvas
there were no collectors of Lautrec's work in those days !)

At a later date it was possible to put the pieces together without
too much difficulty. And the two canvases now hang in the
Louvre Annexe, in the Jeu de Paume building. Thanks to Paul
Boncourt, Robert Rey and Fran?ois-Poncet, the French Govern
ment was induced to buy them from M. Hugues Simon, in 1929,
for the sum of four hundred thousand francs. Hugues Simon and
Georges Bernheim, each of whom owned them for a time, had both
refused three million francs which Germany offered for them.

The painter Heuze once told me a rather touching anecdote
about Lautrec.

He happened to be sitting alone one night in a Montmartre cafe,
when a poor old flower-woman came up to him to offer her wares.
The artist refused politely, whereupon the woman said:

"You don't drive me away brutally the way the others do. And

16 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

you call me 'Madame'. You must be a real gentleman, a great
gentleman, or else a great artist, because they are the only ones
who are polite to poor people: I once knew a great artist. I even
posed for him. You may have heard of him?"

The painter in question was Manet, and the old woman herself
was Victorine Meurant, who had posed for Manet's Fife-player
and Olympia . . .

Remain Coolus, another of Toulouse-Lautrec's friends, often
used to talk to me about the artist and, if I repeat some of his
anecdotes here, it is only because, so far as I know, they have never
appeared in print before. Moreover, they may add to our know
ledge of the character of that very great little man.

It was only a short time before Coolus's death. I chanced to be
visiting an exhibition of Lautrec's work, admirably organised by
Julien and Michel Florisoone, and I was looking at a portrait, done
in pink-and-blue hatchings, of a man with a vivid complexion and
piercing, ironic eyes, when I heard someone behind me say:
"I've changed a bit since then, haven't I?"
I turned round. It was Coolus himself, his moustache bristling
despite his eighty-two years, his sardonic and humorous mouth
twisted into the sort of grin which had once caused Tristan Bernard
to remark: "Coolus is the only man who can kiss a woman on the
mouth and murmur sweet nothings into her ear at the same time."
"That portrait was painted in 1898," Coolus told me. "Lautrec
had already done several sketches of me, one of which was repro
duced on the programme of the Comedie Parisienne afterwards
the Atheneewhen I put on the five-act play Raphael there at the
same time that Oscar Wilde was putting on his Salomt. I had met
Lautrec at the Natansons 5 Revue Blanche, and I met him again at
Thadee's house at Villeneuve-sur-Yonne. One morning, while
we were staying there, the painter knocked at my door, and
said:

" 'Come on downstairs. I want to do an El Greco portrait of
you.' "

(It turned out to be more like a Van Gogh in pastel, with hatch
ings like the Japanese prints which had influenced the Dutch
painter.)

FROM DE GAS TO TOULOUSE-LAUTREC 17

"It took him two morning sittings. What a delightful man he
was; so appreciative of any courtesy and sensitive to the slightest
rebuff. He suffered terribly because of his ugliness, his deformed
legs and his moist, protruding lips.

"But he was kindness itself. He always remained the artist and
the distinguished gentleman, especially in those 'houses' where he
painted and where I lived with him. The inmates all adored
him."

"Did he really live in those 'houses'?"

"No. He had a large studio in the rue de Tourlaque, where he
kept open house. He knew all about making cocktails long before
the Americans did. Ah, those cocktails of Lautrec's ! I remember
one wild party at the Natansons' when he got even Vuillard and
Bonnard drunk. The adjoining room had been transformed into
a hospital, where we were looked after by his cousin, Dr. Tapie de
Celeyran, the assistant of the noted surgeon, Dr. Pean, who used to
operate in a frock-coat, and invented the forceps that were named
after him.

"Lautrec and I had our work-table in a room no one else ever
entered, in a 'house' in the rue des Moulins, just opposite where
Rodier's stores used to be. In the evening we would go up to the
'parlour' and treat the 'ladies' who weren't 'working' for the mo
ment to a 'marquise' or a bottle of champagne. Then Lautrec
would play faro with them. Or else he would ask them to pose for
him. Whenever one of them tried to discuss art or politics with
him, he would say:

" 'Now, don't you bother about that. It's not your business.
What I'm interested in is that gargoyle of a face of yours.'

" 'All right, Monsieur le Comte. Sorry. Here's the gargoyle.
Do you want it front view or side?'

"The only thing he lived for was to draw and paint. We often
went together to see Herve's Chilperic. Lautrec went simply to
watch Marcelle Lender, especially her back. Just as Renoir had a
passion for skin that 'took the light', so Lautrec, who also loved
fine textures, such as the grain of leather or wood, admired
Lender's back because of the way it absorbed and reflected the
colours of the footlights and because of its incomparable modelling;
it was like balm to the crippled little man's eyes. How many times
he painted Marcelle Lender and Marcelle Lender's back; how he

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

loved and adored that back; it sent him into a sort of platonic
swoon. . . . For, you see, although Lautrec was first and foremost a
painter of music-halls and brothels and the girls he found there,
he was, nevertheless, supremely pure, as pure as the slightest of
his sketches. ..."

Lautrec: Self-portrait

To shadow he brought the gift of new colours
Each hour saw him born to a brighter world
He died in a rainbow

From Monet's Rainbow Palette
to Renoir's Rosy Flesh- Tints

CLAUDE MONET

IT WAS GEORGES CLEMEN CEAU who took me to see Claude
Monet at Giverny.

I was certainly glad of the chance to go with such a sponsor to
pay a visit to the most celebrated of the Impressionists, the group
which had been the first to perceive that a shadow is not uni
formly black and that objects appear to change colour according to
the time of day and the variations in the atmosphere. In fact, it
was chiefly Monet, Sisley, Pissarro, Renoir (for a while) and
Berthe Morisot who, following Manet's method, began painting
light tones on a light background and did away with "prune-juice"
and "lumps of shadow" on their canvases. Monet had already
demonstrated these two ideas in his London pictures, his Hay
stacks series, his Debacles and his famous studies of Rouen
Cathedral. Gone were the days when he had had to tell Durand-
Ruel that he would be only too glad to sell him three canvases for
a hundred francs apiece. In 1883 he had bought a beautiful estate
in Normandy, with gardens and "Japanese" ponds which were the
envy of many an artist.

Clemenceau's car stopped at the foot of the hill; and I can still

20 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

see the great political leader energetically climbing the side road up
to the painter's home with the aid of his cane, his gay little hat, so
common among painters of the period, pushed back from his
rugged forehead, and his moustache bristling. He rang the bell at
the gate and a servant came out and told him that Monet was
working near the "new pond".

"Good, good," said Clemenceau, as the porter opened a little
gate for us on the other side of the road. We crossed the railway
line, circled a clump of trees and discovered Monet with his back
to us, brushing in a large canvas in front of his water-lilies. He did
not look round, evidently thinking that it was a member of the
household who had come out to speak to him. We halted some
distance away and Clemenceau made a sign to me not to move.
Then, when he saw that Monet had paused in his work for a mo
ment, he quietly approached and put an arm round the painter's
shoulder.

Monet rose to his feet in surprise. He was smaller than Clemen
ceau and heavily built. I noticed that he was wearing a velveteen
jacket, over the front of which flowed his thick, brilliant beard.
After I had been introduced, Clemenceau exclaimed enthusi
astically:

"What a subject you've got there!"

"Yes," the artist agreed, "they will all turn pink and orange
soon. They are the kind of flowers that develop slowly. But when
they are fully formed. . . . Come and see."

We followed him back across the road to the main gate where
Clemenceau had rung the bell. On either side of the long garden
walk was a rectangular flower-bed filled with glowing flowers,
which several gardeners were tending. At the end of the walk was
a low-roofed pink house with green blinds. We did not enter it
directly, but first passed through a large out-building where we
saw two immense panels of his Water-lilies which he had already
completed.

"I am going to extend them all round the room," said Monet,
"so that one will get the impression of being in the centre of a
lily-pond."

Hat in hand, his body bent slightly backward, and leaning on
his cane, Clemenceau gazed at the murals from under his bushy
brows. All at once he said:

FROM MONET TO RENOIR 21

"Now, Monet, what about the Academy?" But seeing the
painter's expression, he added with a quick gesture of the hand,
"Oh, no. I haven't come as a delegate. . . ."

Monet replied in a mild, grave voice, which was a trifle gruff,
though there was no trace of bitterness in it.

"The Academy " he began; then, pausing, he said,

"Look " and pointed towards the garden. After a moment, he

went on: "I have already refused a decoration. And now it's the
Academy. . . . What would I be doing making social calls and
talking twaddle with all those people who have continually
opposed us? They don't understand us yet, even if they have be
gun to accept our painting. What attitude could I adopt towards

those people in their drawing-rooms ? Me, in a drawing-room

Why, I'm an out-of-door painter. Was Boudin a member of the
Academy? Or Cezanne? No, no* That sort of thing is not for
me."

"What are you going to do with those?" inquired Clemenceau,
indicating the two large panels which were fastened on the wall
with strips of wood.

"Just let me finish a dozen or so first. I'm thinking of having a
large octagonal studio built for myself on the other side of the
house so that I can have the whole set arranged the way I want it."

"Wouldn't you like to present them to the Government in
exchange for a seat in the Academy?" Clemenceau asked with a
laugh.

"To the Government? That's another matter. I'd prefer that
to a so-called art-collector. But I want to keep them for myself,
first. Then, provided they're not put away in some official store
room ..."

"Oh, come now," protested Clemenceau. "Do you think I
would allow that?"

"Well, if you will take the responsibility " replied Monet to

the man who had made the Louvre accept Manet's Olympia.
Then, changing the subject, he said, "Let's go and have something
to drink."

We entered the little house. Monet led the way up several steps
to the dining-room, passing through a room hung with Japanese

22 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

prints, including the Cedars and the Tokaido by Hiroshige, which
had doubtless served as inspiration for his own "series".

The dining-room was done in rustic style and painted light
green and yellow. A maid brought in a bottle of local white wine,
which she served in handsome glasses on a check table-cloth. As
I got up for a moment to examine the Hiroshiges, Monet said to
me:

"If you are fond of paintings,' you must see the ones in my bed
room. You should also take a look in the room next to it because
you'll find my best picture there."

"That's not a favour he grants everyone," said Clemenceau.

"No. But not everyone comes here with Clemenceau, either,"
he replied.

The bedroom upstairs was lighted by windows looking out on to
the garden. To the left of the fireplace my eye was caught, first of
all, by Cezanne's famous Chateau Noir, which Monet had bought
from the artist himself; on the other side hung a Vue de PEstaque
and below it a Baigneurs. On the back wall were a Degas pastel of a
Woman in the Bath, two Pissarros, and a Berthe Morisot; while
over a desk, on which there was a Corot portrait, hung a breath
taking Renoir, full of colour and swarming movement, The Casbah
at Algiers.

Over the head of the bed were other Renoirs: one of Mme.
Monet alone, dressed in blue and reclining on a divan; the other
of Mme. Monet with her son Jean, seated on a lawn. It was apro
pos of this latter canvas that Manet is said to have dropped a
brick. For he had once painted the mother and son when visiting
the Monets, and it so happened that, while he was working on his
picture, Renoir, who was a young man at the time, dropped in un
expectedly. He was so taken with the subject that he immediately
wanted to try his hand at it too. He asked Monet for canvas and
paints, and forthwith set up his easel not far from Manet's. The
other, growing nervous at this intrusion, presently left his work
and went over to look at Renoir's. After gazing at it for a minute,
he called Monet aside and said:

"Monet, Renoir is a friend of yours, isn't he? If I were you, I
should advise him to give up painting."

I went into the adjoining room and found only one picture

FROM MONET TO RENOIR 23

there, and that unframed: Cezanne's Boy in a Red \fraistcoat. I
stood looking at it for a long time. All at once I was aware that
Clemenceau and Monet had also come in, and I heard the painter
say in his deep, beautiful voice:

"Yes, Cezanne is the greatest of us all. . . ."

RENOIR

Renoir! With the exception of Cezanne, Renoir was without
any doubt the greatest painter of his generation. Like Cezanne,
he has too often been classed with the Impressionists. He started
out with them and he retained a few traces of their teachings or,
rather, of their discoveries. But his personality went beyond all
their theories, and expressed itself with a passion, a sensuousness
and a love of art that none of the others ever equalled.

How often he used to say to me, as he said to many others :

"Theories? Study Nature, and you'll see how they all go to
the devil. The open air? Yes, all right for your lungs. But for
your work, the studio's the place. That's where you can see every
thing best."

Les Collettesy his home at Cagnes : the sun blood-red behind the
Esterels, lighting up the whole garden; the olive trees twisted like
deformed giants; the orange trees; the tiled balustrade; the roses,
"red as a baby's bottom"; and Renoir's statues, with full, pouting
lips and thick ankles, like the figures in his canvases. Gazing at it
all, one might say to oneself:

"All of Despiau, all of Maillol, came out of that Renoir sculpture.
But for that matter, the whole landscape is Renoir. Do you ima
gine that you are looking at Nature here? Not at all. Look again
and you will see that it is Renoir who painted it all even the song
of the fountain. ..."

The red sun behind the Esterels. . . . How often have I seen
Renoir painting, seated in his wheel-chair, his brush bound to his
hand between two fingers, but fastened to the back so that he
could hold the brush perpendicular to the canvas, like a twig, his
gaze fixed on his subject, murmuring to himself, as he took in the
luminous landscape :

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Merde, but it's beautiful! Merde, but it's beautiful!"
I was moved to repeat the same words, and in the same tone,
when I happened to come across an especially fine canvas of his
many years later; and again subsequently, when I went to an ex
hibition of his work that Duveen put on in New York. A friend,
who had joined me at that moment, added:

"It's as beautiful as Raphael. There is the same magic of jubi
lant colour, the same buoyant /atmosphere. And the flower-like
smiles of the Parisian girls are as spirituel as the smile of the Virgin."

"My wife and I are motoring over to see Renoir," one of his
art-dealers said to me in Monte Carlo on a morning in 1918.
"I'm taking him some sugar and a bottle of Napoleon brandy.
Would you like to come along?"

"I would, indeed."

We went round the Baie des Anges in Nice, bathed in sunshine,
crossed the Var, reached Cagnes, and, after mounting the steep
hill, arrived at Les Collettes. It was just at the season when the
anemones were coming into bloom, and they were everywhere,
even along the side of the road; for Renoir had given orders for
them not to be picked, as he wanted them left in their natural state.

The painter received us in the dining-room, which opened out
on the terrace with its tiled balustrade. On the mantelpiece was
the terra-cotta medallion he had made of his youngest son, Claude,

FROM MONET TO RENOIR 25

otherwise known as "Coco", together with some of the glazed
pottery he had done.

Renoir was huddled in his portable chair; but all at once his
little grey-green eyes glanced sharply out of their hollow sockets
and began to sparkle. The art-dealer was examining a picture of a
nude, which had just been finished and placed on the floor against
the wall. After admiring it ecstatically, he asked:

"Who posed for that?"

"The baker's wife," replied Renoir, with a chuckle. "She had
a bottom Oh, forgive me," he added, though quite unem
barrassed by the presence of his guest's wife. "But it's true. It
was so beautiful ! The whole town would have like to dance round
it ... !" He hesitated a moment, then said, "But you're staying
for lunch, aren't you? I must let them know. Will you go
out on to the terrace while we're waiting? There's a beautiful
picture out there. It makes me happy just to look at it all day
long."

The picture in question was the one I mentioned earlier: the
sea beyond the olive trees, all shimmering blue and white; the
Esterels, with their tops clearly outlined, as in Japanese screens,
one behind the other, and ash-gold in hue.

"Monsieur Renoir," said the art-dealer, returning to the dining-
room, "I am thinking of buying the Deudon Collection that is up
for sale in Nice. There are six of your canvases, ranging from
1875 to 1880: The Rose-garden, The Vargemont Road and The
Sewing-woman, among others; and also several Manets, Sisleys,
and Monet's Gare Saint-Lazaret

"You can't do that ! You must be mad !" exclaimed Renoir.

"Why?"

"Because I sold them for a hundred francs apiece. Think of the
price you'd have to pay now just because they belong to my 'blue
period', as they call it. Do you think the porcelains I once did for
six francs a day, or the fans I decorated with Watteau's Embarka
tion for Cythera in my early days, or even the window-shades and
signs I did, are worth more than what I am painting now? It's
just a fashion. Don't buy those pictures. I'd rather sell you some
of my others."

"I'd be only too delighted. . . . But, Monsieur Renoir, doesn't

26 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

it give you a certain satisfaction to know that your canvases are
selling for such high prices?"

"Not in the least except to know that it annoys the academi
cians, whose work doesn't sell for much even at public auctions.
The Hotel Drouot, you know, is the barometer of art. When a
work brings a high price at an auction sale, it proves that the artist
has won the approval of the public."

"That reminds me of one of Picasso's remarks," retorted the
art-dealer. " Tor a picture to be really beautiful/ he said, c it has
to be very expensive; otherwise, no one appreciates it.' "

"Yes, that's right."

"I've got one of Picasso's latest canvases with me here.
Look "

"Take that filth away!" cried Renoir.

"Why, you surprise me!" protested the art-dealer. "Corot
turned down Manet when he was proposed for the Salon's selec
tion committee. And Manet, in turn, didn't appreciate your talent.
Now you are acting in the same way!"

"How you infuriate me! I am Renoir. I paint and I intend to
remain Renoir. If I wanted to paint pictures like that one [and he
pointed to Picasso's Christmas Night], I would paint them. But I
paint for my own pleasure. Now, shut up, will you? Lunch is
ready. I've told them to make us an omelette-au-rhum."

The huge omelette was brought in and placed, sizzling and
golden, in front of us.

"Well, how do you like it?" Renoir asked the company.

"Excellent, Monsieur Renoir," said the art-dealer.

"What, only excellent, eh? So it should be. Why, I told them
to put all your brandy in it!"

"Oh, Monsieur Renoir in an omelette? Why, that's almost
the same as if I were to hang your pictures in my bathroom!"

"You are tiresome ! Didn't you give me the brandy as a present?
Haven't I the right to use it in any way I like, and no strings
attached?"

After lunch we went out to Renoir's studio at the back of the
garden, where the artist worked when he did not want to be dis
turbed by inquisitive people, whom he always received courteously
enough, in spite of his notoriously grumpy manner. On the floor

FROM MONET TO RENOIR 27

was a clutter of canvases, which glowed like precious stones. In the
centre of the studio there was a couch, with a canopy over it, where
he put his models ; while in one corner of the room was a straw hat,
with paper flowers on it, which he would place askew on the head
of this or that model, first rumpling their hair before they posed.

Renoir was working on zjiidgement of Paris at the time.

"What a beautiful, gay religion the Greeks had," he said.
"Whenever their gods got bored, they could come down and have
a good time on earth."

"Are you pleased to have been made a Commander of the
Legion cTHonneur"}" inquired the art-dealer's pretty wife.

"No. Only when I go anywhere, because then people know that
I'm not an upstart. And," he added, with a wink, "it makes the
others furious." But he said it without malice.

I remember one of Renoir's remarks about Monet to the effect
that "Monet painted the 'passing hours' instead of painting each
time 'an eternal hour' ".

I also recall how pure and pagan Renoir was in his attitude, for
instance, towards the human body and flowers.

"Look at those anemones," he said on one occasion. "Don't you
think they look like a woman's sex-organs?"

And again:

"I think I have at last found the exact 'place' for the breast. I
was never quite sure before. . . ."

It was in August 1919 that Paul Rosenberg invited me out to
his house at Vaucresson.

"Renoir is coming to lunch," he informed me. "I've also in
vited Jeanne Borel of the Opera Comique, because he likes
music."

Renoir came with his model Catherine Hessling, the young wo
man who later played Nana in the film of that name, which his son
Jean produced. How thin the painter was : he looked as though he
weighed nothing at all as he sat there in his chair. And his face
was cadaverous under his cap, which he had pulled down over his
ears. But his eyes were alert, and so was his mind.

28 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Glancing at a large tree that was growing in the centre of the
lawn, he remarked :

"Why, it's a regular monkey-tree! By the way, where is
Vollard? Well, never mind: we can manage without him for one
day. . . . He often comes in the morning. He puts on my socks for
me."

At lunch Renoir did justice to the food, the wine and the cham
pagne. He did not get drowsy until the singer, who had come
especially in his honour, began to sing.

We drove him back to Paris. Rosenberg asked him if he wanted
to go by way of Bougival, or to take the shorter road.

"Yes, by Bougival," answered Renoir.

When we came to Fournese's, at the place where the artist had
painted Le Dejeuner des Canotiers in 1881, Renoir ordered the
chauifeur to stop and, in a sort of religious silence, he contem
plated the landscape as though he were gazing at a picture of his
youth. We could detect no sign of emotion on his face; yet what
memories must have filled his heart! Suddenly, he said sharply,

"Let's go now!" And his reverie dissolved.

But he did not speak again till we arrived at the door of his
studio in the Boulevard de Clichy, near the Cirque Medrano.

I was to see him once more, a short time before his death. It
was at Cagnes again, at the beginning of winter. On my arrival I
was told that he was working in his studio at the back of the house
on a Baigneuses (now in the Louvre). I decided to wait for him in
the garden. I could imagine him sitting at the easel he had had
specially made so that the canvas could be raised or lowered or
moved from side to side at will; this enabled the artist, who could
not move about himself, to reach any part of the picture he wanted
to work on. Presently I caught sight of him through the trees
being carried along in his portable chair, his long hooded cloak
hanging almost to the ground. The sun was setting in a red ball,
spreading a mellow glow over the whole countryside. Renoir
beckoned to me.

"I'm going for a little walk," he said, as I came up to him.
"Come and walk along beside me."

He was lifted up high so that he could see the flowers, and he

FROM MONET TO RENOIR 29

looked as though he had been hoisted on to a shield, making a
sombre silhouette against the sky. As he went by, the gardeners
and everyone else he passed all lifted their caps and greeted him
respectfully, saying,

"Good evening, Monsieur Renoir."

If only he could have painted the scene, what a companion-
piece it would have made to Courbet's Good Morning^ Monsieur
Courbet !

Matisse : Self-portrait

In the Claws of the Fauves

MATISSE

1 WENTTOSEE Matisse on the advice of my friend Vignier. It
was in the days before he had become the most celebrated of the
Fauves, and at that time he was living on the Quai St. Michel,
not far from the bookshop belonging to Vanier, where Verlaine
used to buy his books. It was an old building, with staircases all
over the place. Marquet, Flandrin and Marval also had studios
there, looking out over the roofs towards the Prefecture, with
Notre-Dame and the wonderful vista of the Seine nearby.

As he opened the door, the artist at first looked at me uneasily,
but he motioned me to come in, examining me furtively all the
while. He already had a few wrinkles on his forehead, which gave
him a worried expression, and his gaze was critical behind his
glasses. He had a short nose, somewhat like Zola's, and his fleshy
lips were tightly compressed in the midst of his beard.

"This is what I'm working on now," he said, as he brought out a
canvas to show me. It was a view of one of the bridges over the
Seine, with the water leaden and smooth.

"What beautiful pigment," I said.

"Yes, the pigment must be beautiful," he replied; "that's really
essential. The colours must harmonise. But when they are vio
lent and luminous it is a difficult and delicate matter. I have to
experiment for a long time, often for a very long time."

And that was all there was to my first interview with Matisse.

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 31

That same year I met him again, this time on the terrace of a
cafe in the Place St. Michel. He was sketching a scene on the
quayside with a short, thick pencil, making careful little strokes
without any corrections but only after studying the subject
thoroughly before tracing a single line.

I got to know him better through the Russian Ballet many years
later. Matisse had by then become the leader of the Fauves, 1 who
had revolted against the Impressionists' small touches of harmoni
ous colour by using large, violently coloured surfaces. Later on,
the Cubists or Constructors revolted in their turn by introducing
a third dimension into their works, first breaking down the pic
torial volumes, then making a new synthesis of these fragments.
Matisse was influenced by all these to the point where he was pro
ducing canvases with drawing that was almost schematic.

Meanwhile, Serge Diaghilev, the impresario of the Russian
Ballet, had commissioned Matisse to do the settings for Stra
vinsky's Rossignol, and had persuaded him to go to London, where
the premiere was to take place, to execute them, as Matisse did not
want anyone else to enlarge them from his maquettes.

Diaghilev had rented a place as big as a barn on the eighth floor
of a building in London's theatre district, and the only way you
could get to it was by climbing an interminably long, narrow
ladder, holding on to a side-rail with one hand and carrying a
lighted taper in the other. When I went to see the painter there,
he asked me for some practical advice on several points.

"I've never done stage scenery before," he explained.

I told him what I knew about it, and advised him to leave a
fraction of an inch of bare canvas between each colour because, in
the glare of the footlights, every detail shows up as clearly as a
miniature under a magnifying-glass, even when seen from the
gallery.

"I'm planning to have a curtain as white as porcelain," said
Matisse. "For it's to be a Chinese curtain, after all, isn't it? There
will be as few lines as possible. 2 As for the decors, those Russians
expect something violent, don't they? Well, they're not going to

1 Matisse, Marquet, Rouault, Desvallieres, Derain 3 Vlaminck, Othon
Friesz, Van Dongen, Puy, Rouveyre, de Waroquier, Crotti, Camoin, and
Charles Gu6rin.

2 Matisse used the same technique again when he did the decorations
for the well-known Chapel of the Rosary at Vence.

32 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

get it. I'm going to teach them the proper proportion of colour
according to French tradition: pure white, pale pink, light blue.
And they can take it or leave it."

One evening, while we were working, a huge fire broke out in a
neighbouring loft and lit up the whole studio. Matisse, who was
not at all alarmed by the sparks flying in our direction, suddenly
exclaimed :

"Look how the pink reflections turn to orange against my blue.
That's a good idea: I'm going to make the costumes pink."

I often went for long walks with Matisse while we were in Lon
don. Sometimes we went to the National Gallery together. On
either side of the main staircase, just inside the entrance, there
used to be two large canvases, one by Whistler and the other
Turner's Fighting Temeraire.

"I can't stand Whistler," said Matisse. "But Turner, yes : the
quality of his pigment is beautiful. In painting, that is everything,
you see. No matter what the subject and the drawing are like, if
your pigment, your material, is beautiful as beautiful as enamel,
for instance you look at it with pleasure, and it is good."

One night, when we had strayed quite far in the London drizzle,
Matisse said to me :

"Do you understand the Cubists? I must say I can't make head
or tail of them."

He told me of an incident that occurred when Diaghilev was
directing a rehearsal of Parade by Erik Satie and Jean Cocteau, for
which Picasso had done the settings, and he asked the choreo
grapher,

" 'When that little ballerina skips and then falls down and kicks
her legs in the air, what is that supposed to mean?'

" 'Why, it's quite simple,' said Diaghilev, shocked. 'That's the
Titanic disaster.'

"No," repeated Matisse, "I must say I can't make head or tail
of them "

We were practically lost in the downpour, and, holding the
umbrella well over us, I finished the sentence for him,

" any more than certain people can understand why you give

your figures hands three times their natural size, and asymmetrical
eyes and "

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 33

"Oh, but that's the way I feel them," he retorted. But then, as
he had a sense of humour, instead of explaining his theories of
balance or his deliberate distortion of academic forms, he went on:

"It is true that if I ever met the kind of woman I paint coming
along the street, I should probably have a fit." And he chuckled in
his beard, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

But it was in his studio in Nice that I got to know him really
well. Ah, Nice, when it is out of season, with the streets almost
empty; the sea nearly black, so intense is its blue; and the view
from Matisse's apartment in the Place Charles-Felix, overlooking
the Old Market, the beach and the sea !

The apartment was behind the Ponchettes gallery, near the
Romanesque church of Saint-Suaire, on an upper floor of a hand
some old building in the Italian style: square, ochre-coloured and
with a fine pediment. His door was at the top landing of a wide
flight of stone stairs, with frescoes painted on the walls on either
side. A card stuck over the bell read: "M. Henri Matisse: Ring
twice".

You entered by a hall, at the end of which was a window with
a view of the sea. On the right was a room with two windows hung
with net curtains. Between the windows stood a little dressing-
table with white lacquered panels and an oval mirror. On the
mantel was a replica of Michelangelo's Slave, at whose feet were
such assorted objects as oranges, a bird cage and a gramophone
with a pink flower-shaped horn, which Matisse used to play while
he worked.

The walls were covered with ordinary paper with a common
place flower design on it. On the floor were an Arab tabouret and
several packing-cases, while close by stood his famous screens with
their cut-out paper patterns, Arab style, which he reproduced so
often in his pictures. Above them, extending across the room, was
stretched a wire, on which hung an oil-lamp with a makeshift
shade.

Behind a screen one of his models was cleaning his brushes with
kitchen soap. On the far side of the room a violin hung on the
wall between two of his latest canvases, both of them still-lifes.

The first day I went to see him there, Matisse was painting by

34 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

one of the windows. He was wearing a raw-silk shirt and he had on
his gold-rimmed glasses. Presently he went over to the wall and
began pinning up some bits of cloth which, when they caught the
sunlight, became like brilliant jewels of colour.

"So that's your wonderful striped material?" I said.

"The sunlight cleans everything," he replied, and pointed out
of the window towards the dusty city, sparkling under the sun.
"Come along. Let's go and have some lunch."

Just as he opened the door, he found himself face to face with
two Germans.

"Monsieur Matisse?"

"Yes."

"You remember me, don't you? I'm the director of the

Gallery."

"Yes. But I have nothing for you."

"We only want to buy two canvases anything you have on
hand."

"I have nothing on hand just now."

"Couldn't you let us see "

"I have nothing for the moment."

"May we come back later, then?"

"I have nothing," he answered them quietly but firmly.

Most days Matisse went out to lunch at Camus's, a local
restaurant in a dark little street in the Old Town, between the
Municipal Casino and the sea. A table was always reserved for
him.

"Why didn't you want to sell anything to those two fellows?" I
asked, as we sat down.

"They would certainly have given me my price," he said.

"Well, then? Your apartment is full of canvases, after all."

"Yes, but it's not a good time. Those two rascals will come back,
don't worry. I shall see them again soon enough."

The proprietor of the restaurant brought us a salade nifoise, in
which the tomatoes gleamed and the green peppers looked dark
against the light green of the lettuce, which was dotted with black
olives.

"Now, that is really beautiful," declared Matisse, who seemed
more interested in gazing at the dish than in eating it.

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 35

"Is it true, Matisse, that you keep your canvases in a safe in one
of the banks here?"

"Certainly. Why not? They're my securities. "

"Securities that will go up in value. . . ."

"That's why a safe in a bank is just the place for them. It is
the best protection for them, too. Whenever I go away, or even
when I'm here, my canvases are safe from any accident that might
happen in the house, not to speak of fire or theft. Waiter, bring us
our coffee quickly. It is five minutes to, and I've got a model com
ing at two o'clock. I want to get back on time."

He was prompted by an old habit of his, inherited from the
days when a model was expensive for him. Or perhaps it was just
self-discipline.

We quickly climbed the two long flights of stairs. Matisse set
out the Arab tabouret and arranged the materials on the divan.

"Do you see that large mirror over there? I like to use it to
check on the model from time to time."

The bell rang. It was an old woman with a note : the model was
ill and couldn't come. Matisse did not seem very put out.

I had begun to do a drawing of him in my sketch-book, where
upon he said,

"Let me have a sheet, will you?"

"Here's another pad," I said. And he set to work to do a picture
of me.

We went out on to the balcony to work. The sun dusted with
light the few palm trees along the water-front where the sea glit
tered brightly.

I can't remember what brought up the subject of Lautrec in our
conversation, but I happened to mention the many tracings the
latter had done for some of his pictures.

"Have you seen the collection of them in the museum at Albi?"
I asked Matisse. "For the poster he did of Jane Avril, and for his
woman clown, he made at least twenty tracings before he was able
to get the correct angle for the spread of the legs."

"Do you think I don't carefully draw the paper flowers in my
backgrounds dozens of times beforehand?" demanded Matisse,
peering at me over his glasses.

"Even those you do in a c z' or a cross, with a couple of brush
strokes?"

if-

. ,

\

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES

37

"Yes, even those I do with just two brush-strokes. But after
I have drawn them in detail twenty or thirty times, I get the knack
of it automatically in my hand, and then I can do them exactly,
with just two strokes. Look here, for instance "

He brought out a dozen heavy albums of fine vellum paper.
Turning the pages slowly, he showed me hundreds and hundreds

The Author by Matisse

of drawings done in absolutely pure lines, without a single re
touching.

"If it weren't in the safe at the bank, I would show you a canvas,
Europa and the Bull, on which I have worked for three years, and
I shall probably have to work on it for quite a while longer. Some
people imagine that you can turn out canvases like mass-produced
cars. For that picture alone I have already made three thousand
sketches yes, three thousand. I often do them while my model is
resting."

The doorbell rang again.

"Don't bother," said Matisse. "I'm not at home unless that's
the house-painter. I've taken the apartment upstairs and I'm
joining it on to this one."

38 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

It was the house-painter. He came in with his ladder over his
shoulder.

"Look out for my pictures !" Matisse warned him. Then, turn
ing to me, he went on, "Now, as I shan't be able to work any more,
I'm going to do a larger picture of you."

He took up one of his albums and began drawing with his foun
tain-pen. At that moment the house-painter came back through
the room with his ladder and jogged Matisse's elbow. The result
was a large blot on my cheek in the drawing.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, in dismay.

"It doesn't matter," said Matisse. "It will have to stay that
way now. Blame it on Fate." And he went on with his drawing.

ROUAULT

If it wouldn't be accurate to call Rouault taciturn, he is certainly
not loquacious.

To those who asked him why, after having begun his career in
a Raphaelesque style, he portrayed all judges as monsters, and
almost all women as loathsome creatures, with loose, bluish flesh,
like creatures straight from Hell, he could hardly have replied, as
Matisse did,

"Because I see them as they are."

He went out to lunch with me one day at the time he was work
ing on the stage-sets for The Prodigal Son.

How well I recall the terrace of the Sporting Club, which was
then situated in the Champs Elysees, and the quiet, self-effacing
man who was with me.

He told me many of the things I already knew about him:
namely, that he had been a glass-worker and painter of stained-
glass windows; that that profession had influenced his colour far
more than Gustave Moreau's school had done; and that he had not
been able to give up the "leading", which separated his colours
and brought out their values. He said, moreover, that the rather
affected Moreau (almost all of whose "pupils" Matisse, Desval-
lieres, Marquet, Maurice Denis and Rouveyre became Fauves)
was in fact extremely liberal-minded, and did not expect those who
studied under him to paint as he did.

"I agreed to do these decors," he explained, "because I felt that

40 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

I should be painting immense stained-glass windows. The light
would be caught in them instead of passing through. But that is
the difference between stained-glass and stage-settings, and I had
to give considerable study to the problem. And this time I'm
going to have to work quickly, feverishly. It is something new for
me, as I often take five years to paint a canvas, scraping it out,
doing it over again. ..."

Rouault was good enough to allow me to make the little sketches
of him reproduced in these pages ; and as I felt that he might find it
awkward if we continued to talk of this or that painter, I respected
his discretion. But I regret it now.

THIRTEEN, RUE BONAPARTE:
SEGONZAC

Before the First World War, I lived for some years in a
building at No. 13 rue Bonaparte, on the corner of the rue des
Beaux Arts, just opposite the charming cour Gaillon. From my
windows on one side I could see, lower down, the room where
Oscar Wilde had died; and on the other, the magnificent courtyard
of the Beaux Arts, where, at the beginning of June each year, the
horde of students from the Quafz* Arts ball would mill around
riotously in the early hours of the morning before dispersing. We
were always awakened by their band and their bawdy songs :

On dit, bien souvent, au Village
Qu'un casque, fa rtsert a rien du tout

Rien du tqut

Qa sert a donner du courage
A ceux qui rten ont pas du tout

Pas du tout

De loin, fa prend des airs fanta-ouasques
Et chacun crie en les voyant

En les voyant

Ah! Qtfils sont beaux avec leurs ca-ousaques
Us ont vraiment Pair epatant-tant-tant-tant. . . .

Zim balaboum la lai-re
Zim balaboum lalaire

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 41

Zim la bourn la bourn lala
Zim la bourn
Zim lala
Lalala . . .

On dit, bien souvent, a VEcole
Qu'unefemm\ fa sert a rien du tout

Rien du tout

fa sert a donner la v . . .
A ceux qui ne Pont pas du tout

Pas du tout
De loiri) fa prend des airs bona-ouasques I

A chorus of savage yells would follow, and suddenly, stripping
off their tinselled finery, their Roman togas, their Chaldean robes
and all the rest, two thousand harum-scarums would rush forward,
climb the iron fence and dance about madly in the courtyard. The
women mostly models who were practically naked or else
daubed with paint, then took the fountain by storm, and fought for
the privilege of sitting on the jet of water spouting from it.

Many of the crowd swarmed into the cafe owned by Pere
Establet, a rough-and-ready Provencal, who brought out bottles
of Tavel and Chateauneuf-du-Pape. The bench at the back was
reserved for the third-year students, the one in the centre for the
second-year ones, and the tables set with napkins for members of
the Institut.

The house at No. 13 was kept by old Mere Michon, whose two
pretty daughters were friends of ours. Hanging on the wall of her
room just inside the entrance could be seen the resplendent uni
form of one of the Horse Guards of the Republic, which had be
longed to a relative of the good woman, who so often came to the
aid of the poorer students. The landlord was in his own way a man
of letters, a Parisian and a collector of beautiful tapestry cartoons.

In the same building, in which the poet Paul Geraldy had writ
ten Toi et Moi y lived two painters who were in complete opposition
to the Beaux Arts. One was Dunoyer de Segonzac and the other
was Derain.

Segonzac what clear eyes he had! counted among his visitors
such artists as Luc Albert Moreau, Dufresne, de la Fresnaye,

42 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Mare, Boussingault and La Patelliere. All of them, being of
peasant stock, talked with each other in the strong peasant dialect
of the French countryside.

An American newspaper printed a friendly, but far too Ameri
can, article on Segonzac, in which it was stated that the painter
always drank eight bottles of red wine before starting work.

It is true that Segonzac and his friends often foregathered round
a bottle or two of good French wine. Like the peasant accent they
were so fond of, it was their way of rebelling both against the
nouveau-riche mentality of the time, and against its cosmopoli
tanism. The spirit and art of the group were, above all, essentially
French.

Segonzac had great influence on the younger painters because,
having escaped from the ateliers of Luc-Olivier Merson and Jean-
Paul Laurens, he had skirted the Cubists, though taking note of
what they had to teach, and had then returned to the great tradi
tion of Courbet. Yet all this did not prevent his following the more
important Parisian trends, and he produced, in consequence, his
admirable series of studies of Isadora Duncan and Nijinsky, his
portraits of Colette and Therese Dorny, and the illustrations for
Dorgeles' Croix de Bois and an edition of the Georgics.

In his engravings, which he executed with such loving care,
Segonzac was completely honest. He would not rub out his pro
visional lines because they made the movement all the more vivid.

Once Forain, who was slightly jealous of him, remarked spite-
folly,

"Yes, since he draws hundreds of lines, one of them is bound to
be right."

A friend of Segonzac's, whom I know well, reproved Forain with
the rejoinder,

"You make hundreds of lines, too, before you get the right one,
but you're so clever you rub out the others."

All at once Segonzac got his reward, and a rather dangerous re
ward at that; for one of his still-lifes, a beautiful golden-brown
loaf of bread on a table, fetched an unheard-of price at the time:

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 43

seventy-four thousand francs. Immediately all those who owned
Segonzacs, collectors as well as dealers, began to "dream", as they
say in the art world, and asked such fantastic prices for his work
that for a short time no one could be found to buy his paintings.

Anyone else perhaps would have gone under during the lull.
But there was nothing bogus about his kind of painting. The de
mand for it soon began again, and the artist was deluged with
orders.

Being of solid peasant stock, Segonzac was not in the slightest
thrown off balance by all this. Quite the contrary. He packed up
his easel, and set off for Provence to bask in the sun so loved by
Cezanne and Monticelli.

Segonzac was no more dazed by the sun than he had been by the
rise in prices for his work; but he was sufficiently captivated by the
Cote d'Azur to buy a villa and settle down there.

He did not give up his technique of using umber tones; he put
more blue into his compositions and made his nudes more
sensuous. He transmuted the richness of nature into a still finer
richness., in which the quality of pigment counted for more than
wealth of colour. He mastered the problem of light rather than let
himself be enslaved by it, as so many other painters had done,
even the greatest.

And those same Americans who had wanted to play up the
picturesque side of his life, and who in 1933 gave him the Carnegie
Award for his Winter in Provence, would be surprised, if they met
Andre Dunoyer de Segonzac, to find that he is an amiable, reserved
gentleman, whose eyes are as blue as the skies in his landscapes, a
trifle distrustful and ironic, perhaps, yet smiling and friendly to
wards those who deserve and win his confidence. They would
find in him the man who, with a pen as exact and incisive as his
etching-needle, wrote the following:

"One of the most important elements in a work of art is its
balance. Its balance is what gives a work its homogeneity, its
unity and strength. It is the proof of having 'mastered the subject' ;
of being able to give each thing its proper importance. That holds
true for architecture, for painting, for sculpture, for all the arts.
It is the 'balance' of Greek sculpture that strikes us first of all, and
enables us to take it in instantly and entirely; and it is what makes
it superior to decadent works. It is from this 'balance' that we get

44

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

a sense of rhythm and harmony,, and the complete satisfaction that
certain works of art convey."

Dunoyer de Segonzac might have written those words about
himself.

DERAIN

And now for Derain. Bulky and impassive in appearance, like
the trees he painted, and like them, arched a little, and bowed.

He always dressed in grey and wore a bowler hat. He had a promi
nent nose, and eyes that had a piercing, all-enveloping gaze. His
chin was long and determined.

"I can't understand the kind of painting he does," said our con
cierge, Mere Michon, "but they say it's good. And he seems a
respectable sort of man."

Derain had, in fact, already become taciturn and introspective.
It was the period when he was doing his pictures of cathedral-like
forests.

But he was also fond of the female face. Aline, his wife, was a
pretty brunette, with firm flesh and a delicate profile, and she only
needed a sprig of myrtle in her hair to turn her into a pure Corot.

He must have loved Corot very much.

One day, when someone asked me what I thought of Derain, I
replied, "He is Corot's natural son; but his son, nevertheless."
And Derain, with whom I had not exchanged three words in ten

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 45

years, overhearing this remark, came up to me and shook my hand,
nodding his approval.

He was always quick with a rejoinder. Modigliani, being a little
drunk one day, had gone to see Derain, and had begun to make a
nuisance of himself. Derain was busy working; but, as he liked
Modi, he didn't want to send him away. Derain was wearing a
sailor's cap at the time, and to annoy him Modi remarked,

"I see you're our pilot now."

"Don't talk to the pilot," advised Derain, pointing to the words
written on the ribbon of his cap.

Modigliani drew himself up, and retorted as he went out of the
door,

"You manufacturer of masterpieces !"

I had occasion to meet him more often during the great days of
the Russian Ballet, after I had moved away from the building we
had both been living in. Not only had he become interested, like
everyone else, in that great explosion of art, but he had, along with
Picasso, Matisse, Braque and many others, become one of its most
brilliant exponents. And his enthusiasm was such that he himself
went to the costumiers' to choose materials, and even helped with
the fittings in the theatre workrooms.

One evening, worn out, probably, by all the social fuss made of
him, he invited me to go with him to a strange little eating-place
in Montmartre, where one could get anchovies, Norwegian
herrings, roll-mops, and other salted dishes, as well as Danzig
eau-de-vie, flecked with gold.

"I love this kind of food," he said, as he savoured each dish
slowly. And those were about the only words he uttered for a long
while. But at one moment he held up a little iridescent fish between
thumb and forefinger and, turning it about in the light, glanced at
me to see if I was appreciating its delicate colours. Then he put
the whole fish in his mouth, skinning it with his teeth as a rough
young sailor would have done, and swallowed it down.

46 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

VLAMINCK
ROBERT DELAUNAY

While the Fauvist movement was growing, interesting develop
ments surprised the public: other experimenters besides the first
Cubists were trying to give still greater intensity to colour.

At one painters' dinner I went to at the time I encountered a
tall young man, with flushed face and clear eyes, who kept staring
at me in an odd way.

"What's the matter?" I finally asked him.

"I'd like to know you," he said familiarly, as if we had been
students at the Beaux Arts together, or had met at Establet's
place. From his voice and manner, I couldn't at first tell whether
he was hostile or friendly.

"That's Robert Delaunay," said my neighbour, the water-
colourist, Degaillaix, who was later to do the beautiful panels for
the Normandie. "He's the man who 'dislocated' the Eiffel Tower.
He's a kind of acrobat, himself; a Simultanist, an Orphist, but
especially a Dynamist. And what a colourist ! What an inventor !"

"Very well," I said, addressing the young man again. "I'd be
glad to have a talk with you later, when the dessert is served."

In due course he came to find me, his pipe in one hand and a
dark-haired young woman in the other or that was the impression
he gave, so large and powerful were his hands.

"I should like to know you," he informed me, "because you seem
so alive. I watched you while you were talking, I saw your eyes
light up. You didn't argue: you just fought. This is my wife
Sonia; she's Russian by birth but French by nature. She does de
signs and creates new shades for textiles. If you ever go to
Rodier's, you will see some of them there. I sell ideas."

"Are you a painter?"

"A painter? What is a painter, if he hasn't got ideas? He's a
dauber, a photographer, a man who trots around a box of paints
and wears corduroy trousers. Now, I sell ideas. I've just come
back from America. Over there I sold one a day. Ideas not only
for painting, but for anything and everything. They used them in
any way they wanted to: for good or for bad, for paints or for
chocolate, for dreams or for dollars. What difference did it make

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 47

to me? The important thing for me is to produce new things.
Some of them get lost; that's the law of life. Out of the millions of
eggs a fish lays, only a few hundred escape the sharks, the ocean
currents or their own mother. But some of them hatch out. I
produce ideas the same way. And since I need money, I sell them.

"Now I'll say good-bye, because Sonia is tired and we live some
distance away. But we'll see you again. Did you know that I was a
gunner with your brother during the War? I hope to see you again
soon."

We have seen each other oif and on, here and there, for the last
thirty years. He is always in a hurry, running like a flame and just
as restless; looking after his wife's affairs as well as his own; and
blowing down his pipe as if he was trying to put it out. His Eiffel
Tower now hangs in the entrance-hall of the Paris Museum of
Modern Art.

It was at that same banquet that I made Vlaminck's acquaint
ance. We became friends almost at once. With his light checked
suit and his large sensitive face, he seemed rather precious, in
spite of his robust figure, resembling a sort of Oscar Wilde, but
only in that poet's healthy Anglo-Saxon aspect. And when I told
him so, he replied:

"I prefer that to being compared eternally to a racing cyclist,
even though I was one, for my own amusement, when I was young.
People don't understand anything. It's the same with my pictures.
They imagine that I paint a canvas as if it were a photo, whereas, in
fact, before I set up my easel anywhere, I study my landscape
sometimes for a month in order to get a good impression of it in
my mind, which is important, and to take it in to the last detail,
which is important, too. Then, when I've got the 'feel' of it in
every way, I set to work. And then something else begins . . ."

OTHON FRIESZ

Friesz: how well he represents three different periods in paint
ing! Seemingly so calm, with his rugged old Norman's face, and
his Norman origin which he defends so ferociously: it is the only
subject on which he is ever heated.

"Pure Norman; and my name, Othon, is pure Norman. Friesz

48 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

is, too. Norwegian? You're joking. A Norman from 'way back':
the son of Normans; grandson of one of the captains of the
Trans-Atlantic Company's first big ships, the Eugene Pierre and
Ville de Paris. It was my grandmother who was a La Chenez-
Eudes who gave me my Christian name. And my painting, too,
is entirely in the French tradition : Impressionist in 1901 ; Fauve in
1905; and then a return to composition in 1908. I may have a
corsair's mug, but I'm more Deauville than the Maharajah of
Kapurthala or the Dolly Sisters."

We were talking together in the countryside near Honfleur,
where the sky is often threatening, yet clear; he paints that kind of
sky as delightfully as those of the Midi, where he has a villa, Les
Janes, near Toulon.

"Northern skies," the Scandinavian painter Diricks once re
marked to me, "and Northern waters are much more transparent
than those of the tropics."

Friesz had also been in the East, in Tunisia and all over North
Africa. But he had come back to his native soil and sky.

"We feel perhaps a deeper, more instinctive emotion at home,"
he said.

When in Paris, Friesz lives in a studio at the back of a garden in
the quiet rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, which is full of convents
and roomy old houses. The visitor is amused or interested by the
terracotta busts and pieces of majolica, which catch his eye as he
approaches the artist's studio. Once inside, he immediately
notices that Friesz has unostentatiously hung on his walls examples
of each of his different periods, which, to him, are very moving
souvenirs.

I went to call on him there to announce the good news that he
had been made a Commander of the Ldgion d'Honneur. I had just
come from a talk with the Minister who, only the evening before,
had bought, unknown to Friesz, one of the painter's finest can
vases. Unfortunately, Friesz was out of town at the time. But as
a motor ride of three hours did not seem too unpleasant, especially
for the purpose of delivering such good news to a friend, I decided
to go to Honfleur at once.

Mais auxfrais matins de VHellade
Parfumes d'amande et de fleurs

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 49

Sije prefere la balade

De la rude route (THonfieur.

y 5 dessous ses blancs pommiers
Balance sonfauteuil rustique
Sur le por^ avec les pompiers
Frieszfait de la gymnastique . . .

"If Monsieur Friesz hasn't gone up to the C6te-de-Grace,"
they told me at the Cheval Blanc, "he should be out there on the
jetty."

And there indeed he was, standing foursquare to the wind, with
a pea-green jacket on and a mauve-coloured hat yes, mauve
gazing at the beautiful line of the hills of Le Havre, blue beyond
the estuary.

I gave him the news of his honour, and then we started
reminiscing together.

"I ran into Dufy yesterday," he told me. "What memories he
brought up! He recalled how one day, when we were living in
Montmartre and hadn't enough to eat, he came up to me, flushed
with excitement.

" 'I've found a dealer at last!' he said. 'I'm going to buy a car
and go on a cruise to India. Come along, and I'll introduce you.'

"The dealer, who had only a tiny box of a shop, was a little
woman and by 'little woman' I mean small in size called
Berthe Weill. She had prints by Willette and Balluriau hanging
from clothes pegs on a wire stretched across the room, and along
with them a resplendent water-colour by Dufy.

"Dufy introduced us to her, and it wasn't long before we were
all sharing the honours of the wire: Marquet, Girieud, Balluriau,
Vlaminck, Utrillo, Pascin, Picasso, Van Dongen, Jacqueline
Marval.

"The collectors began to buy, and among them Marcel Sembat,
the husband of the painter Agutte, Denys Cochin, Olivier Saincere
and Albert Sarraut.

"How we had to fight at times to get an advance! One night
Picasso came in and threw his navaja 1 down on the table; and poor

1 A long Spanish knife. [Trans, note.]

50 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Berthe tried to offer it to me next day as payment for one of my
landscapes.

" 'I can't eat wood/ 1 told her; Tm not a sword-swallower, even
of Spanish swords. I want money!'

"Without a word little Weill turned round, pulled up her skirt,
took a note out of her stocking, and handed it to me."

Among Berthe Weill's customers there was a man called Druet,
who owned a cafe on the corner of the Place de 1'Alma and the
Avenue Marceau. In matters of art, this amazing collector was
advised by one of his customers, with whom he played chess every
evening. The customer's name was Rodin none other than the
great sculptor himself.

When Rodin was turned down by the Salon in 1910, Druet said
to him:

"What would you say to exhibiting your work in a tent, if I put
one up for you in the Cours-la-Reine? Til do my best to get per
mission from the City Council, and we'll ask a franc a head as
entrance fee."

Rodin agreed to the plan, and his exhibition caused an immense
sensation all over the world.

"It was in that same place," resumed Friesz, "that the Inde
pendents' show was held, but our group had to use lots of publicity
to attract the public. And the entire exhibition was bought up by
Druet on the advice of Rodin.

"Then Rodin said to him, 'Why don't you open a gallery your
self? There are plenty of galleries for the old hack painters, but
none for the younger men. Only a Norman like you could compete
with a Bernheim.' "

Druet gave up his caf<. And, as he dabbled in photography as
well as paintings, he prudently set up a photographic studio next to
his gallery, in order to have something to fall back on. The pre
mises were near the gallery Paul Guillaume was to direct several
years later.

Strangely enough, it was the photographic studio that failed, and
the gallery that prospered. From the Faubourg St.-Honore Druet
moved to the rue Royale, which was more central, and there he
showed, in groups, the work of most of the younger painters, rang
ing from Maurice Denis to Flandrin, and Desvallieres to Gauguin.

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 51

Friesz was given a place of honour among them; and Druet in
troduced a young woman-painter named Jacqueline Marval, whose
fresh colours were the delight of all Paris.

Druet took on a young art-director, the writer Alfred Athis, the
husband of Marthe Mellot and brother of Thadee Natanson, just
as the Bernheim-Jeunes had engaged in an advisory capacity and
it was a good precedent the scholarly and sensitive Felix Feneon,
of whom Lautrec had often made sketches.

One of the first to break away from Impressionism, Friesz had
gone on developing on his own. And many of the younger painters
followed him. Friesz weaned them of the theory of "the value of
values", and taught them the law of contrasts. He advised them
against "the moment" in painting, which, he claimed, belonged to
photography.

Of the many conversations I had with him, the one that im
pressed me most, I think, was on the subject of Monet. But let me
repeat his words. When I asked Friesz if he had been a pupil of
Bonnat's at the Beaux Arts, he replied:

"Yes. But Bonnat hardly ever bothered about us. Luckily, his
teachings didn't amount to much. He was a man of few words; as
a rule, all he would say was : 'This is good. That is bad. That
sketch is better than the last one you did/ No, he never bothered
about us except when he discreetly put a hundred-franc note into
the hand of one or other of us, whom he knew to be hard up.

"Like many other students, when I'd had enough of the childish
little dodges at the Ecole, such as putting big rocks in the fore
ground and little blue landscapes in the background, to give a
sense of distance, I began to suspect that, in spite of appearances,
painting must be more difficult than that. . . . We were in the
midst of Impressionism, the very Impressionism which, at that
time, represented revolt, and against which our whole generation
has since rebelled. I myself realised the weakness of Impres
sionism one day after seeing in an exhibition twelve paintings by
Claude Monet of the same landscape, each done at a different time
of day. I was overcome with admiration until I happened to see
one of them by itself. The twelve together had seemed to comple
ment each other, and were very satisfying. But the one by itself
struck me as being 'lost', incomplete, 'hanging in space', as it

52 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

were. Then I understood all that Cezanne's work teaches us a
single picture of his always appears well established, definite, self-
sufficient and sufficient in what it represents. And so all of us
Derain, Matisse, Rouault, Braque, Vlaminck, Picasso made an
effort to get away from Impressionism, which had influenced even
music and poetry. Of course, we immediately went to the other
extreme that is to say, the use of violent tones and aggressive pic
torial orchestrations: what is called Tauvism'. Then each of us
began to develop his own personality. Being French, I returned
by new paths to the French tradition, though following my own
inspiration and developing along the lines of the discoveries I had
made. I think that the most important law is the observation of
contrasts, and not of values another of those phrases derived
from the futilities of the Ecole. Also, one must get rid of the acci
dental. And so, what I am painting now ..."

Instinctively, I glanced towards his easel and palette.

"No," said Friesz; "I'm painting in my head at the moment. I
steep myself in my subject; I make a choice of typical details; I
note the geometric lines of construction, the light, the colours.
When I feel saturated with them, full of them, seething with them,
then they must come out. I stand in front of my canvas here at
home. Note that I said in front of my canvas, and not in front of
the subject. Then only what is essential comes out, and I am able
to 'realise 5 a work that is at once an abstraction and yet a complete
whole. Yes, I have come to the conclusion that a painter should not
try to seize or reproduce the impression of a given moment; but,
on the contrary, when he is realising a landscape or even a face, he
should do them in recollection, timelessly, as they will always
appear. The exception is never eternal."

RAOUL DUFY

Raoul Dufy was also a Norman, and of the same period as Friesz.
But Dufy's was a different kind of painting French, in the style
of the great decorative painters, but full of innovations.

"No, I don't divide the sea into two colours; nor my canvas,
either. I try to put light in places where people don't usually put
it. If one part of the English Channel is indigo and another part
old Bordeaux red, it is simply because of the contrasts of light. In

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES

53

fact, that is what the sea is like. I emphasise the contrasts ; the im
portant thing is that the relations between them should be right.

and in harmony. This Norman countryside, which Monet loved so
much, is more colourful than Gauguin's islands."

We were talking together in the villa where Dufy was living at
the time, on the coast between Deauville and Honfleur, overlooking
the beach. Seen from that height, the sea was indeed a wonderful
sight. The waves looked as though they had been edged with
white lace by the women sitting in their deck-chairs along the
shore.

Dufy had settled there in order to finish the series he was doing
on Honfleur and Deauville: the white sails of the regattas against
the blue skies of France; the sea leaving a white tracery along the
sides of the estuary; and the "Races", the aesthetic aspects of
which he had brought into vogue again a risky thing to do, after
Degas and Lautrec. But Dufy overturned all the old conceptions,
restored the nobility of lines by recreating them, and, instead of
superimposing light on colour, he coloured the light.

"I have just discovered a new medium the Maroger which
makes it possible to paint as the old masters did, the real old mas
ters, the Van Eycks. And I shall use it when I start work on the
largest panel that has ever been done: a History of Science. The
Government have commissioned it, and it will have four hundred
figures!"

I saw him working on the composition of that astonishing fresco,

54 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

which was well over a hundred and fifty feet long. With the help
of documents, Dufy first got together the "heads" of the different
personages, and made notes for their clothing; then he planned
various groups of scientists, with their instruments in front of
them, and arranged them around a central motif in poses appro
priate to their characters. And when he finally began the actual
painting, he executed the panel in sections, without enlarging it by
squaring up and transferring. Having his values already in his
head, he worked with incredible speed, and produced that wonder
ful, luminous painting, which was one of the marvels of the 1937
Exhibition.

Dufy was already represented in art galleries all over the world;
but all at once he won universal acclaim. I know of few artists
whose rise to fame was so rapid.

In New York, Raoul Dufy's water-colours and little narrow can
vases were worth a hundred dollars in 1940. When I returned
there in 1945, they were fetching anything from twelve to fifteen
hundred dollars; and some of them are worth double that
today.

Dufy personally witnessed this rise in prices when he went to
America for treatment for his rheumatism. All the principal
galleries in New York Rosenberg, Knoedler, Durand-Ruel in
57th Street, and Wildenstein in 69th Street seemed to be gay
with the canvases of Raoul Dufy. And his red and ochre horses
could be seen prancing in all their windows.

I saw Dufy again at his last retrospective exhibition at Carry's.
He was in his wheel-chair; his face was a trifle fatter, and his eyes
were clear and bright. And his gestures, as well as the apparent
ease of his painting, were those of a grand seigneur. His curly blond
hair still covered his high forehead, and his smile was frank and
open.

There were a good many of his earlier canvases in the show, and
Dufy was pleased about that.

"Push me along in front of my pictures," he said. "I want to
see my Summer again."

We went to look at his gay painting of a bandstand in the midst
of a garden, with light, airy trees, and figures like actors on a stage,

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 55

so realistic and charming. The whole scene seemed swept by great
strokes of colour.

"It is really better than I thought/' Dufy remarked, with a
smile. "But I should also like to look at my Concert:, it was the first
I did in oils."

"By the 'Maroger' method?" I asked.

"Yes. But my new canvases are done with a mixture of turpen
tine. I've gone back to it. The Maroger medium opened up new
possibilities that I should never have discovered in any other way.
But now I want to get what I am trying for without it. You
shouldn't be satisfied merely with beautiful pigment and brilliant
effects ; if you are, you're apt to tend towards the artificial. At pre
sent I am trying to be more tonal. I can do without the contrast of
complementary colours. I want my colours to blend, without
mingling, when placed next to each other. That's my work for the
future."

The whole room was full of his friends, and they followed in the
path of this artist, who, with a boldness rarely seen before, had
found a new way of making light serve colour, and so avoid what
he called "a loss of light".

Gazing at his remarkable version of Renoir's Moulin de la
Galette> Dufy exclaimed with a laugh:

"It's really very funny. I say that because I haven't seen that
canvas for a long time; I can look at it as if it had been done by
someone else, or by another c me'."

"Did you really like the Renoir picture so much?"

"Yes. Perhaps it was a coincidence. I mean, there must have
been some sort of affinity between two rheumaticky people . . ."
Then, pointing to his Orchestra^ he continued: "That canvas is not
really finished. But it doesn't matter. By wanting to finish a
thing one often spoils it: one tries to put too much in."

One afternoon I went out with Dufy to the Paris suburb of
Montfort-1'Amaury. He wanted to see once more the magnificent
stained-glass windows in the old church there. His eyes opened
wide, as though trying to absorb all the light and colour of the
glass, and he murmured,

"No one will ever do better than that. ..."

56 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

VAN DONGEN

A Fauve in a gilded cage, with a short nose and a long beard
half-covering a pink, ascetic face, in which sparkled the blue eyes

of a child Delft blue, to be exact,
since he was Dutch this super-
Parisian habitue of Deauville^
Longchamp, Biarritz, Cairo and
Cannes. And when some collector
once referred to him as a "society-
painter", he retorted:

"I, 'society' ? Why, I began my
career making varnish for horses
hooves out of boiled snails. And

look at this " And he pointed to his coat and cap, which were

those of a lock-keeper.

We were sitting at the Bar du Soleil, drinking port, each glass
of which cost as much as the price of a dinner in Paris, and among
the guests "Kiki" (a nickname derived from Van Dongen's
Christian name of Kees) had invited, there were as many duchesses
as whores and as many horsy people as people who liked to paint
horses.

"How did you happen to come to Deauville?"
"Well, I wanted to stay in Paris, which I don't really know well a
even after sixty years. But my dog began to sulk, and I don't like
that. He wanted to go to the country. But where? We might have
tried China, but things haven't been very quiet there lately. Or
New York. But there you have to go to the cinema. So I preferred
this charming spot on the English Channel, where the women are
pretty, and you can put on a dinner-jacket to go to the Casino."

"I thought you only wore a dinner-jacket when you washed your
car."

"Oh, it has to be used for something else, of course. And then,
say what you like, you've got the sea here, too. And yachts. I
rather like seeing those white spots moving along the horizon.
They are like brush-strokes moving about, and constantly making
corrections. They do the work for me, you see."
"Aren't you doing any painting?"

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 57

"Painting?* *Oh 3 yes. You have to earn a living, don't you?
Rolls-Royces are expensive, even if you've only got a Citroen, I've
painted in Egypt; I've painted in Montmartre; I've even painted
in Deauville. After all, the sea is the same moist light everywhere,
as Baudelaire said: a little more violent here, more gently whisper
ing farther north. But wherever you go, the lines are 'written
down', and set in blue. That's the way I see it, at any rate.
Another person sees it differently luckily for us both."

"Monsieur Van Dongen," one of the women present inquired,
"why did you paint a green dog in one of your canvases? There
are no green dogs in Nature. . . ."

"That is true. But why have you dyed your hair mauve? Is
hair mauve in Nature?"

"You're quite right, of course. But I should like to see your
dog."

"My dog?"

"Didn't you just say that if you were in Deauville . . ."
"Oh, yes. But to tell you the truth, I haven't got a dog. I in
vented one so that I could go about with society people. . . . Fido,
Fido! Down, boy, down!"

Why had he painted the dog green? Why did he make the sha
dows in his faces green? The Impressionists put their light areas
in a soft setting of complementary colours. Van Dongen has gone
a step farther. He shadows a pink face with green. The important
thing is that he should do it successfully, and not make a mistake.
He only jokes with people who don't understand painting.
With them he prefers to talk about something else, or to answer
evasively. At heart, he is like all the other great ones : eternally
seeking.

"In a few years I feel that I may succeed in doing what I am
striving for. Yes-, you saw me brush in the portrait of Maud Loti
in a quarter of an hour (a quarter of an hour and thirty years, as
Whistler would have said). But take this canvas I've been working
on for twelve years. I've spoiled it several times ; taken it up again;
painted it over; re-done it. It won't be any better, perhaps, than
some others I've done in two sittings; but you should work away
all the same, of course, because when you work, you always find
something, you change your direction, even if it is only some
simple technical detail of colour that you've discovered."

58 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Yes, he works quickly. Once we went to Venice together I, to
work on a novel (I went there for seven consecutive seasons to
gather material for my Dans la Fhe de Venise\ he, to paint.

As Van Dongen did not appear the morning after our arrival, I
knocked at his door and went in. There he was, with seventeen
large canvases drying out on the hotel balcony, which overlooked
the Salute: a gondola with lovers in it; San Giorgio; the Salute, all
grey in the moonlight, and the moon itself, with a ring round it.

"Let's go for a walk," he said, as he dried his hands. "I've
worked enough for the time being. I must give my brushes a
rest."

We went out to the Piazza San Marco, strolling along under the
arcades of the Zecca. St. Mark's was all sparkling behind its flag
poles hung with banners. The pigeons suddenly whirled up,
frightened by the sound of the midday cannon.

"Are you going to do a picture of St. Mark's?" I asked him.

"No; it's been done to death already. I'm leaving that to the
young English girls."

"You did the 'Salute' very well," I remarked.

"Yes. But the 'Salute' is beautiful because of its mass and
architecture. It's the detail of St. Mark's that counts."

We arrived at the Doges' Palace.

"And what about that?" I asked.

"Yes. I shall do that. But I want to wait till that rubbish is
gone."

By the word "rubbish" Van Dongen was referring to a huge
warship alongside the quay, hardly thirty feet away from the
Palace, whose delicate rose colour seemed crushed by the mass of
metal.

"On the contrary, you should take advantage of it," I pointed
out. "The contrast would be very 'Van Dongen'."

"Well, yes. I suppose you are right," he agreed.

He stopped, half-closed his eyes, and remained thus for a min
ute or two. Then he said:

"There. It's all done."

(And as a matter of fact the next day he produced one of his
finest canvases in grey and rose.)

"Now let's go to Florian's. I want to do some sketches of the
officers there, and have a vermouth, and look at the sights of the

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 59

place. This afternoon I'm going to sit in the bandstand and make
some notes on St. Mark's."

I had an engagement for lunch. Later, when I returned to meet
"Kiki", I was greeted by a comic spectacle. For there he was,
sitting in the middle of the bandstand, just as the band arrived for
the afternoon concert.

"That's a beautiful picture you're doing," the bandmaster said.
"But you'll have to let us have the place."

"Just a minute," begged the painter, his brushes still in his
hand.

"I'm sorry, but we have to start now."

"Very well. You can start. You won't be in my way."

"Yes, but you are in our way. If your canvas was smaller "

"Oh, the devil! You're a nuisance. I was here first, wasn't I?
What are you going to play?"

"Donizetti."

"I don't like Donizetti. Don't you think a picture of mine is as
good as any opera by that musical lacemaker?"

"That's not the question."

"It most certainly is !"

"Sir, in spite of our respect for foreigners in general, and for art
in particular "

The police were sent for as well as the fire brigade, while all
Florian's, Quadri's, Lavena's, the employees from Jesurum's,
Griffon's, Salviati's and Asta's, not to mention the entire crowd
in the Piazza and the neighbouring alleys, argued the case
furiously.

"The devil with them!" exclaimed the painter.

He was gently but firmly ousted.

"Don't worry about your picture," one of the firemen said to
him, as he took down the painter's easel. "We helped to move
Veronese."

"Never heard of him," snapped Van Dongen.

At the police-station, where Zorzi, Warnod and I went to bail
him out, we found that, according to custom, they had slit his
trousers. He returned to the hotel practically bare-legged, but
quite unembarrassed.

In less than no time after Van Dongen got back to Paris he sold

60 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

all the paintings he had done in Venice to Bernheim-Jeune. And
they were re-sold almost immediately at such high prices that the
artist resolved from then on to sell direct to individual purchasers.
On the strength of the money, he rented a luxurious studio in the
rue Juliette-Lambert.

He had previously lived in the Villa Said, where "all Paris", in
cluding Anatole France, used to flock to see him. Van Dongen had
done a portrait of the author of The Red Lily that was so realistic,
and made him look so senile, that it caused a scandal. When the
work was sold for two hundred thousand francs at an auction,
someone exclaimed:

"Two hundred thousand francs for that garbage!"
"That's not very kind to Anatole France," remarked Van Don-
gen, who was sitting next to me.

"What did your model say when he saw the portrait?"
"Why, he liked it. I think he is the only one who has, though
up till now, at least. ..."

Many of Van Dongen's clever remarks are well known ; but the
following examples are typical :

"I never go to art museums : they ruin your 'eye'. After all, they
are only cemeteries of dead painting. I love life and the life of
today."

"Why do I paint by artificial light instead of by daylight, like
other painters? Because other painters have never realised that
most of the time people see pictures in houses by artificial light.
In my painting, the values don't change. Of course, in the past it
was difficult to paint by candle or gas light, or even by ordinary
electric light. But take these modern projectors, for instance. . . ."

Yet Van Dongen often paints out of doors, even in full sunlight.
I came upon him one day on the Croisette at Cannes, where he was
catching the effect of the tanned legs and white dresses of the pass
ing women against the light blue air and the grey asphalt.

"You see," he said, "our profession is like the whore's. Matisse
works from his windows in Nice, and I go street-walking in
Cannes."

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 6l

The rue Juliette-Lambert ... a regular Veronese scene: two or
three studios one above the other, separated by railings and little
balconies that were almost terraces. And in each studio there were
silver divans, as big as a lawn, where the prettiest women in Paris or
Europe or America clustered when he gave his parties, a strange
phantasmagoria of silks, bare shoulders and thighs; dozens of
shapely legs showing through filmy dresses, and charming faces
set off by coloured wigs, which seemed to be sown with diamonds
and other precious stones.

All the smart set came, from Boni de Castellane, in his ageing
splendour, to the Maharajah of Kapurthala; from the various
Goulds and Rothschilds to the artist's latest models in short, the
upper-crust from all over the world could be found there, gazing at
their portraits on the walls as though they had been hanged in effigy.

Cecile Sorel and Maurice Rostand were the chief attractions,
when the master of the house did not have some Hindu priestess or
the whole Russian Ballet on hand, as a special novelty.

"Can you tell me why they all come here?" Van Dongen once
asked me, during one of his fantastic gatherings. "Personally I'm
bored, and I can hardly wait till they all clear out. Let's go for a
walk and a smoke."

He led the way downstairs. As usual, he had on his overalls.
As we reached the street, a big, shiny car drew up before the door.
A gentleman in evening clothes got out, followed by two ladies
decked out in diamonds.

"Is this Van Dongen's house?" the visitor asked.

"I think so,", replied the artist.

As the party started towards the entrance, Van Dongen said to
the gentleman, who evidently didn't know him:

"What about my tip, sir?"

It was on this same evening that Henri de Rothschild confided
to me:

"I should like to buy that big canvas of his, Baigneuse the one
that was reproduced on the cover of your book on Deauville; but,
as I am a Rothschild, he would ask me a higher price than he
would anyone else."

"I've heard that he wants two hundred thousand francs for it,"
I said.

62 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Would you be willing to approach him about it, and say that
one of your friends would give him a hundred and twenty-five
thousand this very moment?"

Before I had time to answer, Van Dongen, who had overheard
our conversation, came up and' said:

"No. The price is two hundred thousand. It won't be any more
expensive for you."

One evening Van Dongen was giving a special exhibition of his
portraits. This time there was neither entertainment nor refresh
ments, and the people who had waited around till one in the
morning for champagne and fancy cakes began to depart, dis
gruntled and hungry, to cheer themselves up in the neighbouring
bistros.

The next day I wrote a rather unfortunate account of the occa
sion which embroiled Van Dongen with half Paris. I described the
actual reception in twenty lines, and then, went on with a two-
column article which began as follows :

"As soon as the bores had gone, the guests whom the host really
wanted to remain assembled in the banquet-room . . ." And I de
scribed an imaginary scene, with a Gargantuan buffet-supper on
the edge of a swimming-pool, and twenty completely nude bathing-
beauties, illumined by coloured flood-lights, disporting themselves
in the water. For dessert, I said, a life-size statue of C6cile Sorel
in pistachio ice-cream was brought in for Van Dongen to decapi
tate with one stroke of a scimitar. Then lots were drawn for the
breasts, the throat, etc., and I don't know what tit-bit from a cer
tain part of the body fell to a notorious pervert.

The story took years to die. In fact, a decade later a Japanese
newspaper published some "sketches" of the imaginary swimming-
pool. People were always asking Van Dongen to show it to them.
And each time he would put them off with,

"Oh, not just now. My dog's bathing in it."

That same evening Boni de Castellane, looking at a life-study of
one of the Guy sisters, turned to a young journalist and asked:

"You know them, don't you? Which sister is this one?"

The young man went up to the picture, shaded his eyes with his
hand, and, after a rapid glance at the subject's anatomy, said,

"It's Edmonde."

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 63

"Thank you, sir," said a Government Minister, an intimate of
the actress's, who was standing behind us.

When Fayard, the publisher, together with Henri Duvernois,
started the CEtwres Libres> in each issue of which thirty pages were
allotted to the work of six authors, I asked him why he did not in
clude thirty pages of drawings.

Fayard was the most progressive and enterprising of men, and
he always welcomed new ideas.

"Whom shall we begin with?" he asked. "What about your
friend Van Dongen, for instance?"

A week later I took Fayard round to the rue Juliette-Lambert.
Van Dongen was most affable. But he asked such high prices that,
with the best will in the world, the publisher was unable to meet
them. So, to ease an awkward situation, I interrupted the dis
cussion and suggested that Van Dongen should show us the pic
tures in his dining-room, which was kept closed during his parties.
As a rule, he received only a few intimates of the house there. It
was a huge room hung with large canvases representing, in all
their nudity, Eve's original sin and Adam's fall.

"With pleasure," assented Van Dongen. "Will you come this
way?"

There was a handsome flight of stairs leading to the dining-room,
but instead of taking it, the artist made us go up by a little oak
staircase, which was used chiefly to reach the bedrooms. The next
time I saw him I said,

"Why didn't you let our friend go up by the main stairs?"
"Just an idea I had."
"What was it?"

"Well, do you remember those little corkscrew stairs we had to
climb when we used to go and see publishers twenty years ago?
We would have to wait for hours with our portfolios under our
arms, and, at the end of it, we were lucky if we were able to sell a
full-page drawing for sixteen francs, or a quarter-page one for four.
Now it's my turn. And I made him go up by the back stairs even
though he did offer me six thousand francs a drawing this time."
"But it wasn't Fayard l in the old days," I protested.

1 Fayard was known to be such a "decent" publisher that whenever he
drew up a contract with an author he would always say to him before-

64 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"No matter. It was a publisher."

Incidentally, Fayard was the first to enjoy the joke on himself.

Sentimental reasons were the cause of Van Dongen's leaving his
place in the rue Juliette-Lambert, and he went to live in Garches,
near Versailles, where he bought Bagatelle, a little villa surrounded
by a rose-garden, which was presided over by a stone statue of a
mutilated Bacchus.

The artist removed his large dining-room panels to his new
establishment, as well as his long, black marble table and his
imaginary swimming-pool. And he kept open house there for all
his friends and clientele every Sunday.

The war came, and then the Liberation. Van Dongen returned
to Paris, and just before his retrospective exhibition at the Char-
pentier Galleries (which once more dazzled everyone and con
firmed the almost unanimous acclaim of the critics), he took a
studio in the rue de Courcelles. When I went to see him there, his
first words were:

"A studio ! It's odd, but this is the first time I've ever had a real
studio."

His Delft-blue eyes shone as brightly as did his little red nose,
and a smile spread over his lips in the midst of his rough, white
beard.

"And I want you to know," he continued, "that I'm really
working here, with my son, my pipe, my stove and my wife for
company."

"Why do you make your figures like caricatures?" asked some
one who was present. "That man you're doing has a regular horse's
face."

"Because I go so often to the races, I suppose," replied the artist.

After the other had gone, Van Dongen turned to me and said in
disgust:

"Like caricatures ! Rembrandt and Hogarth were both accused
of caricaturing people. What an 'accusation' ! I paint what I see,
and I don't see things or people as you do, or as that man does, or

hand, "Will you read this over, and then sign it?" and the author had
such confidence in him that he would reply, "No, I'll sign first, and read
it afterwards."

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 65

as others do. Each one sees people, things, colours in his own way.
The important thing is that I should see clearly, and that my
painting should exactly reflect my vision, and not yours,, or his, or
anyone else's. Then the painting will be true. A hundred men do
not see the same woman in the same way. So why expect painters
to? Caricatures? One day I heard you ask Sem how he arrived at
such a synthesis of ugliness, and he answered, 'By trying to make
them beautiful 3 . But I don't try to make the subject either beauti
ful or ugly, but to portray it exactly, just as my eyes see it. Here
are my last two portraits. I made the one of Berry-Wall more
'elaborate' because he gives the impression of being a fastidious
man. I rather scamped the actor Berry because he's a casual type.
So much for the expression of personality. As a painter, I amused
myself with these crude blues and the messes well-chosen, all the
same that I put on my palette."

"And what about this?" I said.

I had just caught sight of a canvas I had never seen before, of
an old man sitting in an armchair which several ladies, wearing
only chemises, pink stockings with garters and high-heeled shoes,
were bearing aloft through the clouds.

"That's a portrait of my father ascending to Heaven. I did it
that way because he was so fond of his pipe and his red armchair.
Why did I show angels wearing modern shoes? Because I wanted
to portray them in the style of the period, just as the fifteenth-
century painters represented angels dressed in the clothes of their
time. Does that shock you? Well, you'll see that in a couple of
hundred years people will find it perfectly natural."

I have run across Van Dongen at Deauville, at Cannes and many
other places besides, in the company of his son and his pretty wife,
who is a Breton. And he is always the same, always paradoxical.
On one occasion he signed the register at the Casino as being a
"painter-contractor"; on another, he tried to convince the art-
dealer Georges Wildenstein that Ingres "drew badly" :

"Yes," he said, "he's good on detail. Each finger he draws is
perfect. But the whole is not in harmony. Picasso is the greater
draughtsman."

66 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

MARIE LAURENCIN

Rodin named her "Fauvette" because she, too, was born to
painting in the Fauve group. She was a grey-and-rose Fauvette,
like her water-colours, like her canvases, her little girls with their
winged gestures, her Amazons, her nymphs, her does : "an artist
always paints self-portraits, in spite of himself!"

I first got to know her at the Closerie des Lilas, where she used
to come and talk with the poets whose work appeared in Plume and
Soirees de Paris. And each of them would recite in a purring tone
the verses Moreas had composed for her. They are worth repeat
ing for their charming, lyrical quality:

If she but laughs,
Marie Laurencin,
Gold encircles
Her lovely
Eyes . . .

Actually, the first time I met her was in Guillaume Apollinaire's
study, at the time when the poet was living in the rue L6onie, now
called the rue Henner. When I say I met her, it would be more
accurate to say that I literally ran into her; and that day her eyes
were not encircled with gold, but with fire.

"Yes," she told me afterwards, "Guillaume was afraid that I had
come to bother him about something, so he made you stay on pur
pose. I even saw him make a sign to you. And as you were one of
his best friends. . . . Oh, those were difficult times. I was twenty-
five; he, twenty-seven. Those poets were all 'hard', in their way,
even with each other. Picasso was not very nice to him."

"But I've heard Picasso defend his memory very fiercely," I
said. "I remember a luncheon in Rome, where he got up and
exclaimed, 'I forbid anyone to say anything against Apollinaire.
You can say what you like about anyone else, but no one is going to
criticise Apollinaire in front of me!'."

"Yes, my dear M.G.M., but in those days they were young. I
met Guillaume through Sagot, the publisher, and it was Picasso
who called me to the poet's attention by saying to him one day, 'I
have met your fiancee'. Then Apollinaire lent me a book by

Marie Laurencin : Self-portrait

68 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Thomas Hardy and another by Sacher Masoch. I went back to see
him to get other books, which I took to my mother, with whom I
was living at the time. . . . But it was Braque who really 'dis
covered' me, if I may use the expression. I had left a little portrait
of myself in pink, white and black in the cloak-room at the art
class where I was studying, and the next day it was gone. Braque
had taken it to the Moulin de la Galette to show it to his painter
friends, who all said, 'Why, she has talent !' When he returned the
picture (which is now in a friend's home in England), he said :

" 'Little Laurencin [that's what he called me], you have real
talent. You must keep it up; and come to see us, too. . . .'

"And the first thing I knew, I, who considered myself worthless
as a painter, found myself the centre of attention: praised, en
couraged and launched. Gertrude Stein bought one of my can
vases for fifty francs 'to make fun of myself ', so she said; but the
truth is that she did not want to appear to have made a mistake, in
case it turned out later that. . . . How afraid people are of making
mistakes! Even Apollinaire was. To take one example: when the
Douanier Rousseau brought him the picture he had done, entitled
Apollinaire and his Muse (the Muse being myself), which has since
become famous, Apollinaire turned to me after he had gone, and
said,

" 'If I find that here tomorrow, you will have to take it down to
the cellar.'

" 'Now, listen, Guillaume,' I said; 'you've got three mantel
pieces in this house, and you can certainly put the picture on one of
them.'

" 'No,' he replied, 'I could never do any work with that in front
of me.'

"In the end, he sold us for three thousand francs to Paul Rosen
berg, who bought several others, for about the same price, from
Georges Courteline."

"Life separated us," went on Marie, "although we always re
mained friends. But there you are: I am the last free woman.
That is to say, I have never done what I did not want to do. You
see this portrait? It's my mother. I'm named Laurencin after her.
She was very pretty Norman, with a dash of Creole blood, which
explains many things in my character, and in the freedom of my
work. Of course, I have had a contract with a big art-dealer from

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 69

1913 to 1940. Now I have a new one with another big dealer. In
my painting, just as in my life, I never do anything I don't want to
do."

And with that Marie Laurencin, whose hak fluttered about her
forehead and whose eyes were like sharp thorns on either side of
her straight nose, began gently brushing in a grey background
round one of her favourite subjects: an Amazon with delicate skin
and light, airy gestures.

"Do you always use such a little brush?"

"Always. And by little touches, even what seem to be wide, flat
areas. Look at it closely. Let the imitators do what they will: I
couldn't copy my own work myself! Yet I use as few tones as
possible, and only those that I can really bring out: white, crimson
lake, cobalt blue, emerald green, ivory black, yellow ochre the
simplest colours . No chemical mixtures, so the paint will stay fresh
rill the end of time. In that way their lovely tones will last, and one
creates shapes and colours around one that are pleasing. On the
mantelpiece of my flat in the Champ de Mars I had a lovely boat,
with big sails, and when I fell to day-dreaming it would carry me
away to far-off places under wonderful skies. Between the sky and
the pictures it forms, what beautiful dreams one can create ! . . .
Ah, well . . . Yesterday I went to see Louise Hervieu, that remark
able artist who did the illustrations for Baudelaire. I found her
racked with pain by her illness, like a tortured tree. I wonder what
has become of so many other women painters? Do you remember
Marval?"

MARVAL

Dear Jacqueline ! She lived in that old building on the Quai St.
Michel, which had all those tortuous staircases, with Matisse,
Marquet and Flandrin for neighbours. She always liked to work at
the window, behind curtains of embroidered tulle.

"They give the place a 'Sunday' look, don't they?" she said in
her little flute-like voice, as she stroked the curtains, which she so
often reproduced in her flower-pieces, and even in the large panels
she did for the foyer of the Champs Elysees Theatre.

Dear, huge, grotesque and tender yes, really tender creature !
Her hair, a tuft of red hemp, like a doll's, hung over a white pier-
rette's face; and what greedy little red lips and kind eyes she had!

yo FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Oh, he didn't bring me any chocolates !" she would sometimes
say petulantly.

Her rooms were full of canvases, stretching-frames, dilapidated
chairs, ribbons, empty boxes of sweets. I used to look in on her
every now and then.

"No, I haven't got a thing for you. Oh, he wants to take some
thing away with him again? Very well, then. Here, I'll sell you
this, for the price of the frame."

"No, Marval. No!"

"Oh, when you scold me, you don't call me Jacqueline any more.
I think my name is so pretty. I only put it on the canvases I really
like. The others I just sign 'Marval', like a man. Here, I want to
show you something."

She disappeared, and soon came back with a roll of twenty can
vases, which she spread out on the floor. And out of them sprang
bunches of iris, nodding poppies, roses as pale as those in her
cheeks, and foxgloves which looked as though they might burst
into flame like fireworks. And then there were the panels of child
ren playing "ring-a-ring-a-roses", which were to be placed near
the frescoes by Bourdelle, Vuillard and Bonnard in the Champs
Elysees Theatre.

"Yes, I'll sell you this one for the price of the frame. But it's for
you only, and not for a lady-friend. However, if it would make

you both happy But you must come and see me together, and

bring me some chocolates or fondants."

Poor Marval ! We all knew she was poor, but not that she was in
dire want. One day a friend of mine and I did go to see her, taking
her a huge box of chocolates. We were so pleased with ourselves,
thinking how delighted she would be with the gift. But as we
started up the stairs, the concierge came running out and stopped
us.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"To see Madame Marval."

"She has died, Monsieur, at the hospital."

And there was dainty Hlene Perdriat, with her black fringe, her
cat-like eyes and that lithe Spanish figure swathed in black silk:
Helene Perdriat, convent-educated, who painted mischievous little
girls and the lies de Paris; oh, those balls in the rue Vavin, those

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 71

soirees at Van Dongen's> at Poiret's. First she withdrew to her
chateau de la Vaillette, where the peasants nicknamed her the

Helene Perdriat : Self -portrait

"cat-fairy" because of the eighty-odd cats she took in and looked
after. Then she adopted two orphans and, nothing daunted,

married a blind doctor

There was Valentine Prax, a Walkyrie, whose canvases were so
harsh they might have been painted on storm-tossed ships; wild
Cheriane, who married Leon-Paul Fargue; Crissay, the violinist
who painted violins ; Charlotte Gardelle and Halika, two princesses
of the Orient; Genevieve Gallibert, who painted Paris, Morocco
and Greece and was the first artist to take her brushes up in an
aeroplane; Helene Marre, who painted such spirited portraits;
Jeanne Gil-Marcheix, who took her easel to Patagonia; Valentine
Laroche, who took hers to the Pole; Hermine David, the psychic
wife of tragic Pascin; Charmy, with her feminine brutality, her
daring compositions of bees., birds and roses. There was also
crazy Wassileff, who made dolls; a good sort, she was : a combina
tion of Russian bohemian and Paris gamine. I recall sweet Louise
Millet, who looked like a lady in a Mme. Vigee-Lebrun portrait;

72 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Charlotte Brand, who wrote to me from a concentration camp in
the Midi: "We're up to our middles in mud, but the Pyrenees are
so beautiful"; Tamara de Lempika, the Hungarian countess, who
avoided the pretty-pretty in society portraits ; and Madeleine Luca,
who did so many lively pictures of little girls. And Ghera; Guille-
mette Morand; Suzanne Tourte, so vital and tall; Anne Fran?ais
who was always experimenting; finally, Jacqueline Zay, whose
enormous Liberty was placed at the entrance of the San Francisco
Exhibition.

And Marie Laurencin, sung by poets was she not a poet too?

"Here's something new," she wrote me. "They are two differ
ent men. I am not carried away by what I have written.
Nevertheless "

PORTRAITS

Tu rtas jamais ete seduit
par une belle journle

Mais quelquefois

Tu humais Vair

et facheminais

sans parler
Enfoulant la terre
de tes pieds longs et minces

Nous avions des chiens

Us nous suivaient
Tu n'aimais pas Vobscuritt

et depuis, seule

Je me suis trouvee sans lumiere
Je ne fai jamais vu en colhe

O regret

Pourquoi serions-nous des f aches
Lorsque tu monies Pescalier
En grondant

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES

73

Toute la place powr ta voix
Je me sens si legere
Que plus tu avances
Plus je flotte avec plaisir
Tu es un homme.

HENRI ROUSSEAU

My acquaintance with Henri Rousseau was very slight. Apolli-
naire and the Cubists regarded him as a profound modern primi
tive; but they also admired him because he was a painter who really
"painted" at a time when, according to some, the Impressionists
were no longer doing so.

But I had met the Douanier long before he had been "sancti
fied" by all these.

It was a year or two before 1900, when I saw a man of modest
appearance, with a big moustache and large, anxious eyes, come
one day to call on my father. He had a picture he wanted to sell
him, a View of Maisons-Alfort, and it was signed "Henri Rousseau"
in a large hand. I remember hearing him say:

"It's a view of Maisons-Alfort. Don't you feel you're really
there? Look how well that boat is done."

My father bought the picture, and it was hung in my room. One
day it disappeared, and I have never seen it since. Later on, I had

74 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

occasion to meet Rousseau in the company of Apollinaire, and he
was as serious as a judge. He greeted me; but, naturally, he did not
know that I had been the one for whom my father bought his
Maisons-Alfort picture.

COURTELINE'S DOUANIER ROUSSEAU
PICTURES

I used to go to see Courteline sometimes at Saint-Mande,
where he lived in an apartment in which one room was reserved
for what he called his "Chamber of Horrors". Juven's magazine
Rire had actually printed reproductions of its contents, and among
them were two canvases by the Douanier Rousseau.

"I set up this museum as a record of our times, for I wanted to
show to what lengths human stupidity can go," Courteline de
clared.

Poor man, he had just had a leg amputated. When I went to see
him the next time, he was, as usual, blustering and grumpy, but
philosophic.

"Have you still got your Rousseaus?" I asked him.

Ensconced in his armchair, Courteline shrugged his shoulders.

"I sold them," he confessed. "A gentleman came to see me one
day and asked if he could visit my museum. 'Certainly,' I said;
and I showed him round. 'Would you sell me those pictures?' he
asked. 'You're joking/ I said. 'For the small sum you would give
me because you couldn't give me much for them it wouldn't be

worth spoiling a collection which shows to what lengths ' Til

give you ten thousand francs for them,' said my visitor. I thought
he was making fun of me, and I opened the door to show him out.
But the fellow pulled a roll of notes out of his pocket. 'No. I won't
allow you to,' I said. 'Even if you are as stupid as the man who
perpetrated that rubbish, I am not going to take advantage of you.'
'You wouldn't be taking advantage of me. Quite the contrary!'
the fellow kept insisting. And now it turns out that I'm the one
who's stupid. I shouldn't have done it, it seems. At any rate, to
call his bluff, I told him I would accept. And what did he do but
count out the money then and there and put it in my hand? 'I'm
sorry,' he said, 'but I've only got seven thousand francs with me;

IN THE CLAWS OF THE FAUVES 75

but if you'll trust me * 'Sir/ I replied, "anyone who is mad

enough to buy such stuff, and fool enough to pay such a price,
would certainly be ass enough to go through with the bargain.
Here are your horrors, and many thanks for your money.* But
the best part of it is that he sent me the remaining three thousand
francs the same evening. And, better still, it turns out that those
daubs were worth even more!"

And, highly amused, Courteline stamped on the floor with his
one leg.

The Six Sides of the Cube

PICASSO

1 ICASSO: A MYTHOLOGICAL, cosmic monster who, like all
great innovators, arouses the most violent hatred in those who do
not understand him, and an almost hysterical adulation in his
admirers. The first to abolish academic forms, constantly reacting
against himself, he appeared in the firmament of painting, and of
all the other arts, like a comet which puts the other stars to rout,
even those which should have been following their own paths, such
as Stravinsky, who seems to have been troubled about what his
ex-collaborator would do next.

I saw him arrive in Paris around 1900, when he was quite young
and slender. An Andalusian from Malaga, the son of the Director
of the School of Fine Arts in Barcelona, he descended on Mont-
martre and began to "paint what he saw", as he expressed it.

"In those days one saw things in a terribly Lautrec way," he
said. "And because I used a Cont pencil, like Steinlen, and
tackled the same subjects, people sometimes claimed that I was
influenced by Lautrec and Steinlen. What a paradox!"

Picasso looked much the same then as he does now. First a pipe,
at the end of which is a little fellow with a lock of black hair over
one eye, an eye even blacker than the hair, full of mockery and
fire, and a small, sensuous mouth. His sturdy neck is enveloped in

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 77

a polo-neck sweater; and a watch-chain is fastened to the button
hole of his jacket. On top, he wears an incredibly old brown rain-
coat, almost as old as the hat which is perched on his head at the
same angle as the first day he put it on.

"Some people ask me why I paint pipes,, guitars and packets
of tobacco, and why these objects keep reappearing in the canvases
of the painters of today. If Chardin, for instance, painted onions
and peaches, it is because Chardin painted in the country, and near
his kitchen; and onions and peaches were, naturally, familiar ob
jects to him. What could be more familiar to most painters in
Montmartre or Montparnasse nowadays than their pipes, their to
bacco, a guitar hung on the wall over a divan, or a siphon on a
cafe-table?"

On the evening of that celebrated day in 1907, after the private
view of the Demoiselles d' Avignon, the Negro canvas which was the
starting-point of a new period destined to have such a profound
influence on young painters, 1 1 was sitting with Apollinaire on the
terrace of the Cafe des Deux Magots. He was explaining to me
how he composed his poems.

"Say, for example, that we want to write an Impression of Saint-
Germain-des-Pres" he said. "Here we are, sitting in this cafe; so
we'll begin:

Assis a la terrasse

II y a non loin de nous

Un pretre au nez rouge

Couleur

II lit un journal dont r angle f role le siphon

Un cycliste manque d'etre ecrase

Par un omnibus a bande verte

Un vert de chemin defer

1 "Were you yourself directly influenced by Negro art, as people have
often claimed?" I asked Picasso later.

"No. Definitely not/' the painter answered. "But the discovery of
their sculpture coincided, at the time, with the kind of thing we were
searching for. And we all bought some of the sculpture, and for only a
few francs! You've seen some of it at my house, as well as at
Apollinaire's."

78 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Chemin defer makes me think of the Ceinture Line, and of my
different travels; so I write:

Chemin defer de ceinture

Bourgeois, artistes

Sur la n&me banquette tachee de suie

Arbres et maisons de la banlieue

Barriere

"And suddenly I see La Gandara going by, and I write about
him thus :

La Gandara qui passe

II estfier comme un hidalgo

J'aime mieux son port de tite

Que sa peinture

Bien qu'elle soit honorable

II achete un journal au kiosque et paie

Uun geste

Distingue

"I separate the word 'distinguished' from the rest because his
gesture, you see, is detached."

// rfira pas chez Lipp
En face

Malgrd la bonne bi&re
Et rentre chez lui
D'un pas choisi
Mais void venir
Mieux sous les arbres
Void Picasso
Avenir . . .

And along came Picasso, and sat down with us.

"It's hot," said Apollinaire.

"It's fine," replied Picasso, who is a sensible optimist.

No, we talked of neither painting nor philosophy.

Bergson once told me that one day, when he was out walking
with Berthelot, they chanced to meet Renan.

"Of course I was all attention," he said. "But the two famous
thinkers did not talk of the eternal verities, but of the various
means of transport which they could take to go home."

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 79

And the same with kings. I was talking once with the Swedish
sovereign at Cannes, when the King of Denmark came along.
Their Majesties talked of nothing but their relatives' health, and
one advised the other to try a hot water-bottle on his stomach, and
to recommend it to the rest of the Royal Family.

That night Picasso, Apollinaire and I went to the circus to
gether. None of us had brought a sketch-book; but Picasso's mind
was busy. A young poet, Rene Fauchois, who was sitting opposite
us, pointed to the circus-ring, and traced an imaginary circle in the
air with his finger.

Then Picasso made an almost prophetic gesture.

"No," he said. And he, in turn, drew a circus-ring in the air,
only he made it square.

One day in 1917, on the very day, in fact, that I was demobilised,
I received an envelope containing a heavy key. The explanation
was not forthcoming until, two days later, I had a letter from my
friend Sergei Diaghilev, the amazing impresario of the Russian
Ballet. It was, I learned, the key of Picasso's studio in the rue
Victor Hugo at Montrouge. The artist was in Rome with Dia
ghilev, and both had written to ask if I would go to the studio,
choose twenty or so of Picasso's canvases and bring them to Rome,
where they were planning to put on an exhibition.

I went out to Montrouge at once, and showed the key and the
letter to the caretaker.

"All right," he said. "It's there, in the garden."

A dog came up to me, sniffed, and wagged its tail.

I went to the studio, and, on opening the door, was struck
immediately by the bare walls. But on the floor were thirty or
forty rows of canvases, with twenty to twenty-five canvases in each
row. And what canvases! Some were of his "Lautrec" period,
some of his "rose" period, some of the "blue" period, as well as a
number of his first analytical compositions.

"I hope the Customs Officers won't mistake them for maps of
military areas," Diaghilev had said in his letter.

I made a selection, then closed the place up again.

"I'm taking these," I told the caretaker as I went out.

80 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"All right. All right," he said again, without even bothering
to look at what I was carrying.

Two days later I left for Italy.

In Rome, Diaghilev was living in the Palazzo Theodori, a large,
square house of white marble, in the Renaissance style, situated in
the Piazza Colonna. I was shown up a wide flight of stairs to the
third floor, and, after passing through several high-ceilinged
marble anterooms, I reached the dining-room, where there was a
long table set for twelve people, with beautiful Italian china on
heavy lace napery, countless bottles of various wines, and a great
many heavy crystal glasses.

A large folding-door, ornamented with mouldings and paint
ings, led to the drawing-room, which wsls huge, and lit by four
large, high windows looking out on to the fountains and noisy
traffic of the Piazza. The domed ceiling was supported by double
columns. The walls were superbly hung with tapestries. But
scattered over chairs, stools, and even the piano was an unbeliev
able hotch-potch of lengths of muslin, silks and other materials,
boxes, baskets, dancing-slippers, sketches for costumes, frames,
tacked-up dresses, music-scores and dolls.

A number of people princes and telephone operators, trades
men and dilettanti were sitting wherever they could find a
space.

I examined a number of drawings which had been pinned on
the walls between the tapestries. Some of them were of nudes,
impeccably drawn; others were dancers in ballet skirts, with
strangely voluminous arms and legs, pudgy fingers and bulging
eyes, of a frightening realism despite the purity of line.

"What surprising Degas!" I murmured.

"Degas!" exclaimed a voice behind me. "When did you ever
see any Degas like those? If you want to know, Monsieur Degas
would not have been worthy to lace the boots of the artist who drew
those."

I turned round. It was Diaghilev.

"Who is the artist, then?" I asked, in bewilderment.

"Here he is now."

And I saw Picasso enter the room the same Picasso, just as I
had always seen him at the Rotonde and in Montmartre, with his
lock of hair over one eye, wearing a shirt made of synthetic fabric

82 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

instead of the customary sweater, the ring of his watch-chain as
usual in the button-hole of his jacket.

"Yes. At present I am drawing like Ingres/' he said in his Span
ish accent, as he shook hands.

"Is the other genius here?" inquired Diaghilev. "Then let's sit
down to lunch."

The "other genius" was Stravinsky. As I have discussed else
where 1 the latter 's opinions on the subject of music, Rome, Wag
ner, Debussy, etc., here I shall keep strictly to Picasso.

I told him how surprised and delighted I was by his drawings
of the ballet-girls. I tried to get him to talk about Ingres, whom
some of Picasso's disciples considered the real revolutionary.

"But what about the cube?" asked a lady who was sitting at the
end of the table.

Picasso threw her a black look.

"Well, what about the cube?"

"If you give up the cube, what are people going to say ?"

"Oh," cried Picasso, "do you suppose I paint for the habitues of
the Rotonde? If that's what you think, you can think again. Now
that I have imitators, I am going to "

"Imitators?"

"Call them disciples, if you like. But I don't give a damn about
them. They don't interest me. It is only the Masters who count:
those who create. And they don't turn round when someone pisses
on their heels," he added in a lower tone to Diaghilev and me. Then
abruptly he said to me,

"What do you think of Raphael?"

"I take your view that Raphael is a Carpaccio set free. With one
light bound he escaped from geometry, from the 'school', from
the birth-pangs in which Michelangelo had brought him forth. He
exists serenely on a plane of his own."

"There's no parallel in music," said Stravinsky. "Beethoven
wasn't able to escape from Bach. He remained German, and lacked
spontaneity. We still have to place Mozart and the earlier Italian
musicians above everyone else because they are spontaneous they
correspond to the primitives in painting. Spontaneity is the only
verity in art, I'm still working away, but I am spontaneous only in
my subconscious."

1 In Les Montparnos and Cinquante Ans de Gloires Thidirales.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE

A significant remark, when one considers that surrealism had not
yet been invented.

"Yes, but a Master must free himself from his instinct," de
clared Picasso, "and break the chain of rules, even at the risk of
his life. I like to lose myself in Michelangelo, as I would in the
majesty of a mountain landscape."

Someone passed him a photo of one of the figures in the Sistine
Chapel.

'"Ah!" he said, placing his finger on the toe of the youth and
following the graceful outline. "What a feeling of pleasure I get
when I go over this line. . . . But Raphael is the sky itself: what
serenity in his line; what mastery! It wasn't Leonardo who in
vented aviation; it was Raphael!"

I can still see Picasso's stubby thumb on the photo, and I have
never been able to look at the figures in the Sistine since then with
out feeling as though he were with me, and lovingly tracing with
that thumb of his, from toe to hip and from hip to shoulder, the
living, tormented lines of those characters in eternal converse with
the gods.

Referring to Leonardo's Saint John^ Picasso observed,

"Yes, Leonardo promises you Heaven with that raised finger;
but Raphael gives it to you."

I helped Picasso hang his canvases for the exhibition.

"Did you see my dog at Montrouge?" he asked as we worked.

"Yes; he was quite friendly."

"What, he wasn't tied up? He didn't go for you? He usually
bites everybody. He must have sensed that you were a friend."

"On the other hand, all the windows were open in your studio,"
I said, "and anyone could have got
in and helped themselves to your
canvases."

"I hope you took a dozen or so for
yourself."

"A dozen ! Why, I didn't even take
one, Pablo."

"But you should have done. Why
didn't you? You should have, you
know."

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Picasso had already begun work on Parade for the Russian Ballet.
He was planning to do something very special, for instead of a
Persian stage-set in the Scheherazade style, or a Spectre de la Rose, in
the Munich manner, which the fashionable audience expected, he
was going to throw a Cubist setting at their heads for the first time.

And what a premiere Parade had at the Chatelet Theatre, half
way through the First World War, and at the most critical time!
Even so, the huge auditorium was packed to bursting, and with a
turbulent audience, out to make trouble. Diaghilev and I had dis
tributed tickets all over Montparnasse, which was in a state of
nervous expectation. All the painters came, and stood about in
their sweaters and working clothes, pushing their way among the
fashionable ladies in the boxes. There were the most extraordinary
combinations of people, some of the most picturesque of them in
the Director's box, presided over by Missia Edwards, in black-and-
white satin, and with Picasso wearing his customary jockey's-cap
and garnet-red pullover. In the box where I was there were half a
dozen painters from the "Cubist" cafes, and among them the
melancholy "Noix-de-Coco", Modigliani's fiancee, Mile. Hebu-
terne; the Citron Sisters, Helene Perdriat, Lagar, Ortiz de Zarate,
two actresses from the Comedie Franfaise; and, in the next box,
Maurice Rostand !

"What's he doing here?" demanded One of the Citron Sisters.
"Just wait: I'll fix him." And, turning to the young man, sue jaid,
"Is it true, Monsieur, that you're a homo?"

But M. Rostand gave her back as good as he got.

"Mademoiselle," he replied, "in your presence I should ima
gine I was at most a lesbian."

The orchestra, which included a few typewriters among the
instruments, attacked the opening measures of Erik Satie's score,
stark by way of reaction against the nouveau-riche in art. Immedi
ately a storm of whistling broke out, followed by frenzied applause
and yells.

"Mauricette annoys me," cried a woman painter. "He shouldn't
be here. There's only one way of disgusting him," she said to a
young artist next to her. "Let's make love." And she began to
undress.

Then people in some of the other boxes began fighting each
other as the curtain rose.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 85

Picasso had got permission from Diaghilev, despite the latter's
artistic principles, to use as back-drop a simple curtain, dazzlingly
white, lit by spot-lights. In this way the costumes of the dancers,
dressed as Chinese, Jugglers, "Hommes-Maisons" (Managers),
etc., were heightened in colour. The "Little American Girl" that
Picasso and Cocteau had created was so true to life, even though
the artists had never set foot in America, that when I was in New
York twenty-five years later I saw her type time and again on Fifth
Avenue.

There was such almost erotic excitement in the rhythm of the
music, in the lighting, in the dancing, that those spectators who
were not fighting or shouting "Bravo!" were performing like the
couple in my box.

Out in the corridor M. Marcel Boulenger and the editor of Le
Matin were exchanging cards for a duel.

When the final curtain fell on this triumphal scene, a young poet
shouted,

"This is the end of the 'Battle of Hernani'!" l

Shortly afterwards, in Paris, a great event occurred in the private
life of the artist. He was still connected with the Russian Ballet,
for he was fascinated by that magnificent movement, which had
brought him, Matisse and Derain, along with Cubism, to the stage
of the Paris Opera. And there he formed an attachment.

Diaghilev was preparing to put on the ballet Pulcinella y and
Picasso, once more defying all the rules of decor and perspective,
had "broken up" the stage by arranging a scene with a house in the
middle-ground something that had not been done in the theatre
since Palladio's day.

While working on this project, he became very much interested
in a young dancer who went by the picturesque name of Kokholova.

"Be careful," Diaghilev warned him. "A Russian always in
tends marriage."

"You're joking," replied Picasso.

"You watch out," Bakst told him.

1 An allusion to a similar riot that had taken place years before at the
premiere of the first romantic drama, Victor Hugo's Hernani. [Trans,
note.]

86

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Soon afterwards Picasso became engaged to her. The most para
doxical part about the affair was that the young lady's mother came
to Diaghilev, very upset, and said:

Picasso by Bakst

"A painter ... Is painting a respectable profession?"

"At least as respectable as dancing," answered the impresario.

"But can he earn a living?"

The years passed. One of Picasso's drawings, from a easeful of
his works which he had sold in his Montmartre days for one
hundred francs, went for twenty-five thousand.

Then came the exhibition of his still-lifes: a new "manner",
resulting in a new success, which was as striking as it was complete,
because the pictures had a freshness and originality of composition
such as had never been seen before.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 87

Paul Rosenberg followed Picasso's work with feverish interest.
Each time he went up to the artist's apartment he would find a
new masterpiece. One morning he was shown a large still-life of
grapes, apricots and peaches.

"It's admirable/' he said. "I'll take it, of course."

The next day Rosenberg went to look at the finished canvas.
But Picasso had taken the fruit out of the dish and used their warm
colours to paint the surrounding surface, leaving only one piece of
fruit as a reminder. The day after that the canvas was once more
entirely repainted.

He exhibited forty of the series., almost all of which were snapped
up during the first week.

"Those canvases will have a few more brothers and sisters, I
hope," Rosenberg said, enthusiastically.

"Certainly not," declared Picasso. "You mustn't expect me to
repeat myself. My past doesn't interest me. I would rather copy
others than copy myself. In that way I should at least be giving
them something new. I love discovering things. . . ."

There is all of Picasso in that phrase.

For Picasso, the most important thing is always to find a new
idiom in which to express his art. But he does not like to talk
about it. Whenever a young painter comes to him, and wants to
tell him about his theories of art, Picasso stops him and advises
him to "say it with brushes and paints".

He doesn't care much about painting from nature. He is more
interested in creating form. One day he said to us :

"I had engaged a certain model. After a short time I let her go.
I don't like prisons."

On another occasion he told Rosenberg.

"Did you know I made a fortune today?"

"Oh? What have you been painting?"

"Oh, not in that way. I sold my 'mandolin rights'. I'm not
going to paint them any more. I'm leaving that to others. . . ."

Another time his art-dealer came to see a canvas on which
Picasso had been working for several weeks.

"Where is it?" asked Rosenberg.

Picasso smiled.

88 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"I'm rich/' he said. "I've just liquidated a hundred thousand
francs."

Sometimes the artist, like the poet Gasquet, seems to be saying,
"I don't give a damn". But, like Gasquet with his poems, Picasso
is ready to give his last breath in his struggle with a canvas.

To mention another episode in his life, Picasso has a son, Paulo,
whom he loves dearly. One night when Paulo was a child, he
suddenly fell gravely ill. There was no telephone in the house.

It is curious how sometimes the most advanced, the most "con
temporary", artists have unexpected prejudices against modern
inventions and the simplest practical conveniences. How many
painters of his time, I wonder, were impressed by a remark made
by crusty old Degas : "Ha-ha ! Forain has had a telephone installed
in his house, and when it rings he actually goes and answers it."

But Picasso had no telephone. In desperation, his wife had to
go to a neighbour's and telephone for an ambulance to take the
child to hospital. The next morning Dr. Grosset, the well-known
surgeon, operated on little Paulo, and saved his life. And when the
doctor refused to charge any fee for his services, Picasso sent him
one of his finest canvases : a portrait of a young boy dressed as
Pierrot. Soon afterwards he had a telephone installed in his
apartment. He does not like using it: but he looks on it, in its
niche, as a sort of idol, to which he can always appeal in an
emergency.

He has other whims, too. One day a certain painter in Mont-
parnasse came to see me with one of Picasso's canvases. He wanted
only a modest price for it, but he insisted on my getting Picasso to
verify it. I took it to the latter, who gave one look at it, and said
crossly,

"It's a fake."

"But I'm sure it's a genuine Picasso/' my visitor protested to me
the following day. "Here's another one. Doesn't that strike you
as genuine too?"

"It certainly does."

But when I showed it to Picasso, he glanced at it even more
cursorily and said,

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 89

"It's a fake."

By now I began to have some doubts myself. So I took one of
my own Picassos down from the wall., and carried it to the rue de la
Boetie for the artist to pass judgement. And again he stated
flatly,

"It's a fake."

That was too much, and I exclaimed,

"But I saw you do this canvas myself!"

He gave a slight shrug.

"Oh 5 well," he said, with a smile, "I sometimes do fake Picassos
myself."

However, when he heard the story of the poor painter who had
brought me his Picasso to sell, he said,

"We'll buy his picture for four times what he's asked for it."

Picasso's generosity is in fact legendary. I hardly dare name the
sums of money he donated for Spanish children in the 1930'$ dur
ing the Spanish Civil War.

Incidentally, he was then engaged on his Guernica, depicting a
dying horse with a steel tongue, crushing a pregnant mother,
whose fist clenches a lamp that is about to set fire to a house.

At the end of the annual ceremony in memory of Guillaume
Apollinaire, which Picasso never missed, a Futurist academician,
who had written things about Spain which had annoyed the artist,
came forward to shake hands with him. Picasso clicked his heels
together, drew himself up as if he were standing at attention, and
said,

"You forget, sir, that we are at war. . . ."

Into his tragic fresco Guernica Picasso poured all his artist's
blood, his whole Spanish soul.

He worked on it in his new studio in the rue des Grands-Augus-
tins, on the second floor of an old building, which housed the
Bailiffs' Union. To avoid being disturbed there, he had put a
spiked barrier across the first step of the stairs leading to his place,
so that it was impossible to ring his bell when the gate was closed.

Everything was orderly and austere in the studio: there were no
ornaments on the walls, no curtains in front of the high windows.

For paints, Picasso used anything and everything, even furniture
paint. For a palette he used whatever was handy pieces of wood,

90 FROM RENOIR-TO PICASSO

cardboard, or the wall, or even the window-pane, on which he
could gauge the transparency or opacity or luminosity of his brush
strokes. He worked every hour of the day and night. And what an
experience it was to watch him work !

He had trained flood-lights on the huge canvas, in front of which
he ran dancing up and down, rushing at it and darting away again.
As I had occasion to see him in action, I jotted down the following
notes on the spot:

"He seems to knead the handle of his brush in his short fist,
sight his prey and take aim like a picador preparing to lance a bull.
Or rather, the picador becomes himself the bull. His black eyes
dilate ; his nostrils distend; his legs tremble. He gathers himself to
rush upon his work. But, no : he only caresses it. Then he flies
into a rage. He rubs out what he has just done; destroys it. For
had he not prepared it all beforehand in his mind's eye, as carefully
as possible, face by face, expression by expression, plane by plane,
volume by volume, colour by colour, as a general plans a battle?
Even so, in the midst of the fight he wavers, and suddenly changes
his plan. Then Picasso dashes forward, slashing out almost every
thing he has achieved, and begins again, more fiercely, more ex
pressively, more boldly, more sentiently than ever. It is truly a
battle, and in the course of it he will fertilise his mistress, the can
vas, and fashion her as he wants her, more beautiful still. It is a
mating of animals and a spiritual love; it is a carnage and the ten-
derest embrace. It is almost as if, in his ardour, he breaks the back
of his beloved, while she drinks from his lips an intoxicating wine,
a wine of life, of reality and of transfiguration.

"Broken and exhausted, he halts, then flings himself once more
into the battle.

"Sometimes he works quickly, his hand trying to keep pace with
his lightning thoughts. At others he paints slowly, almost coldly,
diligently.

"My eyes do not leave him while he paints for the tenth time,
in his desire to make it more expressive, more convulsive that
clenched hand, with the sword falling from the wounded fingers . . .

"How joyously he paints these figures on the shore of a cerulean
sea! His face is filled with light like the sky; his eye gleams with
the malice of a pagan god. He smiles as he composes his detailed
pencil-sketches with such care. But once more his brows contract.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 91

Like a Japanese, he would chastise himself for a wrong line.
Furiously he wipes out this or that piece of work, which has cost
him so much effort, as a child kicks over a sand-castle.

"And when he takes up his etching-needle, it is a dagger in the
Spaniard's hand, with which he scores the flesh."

The next morning he goes and looks over the previous day's
work, his hands in his pockets and a smile in his eyes. He examines
this or that detail. He stands back from the canvas ; takes it in as
a whole; glances at his brushes. All at once he picks up one of
them, and the battle is on again: eventually he will win.

1954. Vallauris. From Golfe-Juan the road winds up through
a rocky ravine interspersed with little cascades and groves of olive
trees. Long before reaching the village, one encounters red and
yellow signs saying: "Visit the fifteen pottery-works on the
Fournas road to the right". To which one is tempted to reply:
"And the eighty-five others in the town as well". There are other
signboards displaying the pleasant names of various artisans who
make pottery and majolica. At the end of the main street is a little
square, in front of the town hall, where Picasso's Man With a
Lamb can be seen on its pedestal.

"The Villa La Galloise? Olj, yes. Monsieur Picasso's place.
The first street on the right, then go straight on up between the
factories and the open country."

Although it is only half-past nine in the morning, a dozen cars
are already parked at the foot of the villa's rose-garden, as if hitched
on to each other along the steep road. Nearby a number of people
are seated or walking about, talking in several languages, smoking,
waiting for a door or a window to open in the villa. It is a regular
siege. No doubt the pilgrims in Tibet wait about in the same way
in front of the Dalai-Lama's palace.

Paulo, the painter's eldest son, drives up on a motor-bike, and
comes over to greet me. He leads the way through the tangled
garden blazing with roses.

"There's a good deal of grass," he says, apologetically. "Papa
didn't want it cut, so he bought a couple of donkeys to keep it
down for him instead."

92 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

We go upstairs, pass through a hall, and enter Picasso's own
room. The painter is seated on a large brass bed, getting dressed,
and he puts on his socks, his working-slacks and a sweater. No
aesthetics here; no playing the bourgeois or the "artist", either.
He rises to his feet and shakes hands.

"It's been a long time since we saw each other!" he exclaims.

I am struck by his appearance. The Picasso before me is entirely
new to me. He no longer has his lock of hair over one eye. And
the face below the almost shaved head (a veritable Dalai-Lama) is
terra-cotta colour; his eyes, those famous flashing eyes of his,
eclipse everything about him; and his smile puts us at our ease.

"This is Or de Fugeres, the Curator of the Antibes Museum,
whom you already know," he says. "And may I present the painter
Pignon, and his wife; and Paulo but you've known him since he
was born. And this gentleman, here, has come to ask me to verify a
canvas."

The walls are whitewashed. Over the mantelpiece hang two
small, unframed portraits by the Douanier Rousseau. From the
windows can be seen the slopes of the surrounding hills and several
chimneys of nearby pottery-works.

"They are putting up a sort of cement building over there,"
Picasso informs us. "But we'll get used to it. Ugly? That de
pends on how you look at it."

As it is Sunday, all the young men in town are playing bowls in
the Place des Ecoles. The artist takes us out to his studio, or,
rather, to his studios. Paulo brings a long Hispano out of the
garage. Picasso puts on a checked cap, like the one Renoir used to
wear.

"You see, I'm still faithful to it."

"The same jockey-cap that helped you to win so many Grands
Prix!"

Taking a round-about way, we arrive at the Fournas road, and
find ourselves in front of half-a-dozen sheds (part of a former per
fume factory), where his chief artisans, Suzanne and Georges
Rami6, are waiting for us. In the first shed there is a remarkably
fine metal cast of a Venus lying on the ground, ready for the arms
and legs to be soldered on. Piled on various tables, on benches, on
shelves and on the ground are hundreds of objects of all kinds and

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 93

descriptions: cigarette-boxes ornamented with the skulls of twenty
different animals; a couple of hundred pieces of pottery, which
look as though they had been recently dug up out of the soil of
Crete; faces made out of wire, wood or cardboard; screws and
bicycle-chains; paint-pots lined up like regiments; coloured
mouldings for experiments with new forms; rails, alembics, scales,
gyroscopes and other articles scattered about the red-and-black
earthen floor.

We make our way through this phantasmagoria to a second
shed, and on to a third and fourth, to wind up in an even more
bewildering one. It is like Ali-Baba's caves. We feel as though we
had come in search of treasure at the bottom of the ocean, or in the
Caribbean sea, or some prehistoric cavern. For there, under all
these old tiles covering the unfaced walls, are literally millions of
francs worth of canvases, most of them unfinished. Among them
are some thirty large panels representing the head of a young,
Botticelli-like English girl, her hair done in a horse's tail.

"If the Greeks had worn chignons like that, would their statues
have been any the less splendid? That's a young girl who has been
living out here recently. I've taken a model for the first time in my
life, and I am really using her. She posed for this/'

"Directly? Did she pose while you actually painted those large
canvases?"

"Yes instead of making studies on bits of paper. But I've done
a hundred or so sketches of her as well."

And there they were, in fact: bundles of papers, sketches that
had been carefully worked on, cross-hatched, shaded, modelled
and modified so that the final versions were reduced to just a few
simple lines.

"I'm beginning to 'get' it, I think," says the artist. "Paulo, will
you open this door?"

Another shed, and twenty more canvases of the same head in
profile, with hair drawn tight towards the back, some of them
on the ground, some on the walls, some on easels, some on
chairs.

"They look like a sculptor's drawings."

"As a matter of fact, I do want to use them for sculpture. What
interests me most is to find exactly the right place for the hair and
the face, in space, as well as for the chair on which the model is

94 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

sitting. But I've got to try a few more canvases for it. There are
some others in the next shed."

I look at them all, my eyes going from one picture to another,
and I examine each one closely, first a profile, then a three-
quarters view of the charming head, and so on, all done with a few
long brush-strokes. Throughout the series the neck gradually
becomes longer and narrower, but in such a way that, although it
attains to three or four times its natural proportions, it seems nor
mal in the geometry of the lines traced like a flight of birds, which
cross and re-cross each other, and remain fixed.

Again the Protean monster has changed his form, and again
found what the older generation called a "new manner" ; and each
time he has achieved something bolder, freer, more original and
definitive, and with complete mastery!

M. Teriade, the editor of the art review Verve, who is one of our
party, is overcome with admiration.

"Monsieur Picasso, you are the greatest draughtsman the world
has ever known!" he exclaims. "And from what have you not
delivered us!"

Picasso pays no attention, but searches through his canvases
and puts aside half a dozen, which are still wet and rather stark in
execution.

"Yes," he repeats, "I think I have almost 'got' it."

"Are you going to add another colour to those large, almost
geometrical spaces, with their arabesques?"

"Um an arabesque is a dance; a dance "

"Do you intend to keep only the greys?"

His greys are so delicate and so light that, by contrast, the model's
eyes look blue.

"Colour?" he queries. "I don't know. Yes and no. Perhaps.
As you put salt in soup. Probably a little yellow and a very little
green, which will give the face a slightly rose tint. But colour
interests me less at the present time than 'gravity' or 'density'."

"Gravity is the balancing factor of density."

"Yes, it's like oil and vinegar. . . . Well, who knows? Perhaps
some day painting will be done with oil and vinegar. But where's
the dog? Tanger? He's run off to the caft. It's noon already.
Let's go and have an aperitif or a glass of Vittel water."

We go out to a little caf6 along the road, where the terrace is

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 95

filled with tables covered with red-and-yellow check cloths. As
we sit down Picasso says :

"Yesterday Gauguin's son was here with me; and Oscar Wilde's
son the day before. He resembles his father, only he looks older."

"And what about that musician you were so severe with?"

"I wasn't severe with him. He writes operettas and was silly
enough to say to me, 'You know, I was meant to write grand
operas.' 'No, you weren't,' I said. 'If you'd been meant to write
grand operas, they'd have come out of your guts. Do whatever
you do well: that's the most important thing.' It's like that other
fellow who used to disparage Bouguereau. But Bouguereau painted
quite well. I shouldn't say that to everybody because 'everybody'
would interpret it differently from the way we do. ... Well, it's
half-past twelve. I must go to lunch and get back to work. I think
that after I've worked out a dozen or so more canvases really well,
I'll get what I'm after. I like that white area I leave behind the
face. That's Space."

"And wrestling with Space has something titanic about it that
fascinates you."

His dark eyes glow even more than usual. He gets up and shakes
hands all round.

"Paulo!"

Paulo is already at the wheel of the Hispano, and he takes his
father off into the mountains, into that clear light which strikes
directly on the painter's forehead, the kind of light he uses with
such serenity.

GEORGES BRAQUE

Who invented Cubism Braque or Picasso?

If you ask them, Braque will say,

"Picasso."

And Picasso will always say,

"Braque."

For though they are of such different temperaments one a
punctual French bourgeois, the other impetuous, scattering his
ideas and works like jewels to the four winds they nevertheless
have a deep admiration and affection for each other. As Picasso
once said of his friend,

96 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Braque never sings off-key."

The time is 1910; the place, Braque's 'studio in Montmartre,
with a violin, a mandolin, a pipe-rack and several Negro masks
hanging on the wall. There are canvases everywhere. On the table
stands a saucepan, on the floor a water-jug. For water, Braque is
obliged to go down seven flights and fetch it up himself. But what
is that for a painter who has tramped, knapsack on his back, up and
down the country, visiting all the places Cezanne painted, in order
to steep himself in them and "do them over again", "breaking up
the volumes just as the Master of Aix had broken up the light".

He works like a jobber all day long, from six in the morning till
eight at night. He is interested in nothing but painting. Unless he
is in front of his easel and subject, he feels he is wasting precious
time. I can still see him, in those days of the Russian Ballet,
sitting restlessly on the terrace of a cafe in Monte Carlo, along
with Georges Auric and the famous impresario. 1 He dressed con
ventionally, and even wore a derby. As he gazed out over the sea
which he loves, though he prefers the coast of Normandy to the
South of France Braque explained his theories of art to us.

"First, I get an idea. Then begins the great adventure, which
comes into being under my brush. An idea for a picture is like a
cradle [he meant the framework where a ship rests while it is being
built], which is taken away when the boat is finished. The picture
is completed when the idea has disappeared."

"Have you worked with Picasso?"

"Yes, we have worked together principally at Sorgues, near
Avignon, in 1912, under a broiling sun.

"The walls of the houses there formed large planes, grey in the
light the whole thing was nothing but a series of angles. It was
then that I realised that light, or colour, destroys form. When I
was in the Camouflage Service during the War, I tried out my
theory with a toy cannon, using browns and greens. Horizon-blue
was quickly discarded, and camouflage has been done in brown and
green ever since."

He told us much more, and then went on,

"As I said to Apollinaire, painting is getting closer and closer to
poetry, now that photography has freed it from the need to tell a

1 Diaghilev had asked Braque to do the settings and costumes for
Moli&re's Les Fdcheux, for which Auric composed the music.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE

97

story. Like music, painting must have its own means of expres
sion,"

Braque now works in the rue du Douanier, in a studio which
was designed for him by Ferret, the architect of the Champs
Elysees Theatre. It is a wide, airy place with plenty of space, and
the light filters through vellum blinds. There are divans here and
there, and long wooden tables, on which are neatly ranged his

brushes, tools, paint-pots and other equipment. At the back is a
large old-rose screen, whose colour serves not only as a control but
also as a contrast and a point of departure.

Robust, slow and composed in his movements, the artist con
verses quietly. He wears sports shoes and a cap. One senses a great
surge of strength in him, like a locomotive that can do eighty miles
an hour, and only goes ten.

He walks over to one of his canvases and caresses it with his
hand. The look he gives it is both deliberate and shrewd, and
behind it there is a little gleam of light. He props up the frame, a
frame which throws the picture forward.

"In the old days we used Renaissance frames," he says, "chiefly

98 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

because of the lines of recession; and the 'groove' of the frame
helped the illusion. But I've discarded the lines of recession,
which are almost always false. A picture should make you want to
live 'inside' it. I want the beholder to enter into my picture, and to
feel as if the frame were behind him. . . . Oh 5 I didn't exactly
originate that conception. Trouillebert said to Corot one day,
'Where's that tree you're putting into your landscape?' And Corot
replied, 'Behind me'."

JUAN GRIS

What delightful recollections we all have of that charming fel
low, who was so modest and bashful, his friends say, that he would
never allow anyone to see him naked, not even his wife. He raised
Cubism to an aristocratic level, "starting from the abstract to
arrive at reality", a reality of pure and almost musical quality. If
he accepted the Cubist discipline with the conviction that "here is
a new language in which to paint the world", he did so as a poet no
less than as a painter.

"Give me a branch to perch on," he said to the sculptor Jacques
Lipschitz, "and I will sing like a bird on it."

And he elaborated his views in this way:

"I know that in the beginning Cubism was an analytical experi
ment which had no more to do with Painting than the description
of a problem in physics has to do with Physics. But it was rounded
out by technical experiments, and analysis has, in consequence,
become synthesis by analogy with the subject-matter. With the
result that Cubism will eventually cease to be an aesthetic move
ment and become an element of painting." x

These opinions may be forgiven those who were so ardently
searching for a new truth, and above all those, like Juan Gris, who
did not stop at intellectual innovations, believing that "a painting
should last longer than a school, even though it temporarily be
longs to that school".

Theories pose the problem; the solution is the work itself.

It is little known, perhaps, that Gris was one of Paul Iribe's
1 Cf. Claude Roger Marx.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 99

first associates, when, as a poor young man, he had to work on one
of that designer's publications.

Diaghilev engaged him to do a ballet, a commission which freed
him for a time from the poverty which none of us had even sus
pected.

One of the best things he created is lost to posterity. Gris had
asked me to come and look at it before anyone else, and this is
what it was :

When the Printemps store in Paris was being rebuilt, the poet
Jean Valmy-Baysse, a friend of the owner's, suggested that Juan
Gris should be asked to do the decorations for the opening cere
mony. Gris accepted, but only on condition that he was allowed a
free hand. The architect, Wybo, gave his consent.

Gris hung from the arches a series of long, banner-like bands of
silk, ranging from the palest of greys to the darkest blues, placed
close enough to hide the framework of the glass roof, yet far
enough apart to allow the light to bring out the harmonies of
colour. He covered the balustrade of the stairs in the same manner ;
while on the ground floor he set up great screens of the same shades
some of them soaring high into the air. The whole effect made one
of the largest and most beautiful so-called Cubist pictures I have
ever seen.

Hayden and Marcoussis were the first real interpreters of
Cubism. Every time I met Marcoussis, he would say to me :

"Do you think I shall be forgotten? I am very unhappy about it.
I have spent my whole life trying to add my humble stone to the
edifice."

Hayden, for his part, persevered for a long time in the Cubist
idiom. His melancholy took quite a different line.

"I hope I shan't succumb under the weight of the cube," he
said. "Yet what a fine death that would be! Heroic? Perhaps.
But a fine death nevertheless . . ."

The works of the two painters have a prominent place in the
Paris Musee d'Art Moderne.

100 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

LEGER THE TUBIST

Among all the painters who were Constructors, Reconstructors,
Constructivists and Cubists that is to say, Juan Gris, Hayden,
Marcoussis, Maria Blanchard, Jacques Villon, Gleizes, Metzinger,
Herbin, Severini, Duchamp, Survage, La Fresnaye the name of
Fernand Leger is certainly one of the most outstanding.

He was another Norman, with square shoulders, light eyes, a
large nose firmly planted in a heavy face and an air of knowing
exactly where he wanted to go.

When you entered his Montparnasse studio (which was not far
from the one that Whistler once had), you might think at first that
you had got into a workshop by mistake. The whole place was a
clutter of dynamos, gears and wheels of every description. But
Leger would come out in his overalls from behind his turbines,
cylinders and pumps, and, running his hand over the polished steel
of a connecting-rod, would say,

"Don't you think they're beautiful?"

"They are your 'models'?"

"Yes, but I interpret them. I don't copy."

The walls were covered with canvases. He had been the first to
interpret the human form in terms of the machine and find the
appropriate style for the age; and with his massive volumes, which
he painted without any concession to photographic realism, he
reacted more violently than any other painter against the Im
pressionist theories, and even against the flat, single-toned areas
favoured by the Fauves. In his picture The City> he captured, like
Cezanne, the effect of depth solely through colour and without de
pending on perspective.

"Invent," he said, as he stood on his ladder, brushing in his
wide areas of pure tones. "Invent forms as the Chaldeans did, and
the Romans and the Gothic artists. But don't copy."

We sometimes went to the cinema together, especially in the rue
de la Gaite, the street which the Goncourts, Lorrain, Lautrec,
Burne-Jones and de Feure had all been so fond of. Leger was
enthusiastic about the cinema, which showed him new forms that
even photography had not revealed to him.

"Look at that hand on the wall, on that white ground," he
would say. "No painter has ever depicted it in just that way,"

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE IOI

One night after we had gone to see a film, Leger seemed to be
lost in thought. When we got back to his studio, he took out a
large sheet of paper and began drawing on it. After a few minutes,
he said:

"I've made a discovery. What is important now is not the sub
ject, but the object"

And thus he invented the "Religion of the Object", which was to
play such an important part in the development of the new-born
Cubist movement, as well as in the various trends of the Ecole de
Paris.

It was at this time that, as a reaction against both the stippling
technique of the Impressionists and the large, violently coloured
surfaces of the Fauvists, the younger generation of artists turned
to construction and, in accordance with Cezanne's doctrine,
demonstrated that everything in Nature should be "treated as a
cylinder, a sphere or a cone; that it should all be put in perspective
i.e., that each side of an object, of a plane, should converge on a
central point".

Others chose the cube, the polyhedron and the pyramid. Being
fascinated by the poetry of machinery, Leger began by expressing
his ideas in tube forms, which prompted the art critic, Louis
Vauxcelles, to nickname Him "Leger the Tubist". It was, of
course, only a play on words, for Vauxcelles really considered him
one of the most powerful painters of his time.

Leger anticipated several of his friends by using pure, intense
colours at a time when the first Cubists and Analysts were still

102 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

composing their pictures in grey or brown only, some of them
rebelling against the "nouveau richissisme" by tolerating only in
sipid colours, and subjects taken from the most banal aspects of
daily life.

Moreover, Leger invented the "poetry of the bolt", the nut and
the bolt, as opposed to that of the rose. And, in spite of the advent
of neo-plasticism, he felt that he was on the right track, and con
tinued to follow his own line.

"We are used to seeing too much through the medium of con
ventional drawings," he maintained. "I should like to meet some
one who paints without ever having seen a drawing in his life : he
could teach us a few things!"

One of his art-dealers took him on a trip to Rome, and I won
dered what effect the experience would have on Leger. I soon
found out, for I received a postcard of the Dome of St. Peter's
from him, and on it he had written:

"It is beautiful; very beautiful; too beautiful. Beauti-beauti-ful.
Bee-u-ti-ful!"

On his return to Paris, I happened to be talking to him one day
about Picasso, and Leger remarked:

"He belongs to another order. I am of Romance origin, but I
paint in a pure French tradition, and my art tends to prolong and
add to that tradition. Picasso, yes. Yes. But two mouths and
three eyes that's 'Spanish torture*. Of course, there are Goya
and El Greco. But they're of another lineage; they have another
conception. ..."

Leger had, moreover, interpreted landscapes and objects by the
use of large planes, to which he gave not only plastic and pictorial
value but also the particular significance which haunted him and
which was to replace the futile arrangements of subjects that had
been done over and over again. Not only had he introduced
absolutely pure tones without any mixture of colours, but he in
scribed each work within a geometric form, thus launching a
new style of decorative art, which he hoped might spread to
poster art and even to road-signs.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 103

But he wanted especially to create new forms.

"Yes," he said, "to invent forms, but not to copy nature, even
on the plane of Michelangelo. To draw well the vein of a hand is
an old story now; it has become a form of illustration. Painting or
literature that does not reflect its epoch is not healthy art. It pro
duces a Maurice Rostand. In order to make people aware of what
is happening in the world today, in Asia, on the high seas, in the
air, you must have painting that is intense and violent, in a state of
war, and not stuff that is all frills and futility. And you must find
a new form for this dynamic conception; otherwise, it will be
unimportant."

We were talking together at the time in his studio in New York,
which looked out on the gardens of the Public Library. All round
us were skyscrapers, the multi-coloured lights of their countless
electric signs incessantly flashing a host of fantastic patterns, even
though it was full daylight. Leger had his usual collection of
motors, boilers, gears, piston-rods and fly-wheels of polished steel,
from which he drew his inspiration, the model in each case serving
as a stimulus, but not as an object to be copied photographically.

And it struck me as somehow paradoxical to see this man of
ancient Norman descent, with his furrowed brow and red hair, in
such an environment, and dressed in the same sort of green sweater
and workman's trousers he was accustomed to wearing in Mont-
parnasse.

"One must invent," he repeated. "The Cubists were inventors,
just as the Gothic artists and Assyrians were. One must invent, not
reconstitute. Invent with intensity, and on a scale appropriate to
the country where one is and the period one lives in. Intensity is
one of the chief aims. You attack a wall, you destroy it, you put
life in its place. It is my ambition to do a fresco a mile long as the
backcloth for an airfield, with landscapes and people propelled
along as they are in actual life, by their muscles, their cars, their
planes, and even by interplanetary rockets all to be executed in
harmonious and dynamic forms in a planned equilibrium, as
willed by the painter, the Master ! . . ."

104 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

AMEDEE OZENFANT

Ozenfant has a face and a figure somewhat like his name: an O
for a head; a Z for a nose; an F for a body. He is at present direct
ing a school of design in New York.
But he lived for a long time in Paris,
where he founded another kind of
school, that of "Purism", as well as
any number of reviews. And it was
the Purist movement which pro
duced the architect Jeanneret, who
became the architect Jeanneret-Le
Corbusier and then simply the
architect Le Corbusier the man
who, at every stage of his career,
dreamed of a geometric urbanism
which could only result in a nightmare the nightmare of stand
ardisation, of uniformity, of denial of fantasy; in short, utilitarian
life, life without surprises.

These reviews were very advanced, extremely interesting and
highly critical. One of their specialities was to compare different
civilizations at various times and places in history, illustrating
their comparisons with numerous picturesque photographs.
Names like Kong-Fu-Zu and Einstein collided like blinding flashes
of lightning in a storm that threatened to annihilate the universe
beneath a ton of words.

And yet how many original ideas there were to be found in the
general welter of nonsense; how many important truths were
brought to light. To cite one example, Ozenfant was probably the
first to denounce the stylistic cliches used by some of the avant-
garde painters, just as the latter had denounced similar cliches
among the academicians. He would even have called them
"Picassoids", if Picasso, with his customary astuteness, had not
already disowned them. In fact, I have already quoted that
painter's remark to the effect that "I have just sold off my collec
tion of mandolins; I'm leaving them for others now".

Mandolins, siphons, tobacco-pouches, Harlequins, etc., had all
become commonplace adjuncts of the new school, just as scenes of

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 105

everyday life, pictures which "told a story",, historical battles and
the naked body had been adjuncts of the Salon painters.

Trained in the La Tour School, at St. Quentin, which the famous
pastel artist had bequeathed to his native town "for the artistic
education of the People", Ozenfant continued his studies with the
Dominicans at Arcachon, going with them to Spain, to San
Sebastian, where they established their centre at Monte Igualdo.
From there he went to London, then to Seattle, and then on again
to near Vancouver, which, he said, was "a place taken from the
Indians only eighty years ago, and now with a population of six
hundred thousand and avenues twenty-five miles long".

He eventually moved to New York, where he has remained ever
since; and it was in his studio in 2Oth Street that he explained to
me, with remarkable conciseness, his ideas on the subject of art.

"The human being has an inherent need for some forms, and
not for others. To achieve these imperative forms is great art.
Take, for instance, this pebble in the shape of a flattened sphere:
doesn't it give you a feeling of satisfaction? As a peasant woman
said to me, quite simply, *It is beautiful*. And here is a spiral sea-
shell, the lines of which resemble the eternal and perfect curve of
the breast. Doesn't it give you a feeling of joy? Well, then, a work
of art, in its parts and as a whole, should be, if not exactly in the
image of such forms, at least suggestive of them, and therefore of
that kind of pleasure, and therefore of art itself. Here are still other
sea-shells and pebbles, which have natural designs and irregulari
ties on them. They are amusing, like baroque or rock- work. They
are not eternal, like Greek or Egyptian art. This pebble, which is
perfect in form, nature has taken centuries to polish. Similarly, a
perfect work of art that we achieve has been inherent within us for
generations. This pebble, this shell, are both part of the cosmos;
that is to say, they are in the atom, just as they are in the spiral
nebulae, whose smallest star may often be a thousand million
times greater in volume than our universe. I search far in the two
dimensions of time and space and I end up with this design, for
example. It none the less exists in its own right."

Ozenfant pointed to a piece of white paper on the wall, on which
he had drawn a Maternity in a profusion of lines, lines which were
pleasing not only as a whole but also in detail. The uninitiated
might have seen in it only an ape-like head, without hair, with

io6

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

arms attached to the body like wooden beams, and the fingers
growing out of the stump, like branches from a willow-tree. And
yet no one could have denied that these lines produced an un
conscious sense of well-being. A modern technician would have
exclaimed that Ozenfant had gone beyond the earth-bound, and
escaped into the metaphysical, universal and eternal world.

The artist smiled as he said to me,

"If I am wrong, the proper place for that picture is the dustbin;
if not, it is eternal."

GROMAIRE

His studio is like his work: neat and bright. It has beautiful
furniture in it, with modern cupboards harmonising perfectly with

old family sideboards of seasoned
wood, and a Gothic Virgin who some
how does not look out of place along
side the gleaming black electricity

"I can't stand disorder," he says.
A man of the North, he has a
straight figure and a well-shaped blond
head, with a high and shining fore
head.

Lying on several tables are small
pieces of paper with exact, carefully-
done drawings on them, placed side
by side somewhat as Bonnard arranged
his squares of colour.

"Ah, Bonnard!" says Gromaire. "What mysterious alchemy:
yet so rich, so remarkably rich! It is too bad that the younger
generation can't understand his work any more. They talk to us
about the abstract ! But their abstract is only the contemplation of
themselves. The abstract is part of painting, but only a part. Be
cause it has no weight except when in full contact with the con
crete; otherwise it can never amount to more than an enlargement
of small decorative motifs. But there's always been abstract paint
ing, from Ucello down to modern times; down to Matisse, if you
like. Some dig down and find it in places where others have seen
nothing. Take, for example, the Poussin which was in the Exhibi-

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 107

tion of Masterpieces at San Paolo: a sort of cortege of dances; and
what a composition! I have never seen such a marvellous piece of
'clockwork'. Compared to it, what are abstract pictures today?
Lhote has written that Poussin used the Golden Section, 1 even in
the smallest details. Pooh! The Golden Section, for me, at any
rate, is a useful check; not a starting-point. Cubism didn't teach
me very much. But it did Matisse. And what sincerity, what in
tensity he achieved, after so much labour! How did I acquire my
personality? I had nothing to do with it. I interpret according to
my vision, just as Van Gogh whose 'motifs' from nature I've
studied interpreted, and to what degree, you can't imagine! The
rest is only fashion. And the aesthetic aspects soon disappear, to the
advantage of both the depth of the work and the intensity of the
temperament."

CONCERNING JACQUES VILLON

I always heard the Cubist painters speak of Jacques Villon with
a deep, almost mystical, respect.

After all, Jacques Villon belonged to our early years, to the
period of Jules Roques' Courrier Fran$ais y of Boutigny's Cocorico,
of the little Chat Noir and all that group : the smiling and grumpy
Willette, who was both an anarchist and a believer, a revolutionary
and a conformist; Widhopf; and Steinlen, with his little "frivo
lous" hat, and his cape.

There were the parties in his studio in the rue Caulaincourt, with
the sculptor Villon-Duchamp, Crotti, Gleizes, Metzinger, Su
zanne and the madcap Marcel Duchamp, the reverse of a painter's
painter, who was like a breath of fresh air. Now he is in America,
where he still manages to be that extreme of paradoxes : a painter
who does not paint.

From drawing Villon moved to engraving, and from the rue
Caulaincourt to a little house at Puteaux, hidden away in a mass
of foliage. By way of recreation, the group would go on Monday
to see Gleizes, who was continually busy with his theories in his

1 Method for attaining the ideal harmony in art. It is tc tlie division of
a magnitude in which the smaller portion is to the larger as the larger
portion is to the whole". It originated with Euclid, but its aesthetic value
was only developed by the nineteenth-century German Zeising. [Trans
lator's note.}

108 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

house in Courbevoie; on Tuesday we were all with Paul Fort at
the Closerie des Lilas, which was to become the link between the
Latin Quarter and the future Montparnasse Quarter. On Sunday
we played Courses at Villon's, betting on toy lead horses. We had
as much fun as any band of youngsters.

La Fresnaye turned up one Fourteenth of July with his large
canvas The Drinkers on top of a cab, wearing a boater stuck with
little tricolour flags.

If La Fresnaye brought out the essential elements of Cubism,
and its feeling of sensitivity, it was Jacques Villon who was to
reveal its innermost subtleties.

"Cubism acted on me like a tonic," said Villon, "although I did
not remain a Cubist any more than Picasso did, or any of the others.
. . . But at that crucial moment in Painting it seemed to us, it
seemed to me, that to copy a subject for the sake of the subject was
becoming useless. Cubism was moving towards creation, towards a
new vision and a more intense realisation of objects. When I dis
cussed the matter with Sagot, who had brought out my engravings,
all he said was :

" *I am too old to bother with theories. Go and see my brother
Clovis : you'll feel more at home with him.'

"Similarly, as regards abstract art, I would say: 'I, Jacques
Villon, am too old to go in for Abstraction; or, to be more precise,
the Abstract.' It certainly has a side to it that is really important;
but it also gives more of an opportunity for cheating! I don't be
lieve we can yet dispense with the Abstract in painting, although
many painters like Estfrve and Bazaine, for whom I have the great
est respect, are becoming less and less abstract."

When he is talking, Jacques Villon's finely lined face, over
which a light seems to play, grows more subtle still. Yes, the word
"subtle" is the most appropriate in describing not only his
physiognomy, but also his work.

Let us listen to him as he discourses in his studio, while his wife,
sitting nearby, nods her approval.

"My kind of Cubism is not entirely orthodox. But the essential
thing for me was to find the right means, without concerning my
self with the ultimate purpose, if there were any, by following what

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE 109

Bergson called *the line of intention'. On the other hand, the
painter is also a musician, a pianist, his right hand playing the
melody, or line, while the left elaborates the line, surrounding and
supporting it, just as in this canvas, for instance, which depicts an
aeroplane. For I always start out from a visible, intelligible base.
Here you see the 'line of intention', the point of view I have de
cided on, and the harmonies. Now, these large triangles of colour
round about are the zones dividing the canvas, which is arranged
like a pyramid : a dark tone here ; a light one there ; then two medi
um tones. I always use that arrangement. Then I start on the
details, using countless little overlapping pyramids as focus-points
for the eye an old theory of Leonardo's.

"The resulting rhythm has become more vibrant, especially
since the latest discoveries, from those of Chevreul to O. N. Rood,
whose chromatic Circle I find very useful as a base. It is very good,
with its 'triads' of the 'finest harmonies'. But there are even simpler
methods. Take this blue background, where I have increased the
intensity of the blue as a contrast to the yellow foreground: be
tween these two colours I have to create a whole accordion-like
range of tones, with various focal points. And I must blend in the
harmonies, which influence each other. It is like working with the
spectrum, with a prism, and it pleases me very much, especially
when I discover a yellow tone, for example, which, superimposed
on the blue, turns it white not pure white, of course; a slightly
grey wjiite, but white, nevertheless. It is what I call the inter
dependence of values. I have been seeking for twenty or thirty
years, and little by little I am reaching my goal; and that's the
important thing. . . ."

His is the life work of an alchemist, the results of which give,
even to the uninitiated and uncomprehending, a feeling of visual
satisfaction by their perfection and grace.

A LESSON BY ANDRE LHOTE

Andre Lhote's books on art Traite du Paysage, Traite de la
Figure, Peinture d'Abord, etc. have been translated into many
languages, and his pictures are hung in art galleries all over the
world. For he is one of the greatest, one of the most subtle and
above all one of the most lucid theorists of Painting.

110 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

He is "modern" in the most advanced sense of the word, but he
constantly refers back to the Old Masters, especially the Primitives.
The names of a great French painter, Poussin, and a great Italian,
Piero della Francesca, frequently recur in his writings, when he is
explaining the Golden Section, or Composition by Colour.

He has many disciples and pupils in France and abroad; and
there are few of the younger modern masters who would think of
denying that they had learned a great deal from him.

I have often stood in front of one of Andre Lhote's pictures and
recalled what he has written about art, even though he may insist
that his teaching and his pictures are quite separate (whereas, for
instance, a Metzinger or a Gleizes will invariably put his theories
into practice in his paintings as those theories evolve).

But so far as Lhote's teaching is concerned, there is not an
exhibition or a salon where you will not come across canvases
which show his influence. All too often, unfortunately, they follow
blindly one of his principles, namely: "Light splits up objects into
fragments, sometimes incomprehensible fragments, and the prob
lem is to arrange them in a logical pattern."

In vain he repeats at each of his lessons :

"Compose your pictures rationally, lean on someone stronger
than yourself Jacques Villon, or some other authority but in the
final analysis follow your animal nature."

For Lhote is careful not to talk about taste, and still less about
"good taste".

As for Lhote's lessons, I attended many a session of "correc
tion" in his spacious studio in the rue d'Odessa, behind the Gare
Montparnasse. The big room was full of sketches for various
pictures, such as his UEscale and Fourteenth of July, now in the
Palais de New York and the Petit Palais.

I remember one typical occasion. On the couch the model
keeps her pose while Lhote's pupils (among them two old Ameri
can ladies, a Negro and two young men with beards) gather round
the master. One of the group presents his work for criticism and
guidance. With his eye-shade on his forehead, Lhote examines the
inevitable arrangement of yellow, ochre and lemon areas in the
picture, and then asks.

"Who splashed the egg-yolk on this canvas?"

"I did, Master."

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE III

"Yellow is a dangerous colour, especially when it is as intense
as this."

"But, Master, didn't Gauguin say ?"

"Gauguin initiated a partial return to the purity of the Primi
tives, but his disciple, Matisse, went further. If you had looked
more closely at the work of those two master-colourists, you would
have seen that they compensated for each violent colour with a
neutral tone, and their violent colours harmonise. Hand me your
palette. ... Of course you must 'interpret' objects, but it is best
not to lose sight of them entirely, if you want to avoid turning out a
confused mess. There. You see, by putting grey-green next to
your egg-yellow, you will get a less aggressive effect. And don't
be afraid to change from brush to pencil from time to time. The
brush is often blind, so to speak; but the pencil is always intelligent,
for is simplifies the relations between the different parts of the
picture, being concerned only with the linear rhythm, which is
always necessary where plastic coloured orchestration is involved.
And the pencil discovers the plastic symbol, which will summarise
the complex object you are looking at, and which you will never
succeed in reproducing exactly, any more than I could."

"Yes, Master."

In the study made by the young girl with the innocent eyes, the
model is little more than a jumble of lines, which are well enough
drawn, but

Lhote gives a start when he sees it, and, adjusting his eye-shade,
says:

"The general effect of this picture is slightly academic, so that the
green of the hair jars absurdly, since the model's hair is blonde.
Oh, yes, I know you are going to tell me about the 'colour equiva
lents' of Gauguin and Matisse and Picasso; but they should at
least harmonise. Your green is as out of place in your canvas as an
Impressionist colour would be in a portrait by Rembrandt. You
high-light the leg by giving it a second outline in a light shade. It is
monotonous; moreover, the light on an arm or leg never follows
the contour exactly because of the transverse muscles. You must
make the stronger values play their proper role of architectural
support. Who's next?"

"Master, I find that the Byzantines took the same liberties in
their art as the moderns do."

112 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Yes, but that is no reason why you should draw a Byzantine
face literally. If the model's nose is a little long, you can, if you
wish, accentuate the feature to the point of eccentricity; but at
the same time you must include its specific elements. Otherwise, it
will become just a piece of tiresome geometry. And how many
shadows you have! You must be as careful about putting in too
many shadows as about putting in too many violent tones. And
you should balance the bright colours with grey, white and black
just as in this study."

"I wanted to make it very brilliant."

"But your picture is lacking in concentration, young man; it is
too scattered. Look at all those brush-strokes, all those arrows
flying out towards the sides of the canvas. Where do they lead?
There: 'close' the circle around the centre, as you would around a
navel; give your vortex a centre, if it's movement you're after."

As he talks, Lhote retouches the different pictures and shows
how they can be improved. He surrounds the "egg-yolk" with
grey, which takes on a lilac tone; he breaks up a high-light which
has been badly indicated; brings out objects by placing them on a
neutral ground; balances one mass with another; puts the different
planes back in their proper place. And in a few minutes, in a few
seconds, even, what was before "tiresome geometry" has become
luminous composition, forms in space, imaginary but convincing.
With the necessary clarity and balance, each little study turns into
a picture that pleases the eye, and lives up to the "imperatives" of
modern painting, which is a "summary of the techniques of all
periods".

"Be as daring as you like, and interpret as you will, but only
on condition that what you create implies reality, and can stand the
critical test of professionals. . . . But it's one o'clock, and I've been
here since early morning. You can get dressed, Mademoiselle."

"Did I do well as a model?" she asks.

"You are the nicest model I have ever had."

The model, whose little girl has been playing nearby, gets off the
stand and stretches herself. After posing for so many hours she
has a reddish crease across her abdomen. She apologises, saying,

"I'm unfolding myself again."

She smiles. The little girl hands her her sweater, dress and
shoes.

THE SIX SIDES OF THE CUBE

The students all put their work aside and become very animated.
One girl evidently intends to work a little more before she goes to
lunch. A young man puts his canvas in the corner. A young
woman plans to take hers home; but it is certain that she will be
careful not to admit that it has been "corrected". Lhote takes off
his eye-shade, wraps his scarf around his neck, and goes off to his
private studio in the rue Boulard, where he will presently take up
his own palette and work on a canvas he has begun, until the
following week, when the class is to meet again.

Andre Lhote: Self-portrait

From the Snows of Moscow to the
Bright Lights of the Russian Ballet

BAKST - JUSSEAUA1E

OOME TIME BEFORE Andre Breton's surrealist "revolution"
which was far more than a revolution in subject-matter alone
two painters had emerged who styled themselves Irrealists, namely,
Chagall and Chirico.

Chagall was a pupil of Bakst's, the great designer of the Russian
Ballet, and it was at the latter's studio in the Boulevard Males-
herbes that I met him for the first time; and Modigliani, also.

When Diaghilev descended on Paris with his Russian Ballet, that
"Cossack charge which so proudly swept away Munich art", with
its cressets, its funeral urns, its stylised roses and garlands, Bakst
may be said to have been its standard-bearer. For he and Fokine
were chiefly responsible for the success of Scheherazade, and they
paid a tribute to the art they had vanquished by creating out of its
ruins the enchanting U Invitation a la Vahe> which, as Le Spectre
de la Rose> was danced by Karsavina and Nijinsky. And those who
marvelled at the famous dancer's amazing leap at the end of Jean-
Louis Vaudoyer's ballet never suspected that it was Bakst who had
conceived the idea of such a spectacular surprise,

"You see," the painter said, as he showed me the maquettes he
had done for the piece, "throughout the entire ballet I shall have
the dancer, dressed in red, perform against a white background.
And at the final moment he will leap through a window with
green lighting behind it. That one instant will suffice to give the
audience a sudden and tremendous visual thrill just by the simple
and unexpected contrast of complementary colours."

And if the truth were told, the success of Nijinsky's celebrated
"leap" was due much more to that effect than to his grace and
extraordinary agility a fact which neither his successors nor Fo-
kine's have ever been able to appreciate. I have seen many

FROM THE SNOWS OF MOSCOW

Spectres since, dressed in pale rose, performing against a grey
decor, with the window in the background inadequately lighted.
And when one rather naive dancer went so far as to resort to the
artifice of a spring-board, he was astonished to find that he did not
produce the same staggering effect as Nijinsky, although he had
jumped twice as high. Nor has any ballerina since thought of
throwing a coloured shawl over her shoulders to cover her white
dress, as Karsavina did, thereby creating a most vivid effect, which
also gave "visual satisfaction" by its contrast with the white of
the setting.

But it was only when, after Rimsky-Korsakov's prelude, the
curtain rose on the harem scene in Scheherazade that Paris was
really bowled over and left gasping with admiration. The audience
shouted in wild applause. Never before had such dazzling display
of colour burst forth from behind the footlights of any stage.

The young sultan-king of India and Persia
Sparkles like a jewel, reclining upon his cushions
At the foot of three red columns
Holding up the three enamel ceilings
From which hang enormous lanterns.

Three dancing-girls

Crouching face to face at the end of the blue rug

In the rays of the sun

Twist their arms, scattering saffron . . .

116 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

The two hundred favourites of the fabulous palace

Raise their lithe bodies on their undulating arms

And presently y in their aramanthine and pistachio trousers.

Festooned with pearls and jasper ,

They all rush out from their bowers,

Their painted toe-nails

Peeping from their silken Turkish slippers.

And the Negroes ! Blue Negroes and black ones, captured along
with the elephants and sultanas; the golden Negro: Nijinsky!

He has a child's eyes and a beast's mouth.
Rings tinkle on his ankles . . .

Dwarfs place on their heads

Great trays of fruit overflowing like the gardens of heaven

Beneath the stamping tread of girls bearing amphorae.

The thick rug> bleeding with crushed roses,

Palpitates;

And the petals flutter about their feet.

For Bakst always stressed the importance of stage accessories.

"Have you ever noticed that I always have the head-dresses
made three or four times the ordinary size? I do the same for the
trays, the fruit and the costumes; and even the details of the sets,
such as lanterns, screens, and so on."

No doubt the reader will recall the Holy Shroud which he used
later in d* Annunzio's The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, so superbly
interpreted by Mme. Ida Rubinstein.

For the scene in the Port of Famagusta in Pisanelle y Bakst, in
collaboration with the Russian producer, Wsevolod Meyerhold,
had worked out the following: the back of the stage was filled with
several hundred people costumed in the most brilliant colours,
without one white note, and moving against a background of red
gauze, Almost everyone knows the value of white in a picture.
Suddenly, in front of the glowing enamel setting of Famagusta,
there appeared a white horse, caparisoned in white and ridden by
a white knight with a long white cloak and standard. The effect
was miraculous.

"You see," Bakst said, "in the foreground I arranged several
groups of lords, dressed in costumes ranging from dark red to

FROM THE SNOWS OF MOSCOW 117

light orange. At the Beaux Arts we were forbidden to combine
'related' colours of that kind. I did it, nevertheless, and it was a
great success."

In the same way, when Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty was given
in London, in the hunting scene he used only the natural forest
colours even for the costumes, which ranged from the lightest of
greens to an almost reddish brown.

It was a fundamental principle with the Russian Ballet always
to have the stage-sets and costumes done by the same artist, a
custom which was not then current in France. And it was one of
Bakst's principles to group the characters in the ballet in such a
way as to form areas of colour and planned values, moving about
against the setting in accordance with the colours of the sets them
selves. Sometimes he would make a whole group of dancers
perform beneath a coloured canopy.

He was very careful about having everything as authentic as
possible. As he told me while he was working on the settings for
Verhaeren's Helen of Sparta:

"I'm going to surprise everyone by dressing the characters
just as they were in the days of 'red' Greece. 1 You don't
imagine they would do Oedipus Rex at the Comedie-Franfaise in
costumes dating from the time of Pericles, a difference of three
centuries?"

A vivid personality, he had red hair like Foil de Garotte, a
prominent forehead and bright, shrewd eyes with wrinkled lids,
which gave him a sceptical look behind his glasses. He always liked
to do everything himself, attending to the smallest detail, from the
ear-rings to the shoelaces, and the supports for the stage-sets to
the making of the wigs.

Here he is, for instance, in the workrooms where the scenery is
being made. He doesn't bother to take off his hat or coat or gloves.
He looks over the work first as a whole, and then in detail. Sud
denly he bursts out,

"What's this?"

"But, Maitre . . ."

1 In the early centuries of their history the Greeks wore clothing dyed
in red ochre.

Il8 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"What I drew was an eagle. You've made it a chicken. Here.
Hand me that brush."

"But, Maitre, no eagle has such a large beak."

"That's the very reason why I've done it that way. An eagle is
all beak, eyes and claws a terrifying sight. The body itself follows
quite naturally, with feathers bristling like spears." Then, turning
to another of his assistants, he asks,

"And you: what are you doing now?"

"Why, Maitre, I'm cleaning up the lines."

"Cleaning up the lines ! Don't you realise that it is the fuzziness
that gives life to a line, and relates it to the background? Other
wise it would look like the eyebrows of these women who listen to
beauty-specialists and commit the crime of making the lines
exactly 'even', as they call it. And so, instead of a lovely flame
which kindles admiring glances, they produce a lifeless thing, and
make the pupil look like a boot-button or a chicken's eye. It is the
same with this eagle. . . . Now we'll go along to the costumier's."

There we have another session. They bring him samples of silks
and braids to decide on.

"Not so fast there, please. I must see how this goes with the
decor."

"It's beautiful, Matire."

"Beautiful! When you buy a cravat, do you choose it because
of the way it looks in the show-case; or do you hold it up to your
shirt to see how well they match? And isn't a costume against a
setting far more important?"

For Bakst had made experiments of which the costumier had no
inkling. For example, he had had the dancers rehearse in short,
white smocks, and he had noted down, in the order of their en
trance on stage, the names of the characters and groups so as to be
able to grade his costume-effects. Then, before the costumes were
finished, he made the actors walk along in front of the dcor, with
the different materials pinned on them,

"Take care not to leave the maquettes lying around," he warned
them as he departed. He knew only too well what use was made of
any that were picked up.

On one occasion a noted couturi&re had bought from him a de
sign for a costume that was never executed. Imagine the painter's
surprise, therefore, when he went to America some time later and

FROM THE SNOWS OF MOSCOW 119

discovered that the costume had been divided by the enterprising
dressmaker into separate parts, and sold to the trade piece by
piece; in consequence, Bakst belts, Bakst collars, Bakst lapels,
clasps, etc., were turning up everywhere.

Of the actress, Mme. Ida Rubinstein, with whom he collaborated
on several productions, he had this to say:

"When she came towards me and I saw her long, ungainly body,
and the face which was almost that of an ascetic, I said to myself,
'This dancer should have a saint's robe like those in a Primitive
painting'; and for the second piece in which she played I thought,
*I must design a suit of armour that will make her look like a large,
disjointed, stylised insect'. And she was a success both times.
Then, against my advice, she insisted on trying to dance on her
toes. She managed it, but they gave her a costume so ill-suited to
her build that she looked like a giraffe adorned with ostrich-
plumes. A painter is very important to an actress or a dancer; and
when they try to do things by themselves, that's what happens."

In London one painting of Bakst's was greatly admired. It was
the remarkable Fall of Babylon which he had exhibited at the Salon
des Independants in Paris. James de Rothschild, among others,
had commissioned him to do some frescoes that he wanted exe
cuted in the fifteenth-century style, after the manner of Gozzoli,
and portraying his entire family and ancestors ! Bakst worked on
the project for six years.

He had very keen powers of observation. I remember sitting
next to him at a dinner given in London by the Marchioness of
Ripon. During the evening a storm came up, and Bakst leaned
over to me and said:

"My fr'en'," (he had a slight defect in pronunciation, which
caused him to twist his mouth in an odd way) "if the lightning
should strike this gathering, it would wipe out not only the most
brilliant minds in England [Shaw, George Moore, Henry Arthur
Jones and Nijinsky were among those present], but also the owners
of more than a third of the wealth of the British Empire. I want
you to notice something amusing. Opposite you is the Duchess of
Westminster, who owns a whole district of London you might
say almost all of London because it is the wealthiest. Ten minutes

120 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

ago she dropped her most beautiful pearl, the pear-shaped pearl
which hangs from her necklace. She is tormented by her entirely
natural desire to recover it, and at the same time by her fear that
her agitation will be remarked by all the ladies, who have noticed
her dilemma, and are watching her and enjoying her discomfiture."

When the dinner was over, Bakst nudged my elbow. The
Duchess had got up and, turning to the flunkey who had drawn
back her chair, was saying in the most casual tone possible,

"Pick up that pearl . . ."

When Diaghilev, his boyhood friend and schoolmate, seemed
disposed to desert him for Picasso, Derain, Matisse, and the rest of
those who followed after, Bakst fell prey to such neurasthenia that
it almost finished him. I was alarmed, for the Russian Ballet had
already claimed one victim: the painter Jusseaume.

Jusseaume had been commissioned by Albert Carre to do the
scenery for the latter's production of Louise at the Opera Comique
and he had also executed a number of settings for Antoine. 1 He
had departed from the tradition of the admirable Berlin, 2 and
adopted the idea of using vertical planes to obtain certain effects of
perspective.

He was a handsome, well-built man; and he affected a Rem
brandt hat and a Van Dyck moustache.

"It was Antoine, you know, who took me to Spain and Italy to
get material for my work. I was delighted, of course, for I had a
wonderful trip with that extraordinary man for company. But
when all's said and done, everything looks much the same every
where. Put a palm-tree on a set, give it orange lighting, and you've
got Africa. Or you can put a log-cabin on the same set, use a
whitish-green light for the sky, and you've got Norway. And so
on."

True, he was being humorous. But when the Russian Ballet

1 Antoine (1858-1943) founded the Th6Atre Libre and the Th^tre
Antoine in Paris. He directed the Od6on Theatre and the theatre move
ment of his generation. He discovered the chief French playwrights of
his day, and put on productions of Shakespeare, notably Julius Caesar and
King Lear, as well as plays by Ibsen, Sudermann, and other foreign
dramatists.

* A well-known designer of classic stage-settings.

FROM THE SNOWS OF MOSCOW 121

came along it was too much for him. At first he tried to keep his
end up and would say defiantly:

"Humph ! Your Russians nothing but violence. A punch isn't
difficult. Just watch me: I'll give 'em a punch."

But when I ran into him some time afterwards, he seemed
utterly crushed.

"Yes," he admitted, "I thought violence was easy; but it is just
the opposite. The colours are much more difficult to harmonise.
Take Corot, for example, who has been imitated so much. Well,
his imitators have never risked doing any * Italian' Corots. The
Ville d'Avray ones are another matter: naturally, a simple frottis l
is easier to do. But delivering a punch is something else again. If
you miss, you break your jaw against a wall. I'm afraid I've broken
my jaw.*'

Some time later, I learned that he had hanged himself above
one of his decors in his studio in the rue Vicq d'Azir.

But Bakst, fortunately, did not hang himself. I saw something
of him again in Cannes. As we were lunching together one day in
the Winter Casino, near the yacht harbour, he said to me:

"Whatever you do, don't talk to me about the Russian Ballet.
Look at Poiret at that table over there. He's another who owes me
a great deal, and he knows it."

When Poiret had finished his lunch, he got up and politely came
over to speak to Bakst, whom he addressed as "cher Maitre". The
artist^ like a good Russian, was rather solemn, as he had once
been towards a young woman who, taking her cue from another
lady who was rumpling the cravat of Barbey d'Aurevilly, was
becoming too familiar with him. "Don't forget, my dear," he had
said to her, "that I am a member of the Academy."

Nevertheless, when we were alone again, he said:

"What do you think of the trick that swine Diaghilev played on
me? And so far as distortion is concerned, I was doing that ten
years before Picasso."

Could it be that he saw only the accidental, and not the signifi
cant, in what Picasso had contributed to the history of painting?

1 A light coat of paint, applied by rubbing the canvas delicately with
the brush.

122 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

And yet Bakst had been one of the first to collect Douanier Rous-
seaus, and among them the well-known Football Players. He
appreciated Negro art; and he had been the first to talk to me not
only about Chagall and Modigliani, but also about Charlie Chaplin,
who was then timidly beginning his career in the cinema.

"You'll see/' he prophesied. "He is a great, a very great actor."

Diaghilev and Bakst eventually became reconciled, and the
result was the ballet The Good Humoured Ladies, with music by
Scarlatti.

"I've made a distorted setting for it, as though the stage were
one of these glass paper-weights, with the puppet-like characters
dancing inside, with long hands that look as though they were
made of wood."

But Massine, who did the choreography, was unable to carry
out exactly the idea Bakst had in mind; for this reason the painter
was obliged to revise his set, and he designed in his own style a
charming little Venetian village piazza, with a campanile and
Longhi characters which he interpreted in his own style.

In Paris Bakst lived in an apartment at 112 Boulevard des
Malesherbes, near the Place Malesherbes. His studio, office and
drawing-room were all contained in one large, rectangular room,
which was kept scrupulously clean and neat, with decorated cup
boards and filing-cabinets which almost had an American air.
There were also a life-size bronze reproduction of Donatello's
David) Chinese porcelain vases and a variety of cactus-plants.

"My fr'en', look how heavy and voluptuous I was able to make
the breasts of that odalisque; just look at the tips. . . . Just smell
them. Isn't the whole of the Orient there? They smell of roses
and musk and sweat yes, sweat, too. Just smell them. . . ."

By going down a few steps you came to the "sanctuary", in the
form of a little sitting-room where Bakst had hung his Football
Players, which did not seem at all out of place alongside the Primi
tives he had bought in Spain. Next to the "sanctuary" was a
mysterious room, which I was never invited to enter, although I
was probably the most intimate French friend Bakst had. In fact,
he never allowed me to leave without first calling the maid.

FROM THE SNOWS OF MOSCOW 123

"Louise, is the door dosed properly?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Is it tightly closed?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Good." Then, turning to me, he would say, "Goodbye, my
fr'en'. Come back and see me soon."

But when Bakst died

He must have planned the ceremony carefully in advance. The
catafalque had been set up in the middle of the studio, and on
each landing was stationed a beadle in full regalia: in fact, the
whole get-up of plumed hat, gold-braided coat and halberd looked
as if Bakst had specially designed it for this occasion. But the door
of the mysterious chamber, whose secret the artist had jealously
guarded for so many years, was wide open, and through it could
be seen a sort of store-room filled with a clutter of canvases,
stretching-frames, paint-pots and rags. And that was all ! Everyone
present filed by the room, between the beadles, without, appar
ently, noticing it. I tried to close the door, but Louise prevented
me.

I left the funeral with several friends among whom was Jean
Cocteau, who remarked,

"Now Diaghilev will be able to take down those bananas in
Scheherazade and get Matisse to do some new scenery for it."

However, that was something Diaghilev did not do.

JOSE-MARIA SERT

Jose-Maria Sert, the latter-day Renaissance artist from Cata
lonia, who painted huge panels and ceilings in black and gold in
New York and Paris, Lisbon and London, and even in the League
of Nations building at Geneva, always believed that "a decor
should be a picture". The Waldorf Hotel in New York has its
"Sert Room", and the Rockefeller Center its regiments of ele
phants, Chinese landscapes, whole Chicagos aflame on lakes of
ice all giving the same effect of balance and illusion that one finds
in the frescoes of Michelangelo. But, first and foremost, Sert was
Spanish, and the flamboyant mastery and extravagance of his
ceiling decorations would have made Tiepolo's head spin.

124 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

He married first Missia Edwards, the presiding genius of the
Revue Blanche and the Russian Ballet; and afterwards Princess
Divani, who was killed in a car accident.

As a commentary on Sert's particular kind of art, I recall the
sardonic remark Forain once made about an enormous canvas the
Spanish artist had executed for the apse of a chapel. As Forain was
standing looking at the vast numbers of fat-cheeked, full-breasted,
wide-hipped, big-bottomed angels, a friend who was with him
asked:

"But how will they ever be able to ship the thing? Will they
roll it up, or fold it; or will it have to be cut up into pieces ?"

"No," Forain had replied, acidly. "It can be deflated."

But Serfs retort to Forain is less well known, for later on, when
he happened to meet the latter, who pretended not to see him, the
Spaniard exclaimed,

"So, Monsieur, you've been deflated, too?"

NATHALIE GONTCHAROVA

There must still be a few people who can recall the first per
formance of Rimsky-Korsakov's Coq d'Or at the Paris Op6ra in
1913.

Diaghilev had commissioned Mile. Nathalie Gontcharova to do
the sets. He and I went together to meet her at the station. While
we waited for the train to arrive, Diaghilev talked to me at some
length about Cubism in Russia.

"It descended on the icon-painters like a rain of ortolans on a
population of bean-eaters. Most of them took it up with a frenzy
that soon sent them into paroxysms. And the whole crowd who
had, until then, been calm and rational, suddenly turned into
demons. Twenty different schools sprang up in less than a
month. Futurism and Cubism were soon considered as antiquity,
pre-history. In three days the most advanced painters became
academic. Mototism ousted Automototism, which, in turn, was
outdistanced by Trepidism and Vibrism. Those gave way to
Planism, Serenism, Exacerbism, Omnism and Neism. People
organised exhibitions in palaces and garrets. Duchesses climbed

FROM THE SNOWS OF MOSCOW 125

up to attics to see Neo-airist pictures by the light of candles stuck
on the floor. And even the great landowners began taking lessons
at home in Meta-chromism. I won't try to give you the Russian
names of all the different schools, but I can assure you that even
the most insignificant artists were ready to die for their faith.

"The best-known of the advanced painters is Nathalie Gont-
charova. She recently gave an exhibition of seven hundred can
vases representing 'light',, and she included several panels whose
total surface area was at least forty yards. As she had only a small
studio to work in, she did them in sections from memory, and only
saw the picture as a whole when it was assembled for the exhibi
tion. Now she has all St. Petersburg and Moscow running after
her. But what will interest you especially about her is that she
herself is imitated as well as her work. She starged a vogue for
night-gowns in black and white, and blue and orange. But that's
nothing compared to some of her other absurdities. She began
painting flowers on her face, and it wasn't long before both the
nobility and the bohemian set were going out sleigh-riding with
horses, houses, elephants and I don't know what daubed on their
cheeks, necks and foreheads. When I asked her one day why she
smeared her face with ultramarine, she replied that it helped to
'soften the features'. Then she explained that the elephants,
carriages, orchards, etc., she decorated her forehead with were a
'make-up more psychological than naturalistic'. I'm not exaggerat
ing. In Moscow you can run across women any day with whole
collections of daggers and pearls painted on their faces, instead of
veils."

After listening to his description, I was more anxious than ever
to meet such an extraordinary woman. The train finally drew in
to the station, and I saw a sort of Becassine, dressed in black,
descend the steps of the carriage. She had a round forehead, a
round nose, round cheeks, mouth and chin. But she was a
Becassine with the bearing of a princess, and then and there she
curtsied on the platform, as if she were being presented at Court.

I don't believe any spectacle has ever given such an impression
of splendour as did the first performance of Coq d'Or. For the
backdrop Mile. Gontcharova had designed a fantastic multiple
Kremlin, painted in ochre, gold and red. And on either side of the

126 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

stage she had erected two red grandstands, which were filled with
three hundred singers from the Moscow Opera, all dressed in red.
That performance marked for us the beginning of the renais
sance of Russian stage-design, the painter Larionov subsequently
bringing with him the generation which was to succeed that of
Bakst.

"C

The Reality of the Unrealists

CHAGALL

HAGALL is MY favourite pupil/' Bakst once told me. "And I
like him especially because, after he has had a lesson from me, he
takes his pastels and brushes and does something entirely different
from what I do, and that indicates a complete personality, and a
temperament and sensibility such as I have rarely known."

The next day I saw a being almost like Shakespeare's Ariel come
into Bakst's studio, walking as if on a cloud. He had eyes as bright
as the sky, and hair that seemed to lift his slender body into the
air. His name was Marc Chagall.

He came originally from Vitebsk, in White Russia. His father
was a poor cooper's assistant, who earned the equivalent of a
hundred francs a month to support his whole family,

"For days on end, his hands petrified with cold, he would lift
and carry round huge barrels of salt-herring," Chagall told me.
"My mother, who died at forty-five, was very pretty a grave and
smiling sort of beauty. One day she came into my room while I
was drawing pictures in my school copy-book. Although she was
illiterate, she said to me, 'You have talent'. It is true that she also
said, Terhaps you will be a photographer. That would be better.' "

Chagall showed us a canvas he had just finished: it was of a
house that seemed to have sprung out of a bouquet of flowers,
while up above there was a Russian woman holding a book. Her
head was turned the wrong way, and looked as though it were
floating off over the roof. On the ground a child with a donkey's
head was playing the violin.

But everything about the scene was so harmonious, and painted
in such delightful colours, that I was not in the least shocked by
it; and I was quite ready to follow Bakst's advice. He had said,

"You mustn't ask him about anything, and don't look surprised j
let him do things as he feels them, because he feels things beauti
fully, and in just the right way."

28

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

As I talked to him, Chagall explained that he felt it would
srve no purpose to be a poet if he could not create beings accord-
ig to his dreams and fantasy, or if he had to turn himself into a
hotographer, as his mother had hoped he would do.

"In Russia, and elsewhere in Europe, I have lived only in gar-
ens," he said. "I wanted only to glimpse the world from my
dndow through beautiful trees and clouds; and to create un-
eality "

And so he portrays an engaged couple marrying in a bouquet of
roses, and surrounded by candles as tall as oak trees, and animals
that seem to have come out of all his midsummer, or mid- winter,
night's dreams: a sort of Chagallian mythology, which no one can
borrow from him because he himself has borrowed from no one.
But he is a painter first and foremost, and his painting is, therefore,
more important than the subjects he depicts, however startling

THE REALITY OF THE UNREALISTS 129

they may be. Although he came to Paris in the full flower of the
Cubist explosion, nevertheless he was not drawn into that artistic
movement (which came at its own logical time); this was because
the young Russian's personality had already been set by his early
environment. It is not so easy to tear one's childhood impressions
out of one's soul, even out of the soul of an artist. Indeed, this
sensitive, almost feverish man was to be haunted aH his life by the
memory of the little alleyways of his native quarter, of the close-
packed houses and the jumble of streets, through which there
wandered goats with an almost human expression in their eyes,
chickens of all colours, and roosters with brilliant plumage; where
huge hands suddenly slammed shut the blinds, and pedlars strayed
like phantoms, carrying on their backs the burden of all their
miseries; where young girls in white dresses appeared like fairies
among the spring foliage, their braided hair tied with ribbons
"the plastic song of things", as he called it.

Chagall was, no doubt unconsciously, the first to rebel against
the new dogmas. And the Surrealists later on thought that they
should win his support for their revolution. But the painter was
wary of any such association. He told me so emphatically in Paris,
and again afterwards in his New York studio which, with its
mullioned windows and waxed floors, made one think of Rem
brandt's old house in Amsterdam.

"I know," he said, "that people often label me one of the fathers
of Surrealism. No. Call me an 'Unrealist' or a 'Supernaturalist',
if you like. In 1911, Apollinaire and Cendrars referred to me as
super-real, a word which I much prefer. . . . Impressionism and
Cubism are still realism. Literature, no. My pictures don't tell
a 'story'; they have neither a beginning nor an end. I am an arti
san, and more even than the dream aspect of my work, I love the
quality of my metier. After that simple statement, I must add a
rider. Once I've mastered my metier, then, and then only, can I
give the greater part of myself, as I want to do, to the dream aspect.
And if the landscape I am painting does not satisfy me completely,
I add what I want to it. That is my right as a creator on condi
tion, of course, that the picture, while being idealistic, remains
plastic. It is the interplay of contrasts that unifies the whole.
That's quite logical. They say that madmen are logical. I agree,
on condition that the finished product holds together, and is

130 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

beautiful. The real truth is that I am perhaps not sociable; that is
to say, I cannot accept in painting, at least all the usual
laws "

Chagall had just lost his wife, the poetess Bella, whom he had
so often painted, draped in white veils and surrounded by roses,
wax candles and angels. He fought his grief by working harder
than ever. I happened to visit him one day as he was painting
some flowers.

"I like artists who are fond of flowers," he told me. "People
don't realise how difficult it is to paint them; to divine the fairy-
like and supernatural quality they have about them. It's curious,
isn't it, how few of the great painters of the past ever painted
flowers. Rembrandt did one, pinned to the breast of his wife
Sophia, and some shy roses on the hat of his Flora. . . ."

We went to lunch in a cafeteria, where we were joined by his
daughter Ida, who is also a painter. Chagall hadn't much liking
for what is known in America as "society". He always dressed
in a velvet jacket, left his shirt more or less open at the neck,
and let the wind ruffle his hair. And he" kept very much to
himself.

During the meal we continued to discuss painting. Chagall was
distressed because he had left a great many of his canvases in Paris
during the War, just as in 1914 he had been obliged to leave a
hundred and fifty of them in Germany, after the exhibition
organised there by Apollinaire for the group known as Der Sturm.
In the same way, he had had to leave many of his murals, including
The Dybbuky in Moscow.

When I learned that Chagall was going to redesign the decors for
UOiseau de Feu, I said to him,

"What, you're going to change Fokine's sets?"

"You'll see," was all he said.

And I did indeed see. I saw a first act entirely in blue, ranging
from the palest cerulean blue to the deepest ultramarine, with a
red rooster in the moon. The second act ran the gamut of reds ;
while the third was done in shades of orange, so that the total effect
was of a multitude of blazing suns, eclipsing or illuminating one
another.

THE REALITY OF THE UNREALISTS 131

"You were right!" I told Chagall enthusiastically, after the
premiere.

"Ah, if we could only see Paris again!" was his melancholy
reply.

"If we could only see Paris again!"

As soon as it was possible for him to return there after the War,
he fell upon it like a starving man on a loaf of bread. He literally
caressed its old stones; buried his face in the leaves of the trees in
Montmartre, where he lived with his daughter Ida; and walked
till he was ready to drop along all those familiar streets, each one
of them filled with memories.

He even went back to Venice, where I ran into him at the Tinto
retto Exhibition.

"You know/' he said frankly, "I don't care much for Tinto
retto, apart from some of his work in the Scuola di San Rocco."

"I could see that," I said. "You even made a face at his Su
sanna., from the Vienna Collection."

"Yes."

In vain I remonstrated with him, and pointed out how much
freedom the old Venetian master had introduced. Chagall stub
bornly shook his head, then burst out with,

"It's botched. And it's been damaged by time. Other painters
foresaw the effects of time. Tintoretto's work is botched even in its
composition. In some cases you can hardly make it out because of
the lack of contrasts."

"Whom do you like best, Chagall?"

"The Egyptians, the Assyrians, the Greeks; Cimabue, because
he is so Byzantine; Paolo Ucello, Masaccio "

"In short, all those claimed by the Cubists?"

"Exactly. Then Giorgione, El Greco, Rembrandt, Daumier,
Seurat."

"Cezanne?"

"I 'feel' Cezanne. But he is too important. You can criticise all
other painters, but not him. I am afraid of Cezanne. I even
tremble when I pronounce his name. His is great art, achieved,
it seems, by a paradox. I like the Rouault of the 1905-19075
period. He, too, is paradoxical and erratic in his methods.

132 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Michelangelo I envy. My ambition is to go back to mural painting.
Raphael? He is too beautiful for me. I haven't got beyond Piero
della Francesca or Masaccio."

"And what about the Spaniards?"

Chagall answered by asking me,

"What do you think of Velasquez and Goya?"

"When I entered the Velasquez Room in the Prado for the first
time/' I said, "his pictures, as a whole, struck me as being cold.
Perhaps it was because I had heard so much about that collection.
I was ready to be bowled over, just as one is on first entering the
Sistine Chapel."

"And Goya?"

"When I went into the smaller, more intimate, room on the right,
and saw the first Goyas, I was really happy, jubilant. But then I
returned to the Velasquez Room and I stayed there."

"Well," said Chagall, "I prefer Goya. It is true that Rembrandt
and El Greco touch me more deeply; btit Goya fascinates me.
Velasquez' The Blind is wonderful, of course; but the subject is
purely academic. No one has done better than that except
Raphael, perhaps, with his incredible techniques. But what
Velasquez can you put alongside Goya's Mayas'? Not one. And
not even Manet can approach his portraits!"

"Whom do you like among the present-day painters?"

"Oh, I'm all for order. Yes, even though I'm more than any
thing else a dreamer, I'm all for order: for Fernand Lger; and for
all those who are trying to express something new : Masson, Ozen-
fant, Ernst, Mondriaan, Berman, Yves Tanguy, Matta. ..."

The sculptor Lipschitz and the painters Bonnard, Rouault,
Fernand Leger, Lur9at and Chagall were all commissioned to de
sign the interior of the church at Assy in the Savoy. And so it turned
out that an atheist, several Cubists and two Jews portrayed tradi
tional Christian scenes; and the Church, in opening her arms to
these artists without asking anything of them except their work,
did something that was highly significant. No less significant on
their part was the willingness of these artists to accept the com
mission,

Yet, after all, in the canvases of Chagall, who is essentially a

THE REALITY OF THE UNREALISTS 133

painter of Old Testament subjects, we have often seen the Cruci
fixion, and Rabbis going towards Christ, holding out their torahs
towards the Cross, whose shadow no longer seems to hang over
them. And it is, perhaps, through a man like Chagall, who is a
friend, almost a disciple, of Jacques Maritain's, that Jewish
priests now look upon Jesus as a sufferer like themselves.

"Have they not also suffered Christ's Passion for years; for
centuries?"

Not far from the Matisse Chapel, and only a few miles from Les
Collettes at Cagnes, where Renoir spent his last years, Chagall now
lives in a beautiful old house, surrounded by a big garden.
Through the trees he watches for the unreal characters he sets
down on paper, canvas or stone; and for the Proven9al peasants,
the lovely firm-breasted girls carrying flowers, and the familiar
animals all radiant from the sun, just as his first models were lit
by the snows of his native land, which he still remembers with
wondering eyes.

But his eyes are colder now. And he has cut his hair, the hair
that might have been an angel's, which gives him something of the
severe look of a monk. Even so, whenever I have occasion to talk
to him again about Tintoretto, he clasps his hands, and exclaims :

"Did I say that? Did I really say that?"

GIORGIO DE CHIRICO

Venice; and the rose-coloured terrace atop the Hotel DanielL
Across the Canal the little island of San Giorgio lies in a milky
patch of sea, its campanile pointing like a finger towards the moon
lit sky. The view extends from the Church of the Salute, which
k resembles nothing so much as a splendid piece of jewellery, to the
distant light of the Lido, winking along the Adriatic.

The restaurant itself dominates the dark, pointed roofs from
which Casanova made his famous escape, and the grey cupolas of
Saint Mark's, casting their round shadows over the carving of the
Bridge of Sighs, with its red-tiled roof.

Just as in America people in evening-clothes dine at lamp-lit

134 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

tables high up in the warm skies of Miami, or above the canyons
that run in parallel lines across New York, so here, high above
Venice, the dining-room is equally modern, and the head waiters,
in the clothes that head waiters wear the world over, perform their
duties like dancers in a ballet.

One of them leads the way among the tables. All at once I am

brought up short by a strangely familiar face. Can it be ? Yes.

It is Giorgio de Chirico, looking like Bonnat's Renan, with his
hands on his knees, his head hunched down between his shoulders.
He has the same Olympian eyes, a curling lip, and a lock of white
hair falling over his wide forehead.

Giorgio de Chirico! Along with Chagall, he was one of the im
mediate forerunners of Surrealism.

In The Dream the Douanier Rousseau made use of an ordinary,
everyday object when he painted a red couch with a naked woman
lying asleep on it in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by mon
keys and tigers. Similarly, Giorgio de Chirico, the Italian artist,
who was born in Greece in 1888, conceived the idea of "ennobling"
household articles, such as clothes-hangers, wardrobes, rocking-
chairs, etc., by putting them in Greek or Roman or Florentine
settings, his argument being that we can think of Hellas perfectly
well with all those objects around us ; and, furthermore, in Hellas it
self people lived in daily contact with them. By so doing he
related the poetic dream to our everyday reality and brutally
made us aware of the close link between them. This reasoning
eventually led him to represent human beings as puppets of his
own devising, which he placed between compasses and square
rules in beautiful landscapes whose perspectives were sometimes
fantastic. The time came, however, when, moving more towards
tradition, he replaced his brooms with trophies of war, and his
puppets with prancing horses, snorting along the Mediterranean
sea-shore and browsing on laurel leaves among the ruins of an
ancient temple.

One day his dealer burst into his studio, exclaiming :

"Monsieur de Chirico! your horses have been a tremendous
success ! I beg of you to paint stablefiils of them, squadrons of
them, stud-farms, pampafuls!"

De Chirico calmly put down his palette and brushes, turned his
canvas round, and said haughtily,

THE REALITY OF THE UNREALISTS 135

"I am not a painter of horses."

He frowned, and looked so angry that the dealer fled from his
studio, his temple. Then he became self-absorbed and meditative;
presently he returned to Italy, to Rome. For several years he
worked in silence in his studio in the Piazza di Spagna, looking out
over the towers of the Church of the Trinita del Monte, which
figures so often in the novels of Gabriele d'Annunzio. Suddenly
he became infuriated by the Venice Biennale, even though his
earlier works, his puppets, his geometrical designs and prancing
horses, had had very favourable treatment.

"Take those canvases down," he raged. "Most of them are false
anyway. Modern art is nothing but rubbish, impotence and the
merchandise of dealers!"

His next step was to rent an immense palazzo in Venice between
San Moi'se and the Piazzetta and, in competition with the Biennale,
to hang there forty of his canvases, all as richly framed as the
Tintorettos in the Scuola di San Rocco. Then he made his exhibi
tion known to the public through lectures and with the assistance
of the press and his disciples.

I went to it, of course. I could not help but admire the result of
so much hard work, which was obviously sincere, prolific and a
proof of stubborn faith. I looked with respect at his Three
Graces, which was in the same kind of frame as Michelangelo's
Holy Family, at his furious battle-scenes, executed in the style of
Salvator Rosa; at his little still-lifes, whose rich pigment was like
that of the old Flemish Masters; at his large nudes, which were
reminiscent not only of Titian but also of Delacroix. For de
Chirico used \htflochetage method, so dear to the Romantic master,
even though he still ribboned his compositions with the pale
whites of his earlier manner. There were numerous self-portraits,
too: the artist in seventeenth-century costume; the artist with his
palette; the artist in modern dress; and Heaven help us in the
nude as well ! And on the other side he had put life-like portraits
of his wife, a young and beautiful Russian, with an enigmatic smile.

"Modern painting is equivocal. Young? It is more than fifty
years old, and for fifty years it has flouted all the rules and canons
which have held good for centuries. It is based on lack of control.

136 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

It was not a revolution, but an involution. Instead of being paint
ing, "modern art' has become mere reasoning. 'Cerebral', 'sensi
tive', etc. what does all that nonsense mean? In my opinion,
modern painting is like a singer who, his voice gone, has turned
into a blue-stocking: a make-shift."

"Even so, Chirico, there are some great painters today, don't
you think?"

"De Chirico, please. There is a particle in front of my name.
Hm. . . . Great painters? No. None except Picasso, and to a
lesser degree Derain, perhaps. ..."

"Picasso, then?"

"Picasso is a sort of visionary, a great man, who really has some
thing : he has shut himself up in a room and he alone has the key to
it. He has a certain quality, but it is harmful. All the others since
Courbet have invented a revolution out of necessity : they didn't
really know anything. Decadence set in with Renoir's last period.
But no paper would ever dare to print what I'm telling you.
They've nearly all been bought off by the art-dealers, just as cer
tain art-dealers are bought off by certain painters. The Surrealists
wanted to include me in their group, just as they've included
Leonardo da Vinci. But I'd have none of it. Andr6 Breton bribed
the dealer Paul Guillaume, of all people the same Paul Guillaume
who proclaimed: 'Only those whom / choose have talent.' The
art-dealers' combine which did not exist from the age of rock-
drawings and troglodytes to Courbet's death has killed true
painting."

"But what about yourself?"

"I am a painter, not a clown. And it makes me furious to see my
work hung alongside the clowns in the Biennale."

"Nevertheless, you were one of the first of the avant-garde
painters, weren't you?"

De Chirico avoided my question by calling the waiter and order
ing another maraschino ice. Then, turning back to me, he said,

"Now, Rubens, you see . . "

Mme. de Chirico smiled. The violins struck up a lively tune.
From down below rose the refrain of another canzonetta:

Non, "cara piccina, non"
Cost non va. . . .

The Unreality of the Surrealists

or from
Lautreamont to a Tuppeny Leonardo

IT WAS THE poet Andre Breton who introduced Surrealism into
painting. He wrote a manifesto which attracted into his orbit
several painters (and poets) who, according to the formula of the
first Impressionists, "were seeking something new". Surrealism
introduced the subconscious into the compositions of the new
painters, an event which gave rise to much serious research, even
though as with Cubism a few charlatans mingled with the
sincere artists. The latter, however, were not above doing a certain
amount of drum-beating, which the most convinced of the Occult
ists had once indulged in, thereby adding to the confusion in the
minds of the public: surprise exhibitions held in mysterious
booths, like side-shows at a fair, etc. Then some of the artists were
ostracised; others left the group of their own accord.

Even so the "revolution", which had already lasted for thirty
years or more, brought to light much talent. It embraced such
men as Van Bosch and Lautreamont, even Jarry and Albert
Roussel. The last used to travel about in a hermetically-sealed
car, and he covered the whole of the West Indies without casting a
single glance at the landscape.

Many may remember Max Ernst and Kurt Seligman, who were
accused of "projecting" their "interior mirror" or their "over-
self" on to their canvases, using a sponge dipped in paint to get
their tones, and achieving, it must be said, quite deep and moving
nightmare impressions. More subtle was Tanguy, with his
luminous bladders that looked like lanterns; and the Spaniard,
Miro. There was a fine outburst of anger from the purists when
Miro and Dali were asked to do the sets for the Russian Ballet's
Romeo and Juliet', and an even louder uproar was created among the

138 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

audience by Breton and Aragon. While Diaghilev exulted a Isola,
the frightened director, called out the Republican Guard.

"Nothing like this ever happened when we put on No, no,
Nanette," he said to me quite seriously.

I made Dali's acquaintance while I was in America. He has
always been too much of an exhibitionist for my liking. He is a
talented trickster, who has succeeded in impressing ingenuous
New Yorkers with his Renaissance style paintings. I always think
of him in connection with the quip Vauxcelles made about another
talented imitator, named Sarluis, a much simpler artist, whom he
called a "Twopenny Leonardo".

However, at the instance of several friends, I wrote a not too
severe article on one of Dali's exhibitions. Later, we were intro
duced to each other, and my article was shown to Salvador. He
proceeded to roll it into a ball which he pressed against his forehead,
remaining thus for several minutes, as if in prayer. Eventually he
said:

"I don't need to read it. The substance of what he has written
penetrates my brain in this way, and I can spiritually drink in his
sympathy or antipathy."

FROM NEW YORK'S BOHEMIA TO THAT
OF SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRfiS

(by way of a Sophisticated Venice)

H&ion, Peggy and Pegeen: the names sound almo^yp if they
had come out of a musical comedy by George Gershwin.

One night in 1951 Pegeen, the daughter of Peggy Guggenheim,
the multi-millionaire, was discovered lying with her veins slashed
in her black-marble bathroom in the Venier-Casati Palazzo on the
Grand Canal in Venice. It was quite incredible. For little Pegeen
had been in the best of spirits the night before, when, perfumed
and smiling, her hair done in a horse's tail, she had appeared in
Harry's the bar which, with its white walls and severe lines con
trasting so sharply with the Church of the Salute opposite, seems

THE UNREALITY OF THE SURREALISTS 139

to be defying the aristocracy of Venice. Yet that same aristocracy
crowds into it, fills it to bursting point, and brings with it which
ever artists happen to be fashionable.

One such artist was Helion, whom I met again in America, after
he had made two sensational escapes: one from Germany, where
he had been a prisoner-of-war; the other from Surrealism, which
had been much more difficult.

I had gone with the Marquise de Charette to see him in his
studio in New York, during the exhibition of his pictures, which
were remarkable for their large luminous areas of colour.

Studio, did I say? It was a little box of a place in a bohemian
district, with whitewashed windows, curtains in typical Greenwich
Village style, a red brick floor, and a distinct air of shabbiness.
Such studios were, in fact, more makeshift than the ones the late
Montparnos used to inhabit. Helion introduced us to his wife,
who was small and bare-legged; she wore red bedroom slippers,
and her hair hung loose like Ophelia's.

"You mustn't be taken in by all that," the Marquise had said to
me afterwards. "It's considered very smart by up-to-date Ameri
can artists, whenever they have visitors, to put the broom in the
coal-scuttle and a saucepan on the piano. That boy has great
talent; and he hasn't married a pauper, either. His wife, in fact, is
Pegeen Guggenheim. Yes, he married and very sensible of him,
too, because she is exquisite one of the richest heiresses in
America, the daughter of Peggy Guggenheim."

I had already met the formidable and charming Peggy Guggen
heim at an exhibition of paintings by a group of ultra-modern
women artists in East 5yth Street, which she had organised and
financed. She stood near the door and loftily questioned the
visitors as they went out.

"And what did you think of the paintings?"

"Er I don't understand them very well, I'm afraid."

Peggy shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"Come back again in fifty years," she said. And to the next
person, "And what did you think of them?"

"If you will pardon me for saying so, I think they're quite
mad."

140 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"It is you who are mad, if you don't understand art. Good
afternoon."

When it came to my turn, I replied politely,

"It is all very nice."

"Nice?"

My answer seemed to take the wind out of her sails.

"But what do you really think of them?" she insisted.

"In Paris we got over making a fuss about such things a long
time ago. They either end up in a museum or in the cemetery."

Peggy leaned back against the wall of the staircase.

"But what is being done then, nowadays?"

"Well, Madame," I said, "as you are a Maecenas, it is up to you
to find out." And I departed, thoroughly pleased with myself.

Since then, whenever Peggy and I meet, we embrace in all
friendliness, and on my side without qualms, though I must say
that on that first occasion I was seriously afraid she might take a
bite out of my throat.

In Italy I met Peggy again, with Pegeen and Helion. With her
usual energy she had bought the palazzo where Casati had once
given her famous Venetian balls, complete with leopards and
gilded Negroes, while the riff-raff of the town went by with
torches on the Canal all of which would have been admirable
material for Mile. Leonor Fini, who would have fitted into the
scene so well herself, with her B6rard eyes, feathers, and black
veils.

In the Venier-Casati palazzo, which still echoed with the music
of Stradella and Scarlatti, interpreted by Giorgio Levi, Peggy
Guggenheim had installed a kind of garden-museum of Cubist
sculpture, with painted trees of reinforced cement. There she
housed her pet artists in rooms which had been entirely modern
ised, even to the lighting-fixtures, each of them with its black-
marble bathroom. It was in one of these bathrooms that Pegeen
had slit the veins of her wrists, for the noblest of reasons : namely,
because of an argument about painting. Her husband, it seems,
had accused her of painting "gingerbread" Surrealist figures.
One wonders if, in revenge, she had taunted him with his umbrellas
blown up to the size of trophies of war.

THE UNREALITY OF THE SURREALISTS 141

No matter. Pegeen's life was saved, and she went back to the
Cafe Flore, where she was joined by the Modiglianesque Helion.
And Peggy, for her part, continued to play the Americanised lady-
Doge, in her garden filled with glass flowers and plastic fountains
wired for sound.

In the Teeming Jungle of Montparnasse

MODIGLIANI

BAKST, WHO HAD prophesied a great career for Chagall, said to
me one afternoon as I was about to leave his studio:

"Don't go just yet. I'm expecting somebody who really is
'somebody' the Italian painter and sculptor Modigliani, from
Leghorn. He is doing my portrait. Here's a line-drawing he's done
for it. Look at the care he has taken. All the features in my face
are etched as if with a needle, and there's no retouching. I'm sure
he must be poor; but he has the air of a grand seigneur. He really
is 'somebody', I assure you."

I was working on a novel at the time it was in 1919. I mention
this because the chief character was none other than Modigliani, at
least so far as the general facts of his turbulent life were concerned.

Ever since the last century Murger had set the style for the
Vie de Boheme. But I had just discovered a new kind of bohemia,
more liberal and infinitely wider in its significance, in the Mont
parnasse quarter, ^to. which there flocked painters, sculptors and
intellectuals from all over the world, bringing with them their own
very individual ideas. All sorts and persuasions were to be seen in
the cafes even Trotsky and Leniri. The latter, who at one time
considered taking a job as a model in the South of France, 1 spent
night after night playing chess.

In this Montparnasse, so full of ferment, I sought a hero who
would represent the quarter and the new bohemia, as well as the
struggles and aspirations of its habitues.

I asked the advice of a number of people, and, as everyone said
"Modigliani", I decided on him, changing his name to Modrulleau,
and that of his mistress, who was known as "Noix-de-Coco", to
"Haricot-Rouge".

And thus my "Montparnos" came into being. Such is the

1 Bourdelle's son-in-law told me that Lenin gave up such a modest
ambition because the Russian sadly realised that he was "too small".

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 143

power of the written word that even today some journalists, who
have never bothered to read the book, and who want to evoke the
so-called "heroic" period of Montparnasse, speak of "Haricot-
Rouge" as if she were a real person.

Bakst was, therefore, going to introduce me to the living embodi
ment of the character I had in mind.

Presently, into the studio walked a tall, upright young man, who
had the lithe, springy gait of an Indian from the Andes. He was
wearing espadrilles and a tight-fitting sweater. And in his pale
face, which was shadowed by a shock of thick hair, his eyes
burned beneath their sharp, rugged brows. I learned afterwards
that the intensity of his gaze, which seemed to be fixed on some
distant object, was unfortunately due to the use of drugs.

Modigliani went through the formalities as quickly as possible,
as if he were in feverish haste to set to work; the tea Bakst had pre
pared for him grew cold.

He applied the paint to the canvas slowly but firmly, all the
muscles taut in his cheeks, jaw and hand. He replied briefly but
courteously to our questions, but his whole attention was concen
trated on what he was doing. Apart from his work, he showed no
sign of interest in anything, except when Bakst talked to him about
Utrillo. And when a visitor dropped in and asked him why Utrillo
painted only gloomy subjects, Modigliani answered less in
bitterness than in anger:

"You have to paint what you see. Give a painter some other
place to live in than a slum. How shocked the collectors and art
dealers are because we give them scenes of horrible suburbs, with
trees twisted like salsify and blackened by soot and smoke; or
else indoor subjects, where the dining-room is next to the lavatory!
And since we are obliged to live like rag-pickers on the outskirts of
town, we simply make a record of what we see. Every period has
the painters and poets it deserves, as well as the subjects that go
with the life they have to lead. In the days of the Renaissance,
painters lived in palaces, wore velvet, and enjoyed the sunshine.
But when you think of die squalor a painter like Utrillo lives in,
and how many hospitals he has been in, from Picpus to Fontenay,
you don't have to ask why he doesn't paint anything but walls
covered with fly-specks, and leprous streets, and an endless series
of railings !"

144

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Modigliani : Self-portrait

Modigliani was very fond of Utrillo. Their first meeting had
been quite picturesque, in its way. To begin with, as a token of
their mutual admiration., they exchanged coats. Then one said to
the other,

"You are the world's greatest painter."

"No. You are the world's greatest painter."

"I forbid you to contradict me."

"I forbid you to forbid me!"

"If you say that again, I'll hit you !"

"The world's greatest "

Biff! Bang! And the fight started. They made it up in a nearby
bistro. There they consumed a large number of bottles of wine,
and exchanged coats several more times. Then they went out.

"You're the world's greatest painter, aren't you?"

"No. You are."

Biff! Bang! Wallop! And they were at it again, landing up in
the gutter, where they went to sleep, and woke up at dawn to find
that they had been robbed.

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 145

When I was in the United States a year or so ago, I saw in the
Pennsylvania Museum some canvases of Modigliard's that had
once passed through my hands. People over there are fond of
telling you the price of things, and one of the attendants crudely
informed me that each picture was worth sixty thousand dollars.

In the gardens of a big industrialist on the Riviera, I saw a
number of admirable statues by Modigliani, and, among others,
one that he had carved for his own tomb and that of his wife, who,
according to the well-known story, threw herself out of the window
on learning of his death.

In conclusion, I must relate an anecdote about the artist which,
better than any comment, shows what a profound influence Modi-
gliani had on others, even on the subconscious of some of his
friends.

When I came to write the scene of my hero's death in my novel,
some intuition prompted me to describe him as uttering with his
last breath the one word "Rome".

Some time later I met the Basque painter Ortiz de Zarate, who
had been with Modigliani in his last moments, and had, incident
ally, inherited the latter's studio.

"Do you happen to remember what his last words were?" I
asked him.

"Yes," he said. "He died in the Charity Hospital in the very
same bed that Jarry had died in. And I heard him murmur feebly,

CHAIM SOUTINE

"You do realise, don't you, that your book Les Montparnos is
not to be taken seriously?" people had said to me, even in Mont-
parnasse. "You talk about Soutine, for instance. He may seem
picturesque hereabouts; but outside the quarter he is unknown,
and will remain so."

Frankly, Soutine was not much of a celebrity in those days.
His lean figure his shadow, you might say, so timid was he
could often be seen lurking around the Dome or the Rotonde
cafSs; but he would not have dared to enter even if he had had the

146 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

ten sous which would have enabled him to spend the afternoon
and evening, and even the entire night, there, in the company of
the painters and poets who were just introducing the new Con-
structivist ideas to the world. He was already a stooping, round-
shouldered individual, and he would stand about shivering, his

Soutine in the manner of Modigliani

hands in his pockets, hitching up his shabby coat. His shaggy
head, with its unkempt hair, was hunched between his shoulders.
His whole face was an unhealthy red, even to the tip of his nose;
and he had fleshy lips, like those which had so disfigured Toulouse-
Lautrec.

But in spite of his unprepossessing appearance, he had eyes of a
surprising serenity: light blue, smiling, almost happy eyes, which,
if they did not bring him success, at least secured him the femi
nine attentions which made his life happier. All the same, he
painted women as he looked himself, twisted and grimacing; or
else attenuated, like El Greco's figures, by a sort of deep and
mystic suffering, and suspended in the midst of landscapes that
were themselves deformed and sinister.

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 147

"He seems to use dish-cloths to paint on/' a captious critic once
remarked to me.

"Yes but he sets fire to them!'* I replied.

It was Zborowski who first "discovered" Somine.

Zborowski was a Polish poet. He was a member of the Groupe
du 41 e Degre^ which had started in the Academy of Tiflis, and
spread throughout Russia and Europe, with a branch even in
France. It seemed to be a Constructivist school of poetry, and had its
extremists just as Cubism had in painting. And what extremists!

Kruchenik, the most important of the contemporary Russian
poets, had invented what was called "zaoumian" or "pure spirit"
poetry, that is, poetry which did not have to make sense, and was
supposed to be sung for the sake of singing. It was also sometimes
called "the poetry of sounds'*.

Kliebnikov had composed a Treatise of Supreme Impropriety.,
which was printed in Moscow by order of the Soviet Government
for the purpose of undermining "bourgeois morality". The first
sentences of the treatise were retrospective, and based on the
edifying theme that "up to now the whole of Russia has been built
out of dung".

By way of contrast, Sovour had written and published an ironic
Bourgeois Poetics, based on the taste of "vulgar concierges".

Zborowski was the "nightingale" of the group. Though he
railed against the poetry of old Poland, each of his poems nostalgic
ally evoked his native land. He demolished whole cities, but
rather in the manner of a jeweller, who might take a tiara apart,
holding each precious stone up to the light to make it sparkle and
seem more golden against the distant snows.

Soon, however, the group resumed their carping, and again
cursed the past centuries, during which "hundreds of millions of
men in Russia and throughout the world had suffered cold and
hunger for the benefit of a small minority". Things were no better
in 1920. Some of the poets were obliged to clean oil lamps on the
railways, or carry ridiculous advertising placards along the boule-'
vards in order to earn a crust of bread. The luckiest of them got a
job grinding powders for chemicals; Zborowski himself was hired
by an agency to address envelopes at the rate of three francs the
five hundred, working by artificial light while summer called to
him from out of doors.

148 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

In the evening, the poets used to foregather at the Cafe de la
Rotonde in the company of painters as poverty-stricken as them
selves. One artist^ named Berline, was a taxi-driver by night, and
in the daytime he painted when the spirit moved him.

Among all these people, perhaps the most poverty-stricken, yet
the purest in heart, was Soutine.
Zborowski's comment on him was as follows :
"He is probably the most vigorous painter of our time, but the
poor fellow doesn't suspect it. He emerged from the depths of
Russia, and feels as though he is in the Seventh Heaven here in
France, where at least he has the right to sit on a public bench if
he wants to, without fear of being beaten by the police. I bought
him a coat one day. He would have taken any coat the salesman
offered him, for he had never worn anything but a Russian
blouse. There was no point in picking and choosing: it was extra
ordinary enough to have a coat at all! He hated wearing a hat.
Why, you wouldn't want to 'dress up like a Czar' every day,
would you? When he arrived in Paris, Soutine was taken in by the
sculptor Mietschaninov who, alarmed at the sorry state of his
guest, put a little trough between their two beds and poured paraf
fin into it, as a protection against vermin.

"But just look at that canvas of Soutine's ! Do you know how he
does his painting? He goes off into the country and lives like a
tramp in a sort of pigsty. He gets up at three in the morning, and
walks twenty kilometres with his paints and canvas to find a site
that pleases him, and at night returns to his sty to sleep, quite
forgetting that he has had nothing to eat. When he gets back, he
takes the canvas out of the frame, puts it on top of the one he did
the day before, and goes to sleep beside it. Well, I paid him a
monthly stipend" for Zborowski had eventually taken to selling
pictures, first to help out various friends, and then to make a
modest living for himself "for two years, without his giving me
anything in return. When I finally went to stir him up about it, I
found three hundred paintings piled one on top of the other in his
wretched hole, which stank to heaven because he never opened the
window for fear of 'damaging the canvases'. While I was out get
ting some food for him he set fire to them, giving as his excuse that
he wasn't satisfied with them. However, I managed to save a few,
but only after a knock-down fight with him. You're looking at

IN THE JUNGLE OF MQNTPARNASSE 149

some of them now those pictures of meat. I must say that he
paints meat well, especially when he's hungry. Have you ever
noticed his terrible jaws? Well,, he buys a piece of raw meat and
fasts in front of it for two days before he starts to paint it. Look
at that red: hasn't he put all his cannibal appetite into it? And
that plain wooden table, laid for a meal with all the things he has
never had himself. He even eats without a knife or fork, tearing
the food apart with his teeth, and drinks water straight out of the
bottle.

"Look at the meat in this picture : he spent two weeks painting it,
and after that it was completely unfit to eat. Did even Rembrandt
do that? No, I want to keep this one for myself. But if you like the
other two, you can have them for forty francs. 5 *

"All right. I'll take them."

Zborowski was then living with his wife a woman of very dis
tinguished appearance whom Modigliani had often painted in
the rue Joseph-Bara, between the Boulevard Montparnasse and the
Luxembourg Gardens, just below Kisling's modest lodgings.
Kisling was another of his "finds", Zborowski's apartment con
sisted of two low-ceilinged rooms, cluttered with canvases by all
the different painters he was trying to help. And out on a kind of
balcony he kept several of Modigliani's sculptures, which, though
exposed to the rain, dirt and smoke, he was eventually able to sell
at a good price most of them to M. Monteux, the industrialist.

I went home with Soutine's two canvases, and the next day I
wrote a couple of articles on the painter in the hope of helping his
cause. Then I talked to Paul Guillaume about him.

M. Guillaume was extremely cultivated and had an inquiring
mind. He was probably the first to exhibit Negro sculpture, which
such people as Picasso, Apollinaire and Baron Golubev were col
lecting in those days.

In his enthusiasm for the new painting, he had shown consider
able enterprise at the very start of his career. A Swedish gentle
man had bought thirty thousand francs* worth of pictures from
him, which were to be sent to Sweden, But this was in the middle
of the First World War. Nothing daunted, Paul Guillaume took
passage with the canvases on a small cargo vessel, and succeeded in
delivering them safely.

On his return to Paris, he opened his gallery in the rue de la

150 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Boetie, where he gave a showing of Matisse's first large paintings,
The Piano and The Forest, as well as some by Picasso and Derain,
and a few Modiglianis.

"You ought to buy some Soutines," I told him.

"No. Not yet/' he said. "But if you know of any Modi
glianis. . . ."

One day I had the luck to come across a fine "Modi" and a
Soutine in a photographer's shop, of all places. The Soutine was
the little pastry-cook in his apron, with his ears sticking out. As I
was standing there looking at the two canvases, the photographer
said to me,

"They're for sale, if you'd like to buy them."

"I'll bring a buyer to see them," I said. "But only on one
condition."

"Oh, I'll give you a commission," the fellow assured me.

"I didn't mean that," I replied, laughing. "My condition is
that you won't sell the Modigliani without requiring the buyer to
take the Soutine as well."

"Oh, I see," he said. "You're Monsieur Soutine, I suppose?
All right. I agree."

An hour later Paul Guillaume and I walked out of the shop with
the two canvases, which the photographer had let us have for three
hundred francs.

"You're right: it's not bad at all," declared Guillaume, examin
ing the Soutine. "It's stunning, in fact. And there's an extraordin
ary vehemence about the colour, just as there is about the character
of the subject. Now, I'm going to do something that will please
you," and, turning to his secretary, he said, "Mademoiselle, will
you put this canvas in the window? We'll pick out a handsome
frame for it."

I ought to mention that another prominent art dealer, Georges
Bernheim, had already become interested in Soutine's work.

M. Bernheim was one of the most cultivated, honest and enter
prising of men. It is impossible to guess how many painters are
indebted to him for launching them. To give an idea of his charac
ter, I must relate one anecdote out of the many that have been told
about him. It concerns a collector who was negotiating with him
for a Cubist picture, but appeared not to be able to make up his

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 151

mind. In all fairness, it should be said that the prospective cus
tomer was more interested in speculating, since the market was
rising, than in buying for his personal pleasure.

"I am afraid," he said, "that my wife will scold me if I buy it.
Would you be willing to take it back if she raises too much of a
row?"

"Why, certainly, sir," replied Bernheim. "The cashier will give
you a receipt for ten thousand francs, on the understanding that
the sale is conditional."

The customer paid the money. But a week later he returned
with the canvas.

"Fm sorry," he said; "but my wife just can't stand it."

"Very well," replied Bernheim; and, calling to the cashier, he
said,

"Will you give this gentleman back his twelve thousand francs ?"

On hearing this, the customer, an honest man, exclaimed,

"I beg your pardon, but I only paid ten thousand for the
picture."

"I know," retorted Bernheim. "But since you were last here
the painter's work has gone up in value. Cashier, will you kindly
give the gentleman twelve thousand francs?"

"Oh, well, if that's the case," said the visitor, "I think I had
better keep it," and he hurried out of the gallery with the parcel
still under his arm.

It so happened that one day Georges Bernheim rang me up.

"Have you got any canvases by that painter Soutine you talked
about in your last book?" he asked.

"Yes: two landscapes and a flower-piece."

"Would you let me see them?"

"Yes, certainly,"

Bernheim arrived half an hour later, and, pushing his spectacles
up on his forehead, examined the Soutines carefully*

"Will you sell them to me?"

"Well, no. Besides, how much could I sell them to you for? I
bought them from Zborowski for only forty francs."

"I don't care. I'll give you three thousand francs for them."

"No. I'm sorry."

He thought I was trying to bargain for more.

152 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"I'll give you six ten twelve I'll give you thirteen thousand
francs for them."

"Oh, no," I said to myself. "There's been a 'rise' in the value
of Soutine's work." (But, quite unknowingly, I had been the one
who had caused the "rise".)

"Stop !" I said. "You can have the two landscapes, but I want to
keep the flower-piece."

"Good. Here's twenty thousand francs. And if you have any
others, you know . . ."

I went round at once to see Paul Guillaume. He, too, had sold
the Soutine I had persuaded him to buy. This is what had hap
pened.

A gentleman came into his shop, and asked,

"How much is that canvas?"

"Twenty-five thousand francs," Guillaume had replied at ran
dom. At the time, he might not have given more than five hundred
for it himself.

"I'll take it," said the stranger.

"Very well, sir. My secretary will take your name and address."

"Here is my card. And I will take anything else you have by
that painter."

Guillaume glanced at the card. The gentleman was none other
than the well-known Dr. Barnes, the inventor of "Argyrol" and
founder of the Barnes Foundation at Merion, Pennsylvania. As it
turned out, Guillaume was shortly afterwards to become his Euro
pean agent.

Guillaume and I then went up and down Montparnasse, trying
to find more Soutines. When I next saw Zborowski, I said to him :

"Put ten of your Soutines under your bed [where he kept most
of his valuable canvases], and go to Paul Guillaume with the rest
of them. He'll take them in a flash."

"But why not all of them?"

"Do as I tell you, and you'll thank me for it afterwards."

"Oh, all right, then."

"What about the "Beef picture?" Guillaume asked Zborowski.
"The big skinned beef that Soutine kept in the house so long,
while he was painting it, that all the neighbours in the rue Saint-

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 153

Gothard complained to the police because of the smell of decaying
meat."

"I don't want to sell that canvas," the poet said.

They weren't on speaking terms after this incident.

Next time Dr. Barnes called at the gallery to see Paul Guillaume,
the latter had some forty Soutines in his racks. But he doled them
out one or two at a time to the collector, occasionally putting him
off with:

"I haven't been able to find any more. I've been promised one
for tomorrow, or the day after. Call in again, and maybe Fll have
something for you."

One morning Zborowski blew into my house, his hair in dis
order, his shirt open on his naked chest.

"Monsieur Georges-Michel!" he cried breathlessly. "Could you
lend me twenty-five francs right away?"

"Why, certainly; and more, if you need it, Zbo. Anything the
matter?"

"No. Quite the contrary. What's happened is that a well-
known collector is coining to see me this evening. He can only
come at night, and, as the gas has been cut off because I haven't
paid my bill, I must settle it at once. I can't show my pictures by
candle-light."

"Here you are, Zbo."

"Thanks so much. You have no idea what a favour you're
doing me."

Two weeks later I had occasion to go to the Bal des Petits Lits
Blancs> which was being held in the beautiful Theatre des Champs-
Elysees in the Avenue Montaigne, where I was then living.
Among the many tables filled with fashionable society people I
noticed one in particular, where it looked as though a private ban
quet was in progress. There were thirty people at least; and there
were as many bottles of champagne on the table, and twice as
many under it a veritable Russian orgy. At one end of the table I
perceived a sort of Alfred de Musset figure in evening-clothes,
with glass raised high. On catching sight of me, de Musset put
down his glass and hurried over to beg me to join in the festivities,

"Another bottle of champagne!" he called to the waiter. "Two
bottles! A magnum!"

154 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

It was Zborowski.

"No, no, Zbo. Don't be so reckless."

"Here. Look/' he said gaily. And half-opening his dinner-
jacket, he drew out of his pocket an enormous roll of thousand-
franc notes. "Sixty of 'em/ 5 he informed me. "And I've got a lot
more. So you'll surely allow me "

"He's mad/' said Margoulies, who was standing near us. "Yes
terday he ordered three hundred francs' worth of soup for his dog
in the restaurant where he was eating."

It turned out that the collector, who had bought the ten can
vases I had advised Zborowski to hold in reserve, was the wealthy
Dr. Barnes again. I might add, in passing, that he had bought
them by candle-light after all. For when I went to see Zborowski
at his house a week later, not only did he not have a single thou
sand-franc note left, but he still hadn't paid his gas-bill.

In all fairness, it should be stated that Soutine received his share
of the windfall. His pockets well filled with money, he went down
to Cagnes, in the South of France, and rented a villa there. Every
now and then he would telephone to Nice, which is about six miles
away, and order a taxi to come out for him. Then he would go to
the Hotel Negresco, or the Rhul, and ask for a manicurist. The
taxi waited for him, took him back to Cagnes, and went back to
Nice, the return journey paid for, needless to say. It wasn't long
before he was calling the manicurist to come out to Cagnes. . . .

But Soutine was always highly critical of his own work, and used
to destroy eight out often of his canvases. Once, when Bernheim
acompanied me on a visit to the artist, he literally had to tear out
of Soutine's hands a piece of one picture, which he then bought
for twelve thousand francs. Soutine had simply taken the scissors
and cut out the part that didn't please him !

He never drank anything but water. Whenever anyone offered
him champagne, or even ordinary wine, he would refuse, saying,

"No, thanks. I don't want to become corrupted." And his
thick lips would break into a smile, and his expression grow more
angelic if I may use the word without irony.

Shortly before the Second World War, I chanced to run into
Soutine in the Halles quarter of Paris.

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 155

"I want to buy a chicken," he told me, "but I don't know
whether I can find what I'm looking for. I'd like one with a long
neck and a bluish skin."

He pronounced the word "bluish" greedily, almost gluttonously.

"May I help choose it?" I asked.

The owner of the shop we went into was undoubtedly a decent
sort. Soutine, as usual, was dressed like a tramp, and when he
asked for a chicken the poulterer brought him a nice fat pullet.

"No. I want one like this," said Soutine, pointing to an emaci
ated-looking cockerel.

"No, no," the poultry-dealer answered. "I understand. But
you needn't worry : I won't charge you any more for this one. I
know what hard times are like. You take this one, and have a good
meal."

"No," repeated Soutine, stubbornly. "I want the skinny one,
with the long neck and flabby skin."

"No, no," insisted the tradesman again. "You just take one of
these, and pay me what you can afford."

In vain I tried to explain to the good man that my friend only
wanted the chicken to paint, not to eat. He raised his hands in
despair. And, as Soutine departed with the chicken he wanted,
the poulterer stared after him and shook his head. And no wonder.
For Soutine had paid him with a thousand-franc note and told him
to keep the change.

After we had left, I said,

"Soutine, you're mad!"

"Bah! What's money, anyway?"

"But the man's much richer than you are."

"What difference does that make?"

"It makes this difference: that if you're going to be so generous
with your money, you'd do better to help someone who really
needs it a few of your fellow-artists, for instance."

Soutine stopped short and looked at me in surprise.

"Yes, you're right," he agreed. Then he unwrapped his
chicken in the middle of the street, and remarked,

"I'm going to hang it up by the head on a nail, and in a couple
of days it will be just about ripe."

The last time I saw Soutine was shortly before the Big Offensive.

I 5 6

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

As I had an errand near the Place Denfert-Rochereau, I thought I
would drop in to see the painter in all his splendour, for I knew
that he had bought himself a house in the neighbourhood. It was a
quaint little place, two stories high; but inside the walls and the
floors were bare. Near the stairs there was a camp-bed with a
mattress on it.

"I won't ask you to go upstairs/' said Soutine, "because there's
nothing there, and besides, I've taken in a woman refugee."

"How's life going with you?" I inquired, not without a certain
diffidence, for times were growing very difficult.

"Oh, I've still got twenty-three francs," he informed me. "And
a cheque for" he searched his pockets, and finally pulled out a
slightly soiled piece of paper "twenty-five thousand francs," he
went on. "I got it for two small canvases."

"But you must go and cash it, Soutine," I said. "In a few days
the banks may refuse "

"Do you think so? I've had it three weeks already. But I've
still got my twenty-three francs." And he thrust the crumpled
cheque back into his pocket.

I was among those who helped to organise the last Soutine
exhibition at the Venice Biennale. As a commentary on the effort
that was made to ensure its success, it is worth mentioning that a
million and a half francs were spent in bringing over from America

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 157

thirteen canvases which Mrs. W had been kind enough to

lend for the occasion.

Soutine was survived by a daughter who, it is said, barely man
ages to earn a living as a charwoman.

KREMEGNE

Soutine himself had a shadow, but a shadow which, In course of
time, became highly coloured: the painter Kremegne. Perhaps it
was because he was smaller and thinner than Soutine, and seemed
more harassed by destiny, but the fact remains that Kremegne was
the more timid of the two. He would trail along behind Soutine
as they went up and down in front of the cafes which, though full
of light and warmth and friends, their poverty made them too
proud to enter. For I have never known two human beings who
had more genuine dignity.

Kremegne's painting is well enough known in the art world to
day. Though less vehement than Soutine's, it is perhaps more tor
tured and less dramatic. Some people are inclined to criticise him
for being too Russian, too "cerebral".

No matter. Kremegne was acquainted with art galleries all over
the world. He used to sit with me in a little cafe, his elbows on the
marble-top table, and his eyes would light up as he talked about
the painters of the Renaissance.

"Ah, Raphael!" he would exclaim. "Everything Raphael did
was divine: the smallest bit of canvas, a beggar's shoe, the perspec
tive of a palace; every detail as well as the whole picture. And how
his work lingers in one's memory."

"What delight Raphael must have had," I said, "in creating only
beautiful things, just as Racine did. And his atmosphere "

"Yes. His skies. We don't really know what their beauty con
sists of, or their lightness, or their living quality. They are so full
of joy; they soar; they sing. They are all order and buoyancy and
gladness and colour. A man feels transfigured by them; simply
looking at a Raphael makes him feel both naked and a god."

"And Michelangelo, and Leonardo?"

"There's too much will-power in Michelangelo. He is all
strength, but Raphael is grace. Michelangelo takes you by force.
Raphael smiles and charms you. He is a believer; and at the same

158 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

time he is a god, he is an ingel. Leonardo is too intelligent to be
lieve. He tries to make you believe. He imbues a lip or a glance
with mystery,, the mystery we want to pluck from art. Raphael is
direct. With him, we believe the minute we see. He doesn't just
promise you Heaven, as Leonardo does; he shows it to you, he
gives it to you. Others are gracious; others are aiming at the
celestial: Perugino, for instance. But they are not divine. Only
Raphael has the gift of prophecy because he is the descendant of
five generations. He is diverse, as Picasso is today. He is Perugino,
Leonardo, Bartolomeo, all rolled into one, but in a higher, trans
figured, form; for he infused them with the enchantment of
divinity. Raphael alone is a god."

ZARRAGA

It is odd that so many painters, even the most diffident, talk
about painting in mystical terms. Painters all over the world do it,
and each one has his own ideas, which are often diametrically
opposed to those held by other artists, even of the same generation.
There was, for instance, the Mexican painter, Angel Zarraga, who
was a great admirer of Renoir (whose portrait, incidentally, he
painted). And yet his way of contrasting Raphael and Michel
angelo was altogether different from that of Kremegne.

Zarraga, who had a pinched face but placid eyes, lived in the
boulevard Arago. When he worked, he always wore a sort of
Spanish robe with a hood, not out of any love for fancy dress but
because he thought it more convenient, and also because he had
brought the costume back from Spain.

He had been all over Europe, and had steeped himself in the
Tintorettos in Venice, the only place, he maintained, "where it is
possible to understand and interpret that great colourist". In
Spain he had painted the walls of cathedrals, less for the glory of
God than for the glory of El Greco, in whom he had discovered
along with several others what Barres had never even suspected:
namely, the elements of Cubism or, at least, what used to be called
Cubism.

Brought up on pictorial scholasticism, he never began a canvas
without preparing it as if it were a geometrical problem in space, or
even a problem in algebra or logarithms.

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 159

I ran into him one evening in Venice. We went out in a gondola
together, and were taken along the great lagoon near San Marco.
Across the way the beautiful fa?ade of San Giorgio loomed white
against the darkness; whereas the Doges' Palace, the Campanile,
the Biblioteca, the great piazza were all drowned in the rosy glow
of the new electric street lamps.

A number of other gondolas had gathered in groups around us so
that their occupants could listen to the musicians who were playing
a serenade in a peotta hung with lanterns.

"This is more like Van Dongen's Venice than Canaletto's," I
remarked to Zarraga. "But it isn't so far removed from Guardi's."

"Yes, in the same way that Goya's Spain seems nearer to us
not in time but in appearance than Velasquez* does. Yes,
Venice on such a night as this wears a different robe of light,
artificial though it may be, which those who paint her must strive
to recapture."

"Yet what is eternal in Venice is its real light, and the propor
tions of the city. Canaletto realised that; whereas Guardi was
more fascinated by the atmosphere of festivity, and a kind of
pastoral intimacy that certain aspects of Venice suggest. But
Canaletto is the whole of Venice."

"Yes, he has the last word."

Zarraga had been one of the first to explain to me that Cubism
was undoubtedly helpful in preparing for the advent of a painter
who, in combining in himself the efforts of the whole of his genera
tion (just as Raphael had assimilated the art of his predecessors),
would become the Raphael of tomorrow. And this theory had
given me the idea for the underlying theme of the novel I was then
preparing to write on the Cubist painters.

But this idea had evidently fermented further in Zarraga's mind,
for presently he said to me, as our gondola rocked gently under the
Venetian night:

"Whether or not Cubism was preparing the path for 'the one
that is to come' was beside the point. Cubism was to be an end in
itself. It died because it developed too fast, and also because no
great Cubist appeared."

I mentioned a number of names to him, but he shook his head.

"You can't get very far with theories," he declared. "Lhote and

X 6o FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Metzinger simply dropped out of sight. Braque has stayed in a
blind alley. And Picasso has simply jumped over the wall. So far
as that goes, just look at his so-called Cubist paintings: nothing
but surfaces. Obstinate as he is, Braque has remained well bal
anced, with infinite delicacy in his daring. He is solid. He is
French. He is not saved just by Italianism and patching up. As
for Picasso? Of course, I agree that there isn't a single painter in
our generation who doesn't owe him something. A malicious
critic once said that his pictures are done as a milliner makes a hat,
which is 'saved' by adding a rosette here, a ribbon there, or else
by snipping off something. They are none the less masterpieces,
for being largely the result of intuition and luck."

"Well, don't you prefer if not luck at least spontaneity, the
unconscious, the something which can't be acquired? For isn't
it here, in this mystery, that genius, the spark of divinity, lies?
That is what Raphael had."

"I prefer Michelangelo," said Zarraga. "Just as I like Dela
croix better than Ingres, whom certain ignorant people compare,
claiming that Ingres was the true revolutionary because he pleases
those who have knocked their heads against the sharp angles of
Cubism and have come back to the smoothness of academism.
Vigour and strength have nothing to do with grace, Grace can be
imitated in one way or another, but not passion. Michelangelo
and Delacroix have fought and won; theirs is the final achievement
that admits of no going back. They are the closed door. But there
is everything to discover in them. Raphael an angel? That pretty
little angel was a minotaur who swallowed and assimilated every
thing from Phidias to Michelangelo. And yet Raphael, like Rem
brandt and El Greco and Ingres, has left the door open for others.
Michelangelo and Delacroix have dominated art one for five
centuries, and who knows how long the influence of the other will
last? We can pass over the rest, taking from them in the process
their flames and tinselled finery, correcting all their errors and
drawing nourishment from them. Signorelli, Michelangelo (with
out whom Raphael would have been nothing), and, later, Dela
croix, Courbet, Chasseriau, Seurat . . . think what they would have
accomplished with the tremendous discoveries of Cubism!"

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 161

MOISE KISLING

I first made Kisling's acquaintance by getting into a fight with
him. And perhaps it was because of our row that I subsequently
wrote Les Montparnos ; poor Kisling will never see the film version,
in which I gave him a prominent place in spite of our quarrels.

Apollinaire and Blaise Cendrars brought us together again.

It was at the time of what was called the "heroic" period in
Montparnasse, when the Constructivist painters, or Cubists, were
trying to establish their theories.

Kisling was not a Cubist. He pretended to know nothing about
theories. But, having come to Paris from his native Poland,
he happened to frequent the quarter inhabited by the great
theorists.

One day when he was painting at Ceret, along with Braque and
Derain, one of them said to him,

"Kisling, why do you put windows inside that house instead of
all round it?"

"Because they are in the house," he answered, quite logically.

No less logically, the other retorted:

"What difference does that make to you? The house isn't
yours."

He painted violently, desperately, even, it has been said, with a
certain vulgarity. And by way of self-defence, he once wryly
declared,

"Painting is a battle; but in battle one does not always dis
tinguish oneself."

During the First World War he enlisted in the army long before
the Polish Legion had been formed, and he returned from the
Front to fight a duel with one of his compatriots. The incident was
famous in the annals of Montparnasse. Some said it was all a fake;
others that it had been a dangerous encounter. For some of the
smaller art journals had already begun to make jokes about Kisling.
He lived in the rue Joseph-Bara, in the apartment above Zborow-
ski's, who, as I have said, was such an admirer of Modigliani,
Soutine, Kikoine, Kremegne and others among the new painters.

It was quite a long room, and on its walls Kisling had pinned

162 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

photos of various friends, together with newspaper articles and
reproductions of the latest masterpieces. Under the skylight there
was a big square table, which served as a palette, and around its
edges were the bowls in which the artist kept his paints.

In the centre of the room was a dais on which many well-known
people had posed, including Kiki, the famous model, who died
shortly before Kisling, Colette and the former Mrs. Jefferson Cohn.

Kiki herself told me how she came to know Kisling,. back in
1920.

"One day a newcomer appeared at the Rotonde," she said. "He
was sunburned, wore his hair in a fringe, and had a disagreeable
expression. I hardly dared look at him after I heard him say to the
manager, * Who's that new tart over there?' that didn't help to
endear him to me. I didn't say anything because he frightened me
a little, with his red scarf, his hands in his pockets, and his way of
staring at you. But a friend of mine who admired him said to me,
'That's Kisling. I'm going to introduce you to him.' After that,
every time he saw me in a cafe he would shout out at me and call
me all sorts of names. Of course, I know that the first words most
foreigners learn in another language are always dirty ones. But
I was furiously angry, and decided not to speak to him any more.
It was a pity, because I rather liked him.

"Then he promised he wouldn't insult me any more. He gave
me a contract for three months. But I'm a gloomy kind of model
most of the time. So then he would start yelling his head off to
make me laugh, or else he would make . . . well, rude noises; and
we tried to out-do each other in that. That's the only thing that
really makes me laugh. He was very nice to me after that. I would
steal his soap and his toothpaste, and he never said a word. He was
a terribly decent sort, a real pal. Zborowski would come up two or
three times a morning to see how we were getting along . . . and
also to take a good look at me. I've only known one other chap as
amusing as Kisling, and that was Fujita, who would sometimes
say to me in his funny little voice, 'Why your dirty feet?' That
was because I used to walk round in my bare feet, and Fujita had
forgotten to put rugs on the floor. Whenever he sold a picture I
had posed for, he would slip me a few hundred franc notes. He
would ask me to sing Louise for him, and I would imitate an
orchestra, and bring out the flute part especially, which made him

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 163

roar with laughter. 'It's a sc'eam! 5 he would say in his funny
accent."

Kisling's talent, his odd way of dressing for people liked a
little fancy dress in Montparnasse his pranks in smart society,
into which he began to be invited, all helped to change the "Atont-
parno" into an almost "Parisian" painter. Before long he was
getting his clothes at the most fashionable shops, and even went
so far as to wear white gloves. He was the talk of the town: "It's
really not done to paint the eyes with shoe-polish," said some.
"Not all women have jaundice, or a stiff neck," said others. But he
was an artist and painted well, and he made a solid reputation for
himself with his portraits of women with an air of Oriental melan
choly. He was conscientious, even painstaking. He painted magni
ficent pictures of nudes, which were sought after both by collectors
and by art-dealers, although his highly-coloured flower-pieces
seemed somewhat stiff. On the other hand, when it came to some
of his pictures of fish on a fishmonger's slab, few could surpass
him, and that alone would have been enough to dass him as a
master.

As his first name was Moses, of which he was very proud,
Kisling decided to leave France at the time of the German invasion
in 1940. He was detained in Portugal, and it was always being
rumoured that he had died there. But he eventually succeeded in
getting to New York, where he rented a studio in Gramercy Park.
At first, things were so difficult for him that he had to ask one of
his compatriots, whom he had helped in Montparnasse, to come
to his aid. His so-called friend, who had made a fortune selling
pictures, was crass enough to boast afterwards of what he had done
for Kisling. On learning of it the artist was furious, and, the next
time they met, publicly reminded him of his Paris days, when the
friend had to go round in down-at-heel shoes. And even then they
weren't his own.

Almost at once a number of more tactful people came to
Kisling's rescue, and he soon acquired a first-rate studio over
looking the Park, to which he invited the cream of New York
society as well as some of his refugee friends. Commissions began
to pour in. Kisling became the chairman of a committee for the
relief of needy painters in Paris, and sent them money and painting

164 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

materials. He made the mistake, however, of thinking in all sin
cerity that he should discriminate between those who did, and
those who did not, deserve help, and the result was another falling-
out between us, which lasted, unfortunately, until his death. But
he had the courage to admit his mistake, and the work of the com
mittee goes on to this day. For his part in the undertaking Kisling
was awarded the rosette of the Legion d'Honneur.

When he returned to France, the painter retired to his home at
Sanary, near Toulon; and it was there, after the triumphant
exhibition of his work put on by Drouant-David, that he died,
surrounded by his family and his two friends, Andre Salmon and
Maguy.

It was, perhaps, characteristic that such a magnificent colourist
as Kisling, who lived only for painting, should have gazed wist
fully at the lovely view spread out before him, as he neared the
end, and murmured :

"I love life so much. . . ."

FUJITA

Fujita was one of the most outstanding personalities in the great
days of Montparnasse, and he became equally prominent at the
fashionable sea-side resorts and in Paris salons. He always wore
his hair Papuan-style, and sported earrings; and his shirts he
made for himself out of the oddest materials, such as sacking, cur
tain material and corset fabrics.

When he arrived in Paris he rented, in the rue Delambre, near
the Cafe du Dome, an old stable which he transformed into a kind
of Japanese studio.

He repainted the woodwork, beams and walls in light colours,
put straw mats on the floor, and hung large red and white check
curtains in the windows. From the ceiling he suspended a typical
Japanese lantern; and in one corner of the room he kept little dishes
of dried, slightly-sweetened fish, which he served to his guests on a
low table, along with a magic green tea which was supposed to
have rejuvenating properties. It was in this room that he gave
shelter to the unhappy woman who had been living with Modi-
gliani, and tried to comfort her the night before her tragic death.

It was here, too, that Fujita married his second wife, Fernande

IN THE JUNGLE OF MQKTPARNASSE 165

Barrey, a talented woman-painter, whom he enjoyed dressing up
like a Lautrec doll, with sky-blue stockings and a bow in her hair
which was almost as large as herself.

At an Artists' Charity Ball organised by Gustave Kahn, Fujita
made his appearance naked from his loins up and tattooed all over
in blue. On his shoulders he carried a cage, in which sat Mme.
Fujita, even more naked than her husband, except for the ribbon in
her hair, while in her hand she held a sign reading, "Woman for
Sale: S.G.D.G." *

Life eventually separated them life, and another Japanese
painter named Koyonaki, which means "Little Weeping Willow".
It must be admitted that Fujita, who was a day-dreamer, was often
far away from his wife, even when she was in his arms. . . .

When Sugu Horu Fujita found out what was going on, he made
no protest. For since "Sugu-Horu" means "Heir of Peace", and
"Fujita" "Field of Wistaria", he could hardly have been expected
to fight a duel, even with flowers, with a rival called "Little Weep
ing Willow", especially in a foreign country.

Fujita, therefore, literally faded out of the picture, and left
Fernande to the new Samurai. But he continued to dream and
also occasionally to paint, and then one day he chanced to notice
a young woman, with cheeks reddened by the sharp morning air,
walking gracefully along the Avenue de Villiers, in Paris.

"Youki!" he called out to her.

"What's the matter with him?" said the girl.

"Youki" repeated Fujita.

"Youki yourself," she replied.

"In the language of the country I come from, Youki means
c Snow Rose'," Fujita informed her.

"That's rather nice."

"Well then, let's go and baptise Youki" suggested the artist.

They went into the first cafe they came to ; then to a restaurant;
and then, without further delay, they set off for the nearest
registry office.

From that time on, Fujita and Youki were always together,
usually in the company of Van Dongen, Vertes and Jean-Gabriel
Domergue, either at Deauville, or the Lido, or the dress-rehearsals
of all the latest plays.

1 Sans Garantie du Gouvemement. [Trans, note.]

166 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Fujita had many imitators. He had one at Deauville, for in
stance, where a poor Russian painter also wore his hair Papuan-
style, put rings in his ears and even in his nose and walked
on his hands, balancing his portfolio between his legs.

His "society" career did not prevent Fujita, lying naked on his
mat, from painting portraits of himself with a lot of cats perched
on his shoulders, or of Youki in the nude, or screens with gold
backgrounds and huge panels in a beautiful ash-grey wash.

He made a great deal of money and he spent as much as he made.
One fine day he was notified by the tax authorities that he would
have to pay a fine of two hundred thousand francs just when he had
barely enough to buy a case of vintage champagne, settle his
laundry-bill and give Youki a new dress. He packed his bags : that
is to say, he put a few brushes into a reed case, stuffed a shirt or
two into his pockets, left all his pictures to Youki, turned her over
to a Surrealist poet, and started off on a tour round the world.

He had left his "Memoirs" with me, and I recall one of the
passages, which went like this:

My Departure:

And the more I looked at myself, the older I seemed to grow.

My last night was a night of frost:

I spent it between a painting of a flower

And my mirror;

And the flower remained fresh.

"As I departed, I grasped tightly the rail of the boat. Already
my native land was only a mirage in the distance. . . .

"In the mirror I was amazed to discover that I had so many
grey hairs. My face was beginning to look more and more like
my father's.

"But the flower remained fresh."

I used to see Fujita in Montparnasse and Deauville, in his
studio, at the beach and at the-dansants. I also saw him hard at
work on a portrait and what a portrait! of the Comtesse de
Noailles.

I happened to be at the Countess's house one day when Fujita
was expected. As usual, she was sitting up in bed, the outline of

^ 'k^v

Fujita and Youki by Verth

168 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

her figure faintly visible under the covers, ensconced among her
pillows of creamy lawn. She was writing. For the celebrated
poetess, like Mark Twain, rarely got up before dinner-time,
as she liked to meditate and compose while reclining. She was not
at all displeased by a little hai-kai verse I had brought her. It ran
as follows:

The whole of summer entered her like a frenzied lover.
And she swooned in Alexandrine lines.

Unfortunately, it was winter, and the pale sun shone timidly
through the double window. Mme. de Noailles was still writing
away when Fujita was announced.

Many painters had tried, in the portraits they had done of her,
to catch and record her flashing eyes, her determined nose, and
those restless lips of hers, which seemed to perfume every word
she uttered. Her shoulders were remarkably smooth and shapely.
("My shoulders are quite shapely, aren't they?" she would say.)
And her slender hands with their child-like fingers : La Gandara,
Jacques-Emile Blanche, Zuloaga, Forain, Helene Dufau, Helleu,
Zaslo had all painted them, and Rodin had modelled them with
strength and tenderness.

But never had her secret nature, as revealed in her poems, been
completely portrayed in any of these interpretations. Compared to
them the model was as a living flame is to embers. Perhaps
Fujita would be the mirror which would reflect her beauty in
eternity?

For him, the poetess made a gracious and most unusual effort:
she rose from her bed on the stroke of noon, arranged her dark
hair, which fell, like the descending night, fan-wise to her waist,
and put on a dress so sheer as to be almost intangible.

The artist was ushered in. He was always the same small figure,
with his thatch of hair pressed down on his head like the straw roof
of a Hottentot hut, the spectacles that made him look like an
Oriental philosopher, and an impeccably white silk blouse. His
appearance hadn't changed at all in the three years that had gone
by since Tristan Dereme had first introduced him to the Countess.

For three years he had worked on her portrait, at each session
adding a touch here, a shadow there, as transparent as the vapour
that rose from the golden tea he sipped as he worked.

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 169

But today was to be the final sitting, and Fujita was to sign the
portrait for her.

As he entered, he crossed his hands over his breast, and bowed
over the hand held out to him, with its fingers curved like those of
Falconnet's Graces,

The poetess took her pose in front of the window; or rather,
sitting upright, she began to quiver, to ripple like a wave, to move
her whole delicate, magnificent being with a swaying motion of
which she was perfectly conscious.

"Either I am dead," she said, "or I am dancing."

But Fujita, who was putting the final touches to his canvas,
glanced out at the balcony and saw an enormous black-and-white
rabbit munching away at a box of flowers.

"Ff ! Ff ! Ff !" (that was the kind of noise he made when he
laughed). "Look at the rabbit eating violets !"

"Violets I" echoed the Countess, indignantly. "They're agera-
tum, or agerata, I should say. They are much bluer than violets ;
and there are some pink begonias, too. . . . But aren't you going to
paint any more?"

"I have finished."

Mme. de Noailles went over to inspect the tall glazed panel,
and what she saw made her go into another kind of dance.

"You probably won't like the forehead, which I have made too
low," said Fujita. "Or the eyes, which I have drawn out a bit; or
the mouth, which doesn't really give your expression; or the hands,
which look dead, compared with yours. Only the shoulder is
exactly right: not even our snowy Fujiyama has been more subtly

interpreted But I am pleased with the portrait, which will go to

the Louvre. That is why, out of deference to you, I shall do no
more work on it." And taking up his finest brush, he signed in
Japanese, "Heir-of-Peace-Field-of-Wistaria" .

Then he bowed to the Countess, and she returned his bow; for
she had the greatest respect for the artist's convictions, and she
admired him for his character and talent. No evil spirit had come
between them, spouting fire and smoke, as in the old folktales.

Fujita went home to his studio to finish the portrait of another of
his gods . And the poetess took up her pen, and went on with a poem :
Midi cligne des yeux dans Vor de ses rayons. . . .

I yo FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

During the Second World War, many stories were told about
Fujita. When he returned to Paris, I went to see him in his new
studio on the third floor of a modern building in the rue Cam-
pagne-Premiere. It consisted of a square room with white walls,
on which were drying some twenty squares of canvas with their
flake-white grounds laid on with a palette-knife.

"People think it's lacquer/' the artist told me. "But it isn't:
I simply give my white a good polish, and then cover it with trans
parent colours, Oh 5 you want to know what I did during the War?
Yes, people said that the Japanese Government commissioned me
to do a large painting of a flag-ship, with all the officers assembled
on deck. My nicest friends say that I refused, on the grounds that
I was not a 'military* painter. It is also said that I was put in prison
because of my refusal. But the truth is that when I got to Japan
they didn't ask me to do anything of the kind; or anything else,
either. I took the very last boat going to Japan, and arrived there
just in time for my father's birthday."

"Your father was still alive then? I remember your poem."

"Yes. I had the good fortune to see him on his last birthday,
just a few days before his death. We celebrated his eighty-eighth
birthday, which we call the 'rice age'. There were forty-five
members of the family present, and we were all dressed in national
costume. We gave him presents, swordfish and the symbolic baby-
lobster, with a round back and long feelers, which signifies long
life "

"This was in Tokyo?"

"Yes. While I was there, I kept thinking as much of Fouquet's
painting and the School of Avignon as of Picasso, and I added a
great deal of colour and shadow to the black and white I was
using. Then, as a reaction against the violence of the times, I be
gan doing very gentle subjects, childish ones, in fact. When the
war came closer to us, we went out to the country and lived on a
farm. My companions raised vegetables, and I grew flowers
chrysanthemums, roses, wistaria. . . ."

"Do you mind my asking you what effect the bombing of Hiro
shima had on the people around you, and on you yourself?"

"Very little at first. The reaction must certainly have been
greater in Europe. We didn't know then what the atom bomb was.
We only learned its importance gradually. Besides, we never

IN THE JUNGLE OF MONTPARNASSE 171

talked about the war except with reserve, with a certain discretion.
Out on the farm we were isolated, anyway. You will hardly believe
it when I tell you that I never saw any dead or wounded. . . . Now,
this porcelain white of mine I get by using a palette knife on a
simple canvas. If it is prepared right, it will never turn black, or
even darken at all. And if you are careful to use pure colours, very
transparent "

MAN RAY

I must relate an amusing, if paradoxical, anecdote about Man
Ray, the photographer and friend of all the artists in Mont-
parnasse.

One day I went to his studio. The walls were covered with
hundreds of photographs of such disparate objects as pins, springs,
screws, cubes, cones, cylinders, dummies, etc., for which he had
used a variety of carefully chosen lighting-effects.

However, at the moment Man Ray was not working on photo
graphs but on a painting in the most lovely colours.

"I suppose you have taken all these photos," I remarked, "so as
to understand painting better?"

"No," he replied and he was speaking truthfully "I am
painting in order to understand photography better."

The Past of the Futurists

SEVERINI - BALLA - DEPERO MARINETTI

ONLY A VERY few art critics, such as Gustave Kahn, Geffroy,
Roger Marx and Tabarant, lent their support to the Futurists at
the time of the 1910 Exhibition. The Futurists were trying to in
troduce dynamism into painting or, to put it in simpler terms,
movement. They did this not so much by suggestion as by mech
anical means. Futurism was somewhat outside painting as such,
and the practitioners of it owed a great deal to the Cubists. But
the examples of work shown by several good painters, like Severini,
were interesting. He was one of the high priests of the Golden
Section, along with Princet, Gleizes, Metzinger and that great
theorist of Painting, Andre Lhote. Severini's compositions are
entirely French in their restraint.

In addition to Severini there were also Carra, Boccioni and Balla.
The last-named returned involuntarily to the "static" method. I
well remember the settings he designed in Rome for Stravinsky's
ballet Feu d' Artifice. Although the painter had led us to expect a
"velocity" of colours, you can imagine our surprise, when the cur
tain rose, to behold three brilliantly-coloured pyramids, which
took up so much room on the stage that the dancers could hardly
execute a single step. Even granting that a stage-designer should
be allowed a certain amount of liberty, this was obviously self-
defeating.

"As a painter, I had no one to account to but my painter-self,"
declared Balla egotistically. "I have no need of music. My work is
sufficient to itself. After looking at it for a quarter of an hour in
reverent silence, the audience is in ecstasies before the most
beautiful ballet that has ever been danced."

Unfortunately for him, the audience allowed the painter to
"go into ecstasies" all by himself.

Another eccentric with even more self-confidence was Depero;
he nevertheless produced a number of interesting works. I once

THE PAST OF THE FUTURISTS 173

went to his studio in Rome. The one he had at the time was a sort
of shed, with a multitude of cardboard disks of every size and
colour hanging from the roof by strings. There must have been at
least two thousand of them.

"Now, this," he explained, pointing to one, "is the disk of joy,
and that one is light and that one dance; and the one over there is
music. The smallest ones, my soul tells me, are all the human
feelings and objects."

As a matter of fact the effect was quite agreeable, even though
most of the disks looked rather mildewed and warped by the sun.

"I hold the view," he went on, "that everything should start
from the sphere and return to it. Are not the world, the universe,
the eye, all spheres? Thought itself, like all abstract and concrete
things, is a sphere, like light and strength and joy."

Did not Rodin, and later Brancusi, express the same idea when
they said that all volumes should derive from the egg, since it was
from the egg that the universe and, subsequently, living beings
evolved?

I also knew Marinetti, the forceful personality who had given
Futurism its chief impetus. The first time I met him he said to
me:

"You are with us, aren't you? Come and help us, and we will
break down the doors of the Impossible, burn the cities and
museums of the past, and pluck the stars to build the world of the
future. The petrified blood of the slothful and the faint-hearted
will serve us as a pedestal."

He published books of extraordinary intensity, which had a
certain influence on poets as well as painters. Then during the
Mussolini regime he became an academician. D'Annunzio, with
whom Marinetti had been foolish enough to enter into controversy,
nicknamed him, rather unjustly, "i7 cretino fosforescente" ("the
phosphorescent cretin").

Picabia : Self-portrait

The Picaresques

PICABIA

1 F IRST MET Francis Picabia at the time when he was trying to
undermine Cubism and foreshadow Surrealism. His work took the
form of a vertical black line a quarter of an inch wide and eighteen
inches high; to one side the date 1879 (which had nothing to do
with his birth); and above the vertical line, in capital letters, these
words: THE CHILD CARBURETTOR, MY PORTRAIT, THE STATE OF
MY SOUL the whole on white paper in a tin frame.

This particular picture was hung, if I am not mistaken, in one of
the rooms of the National Salon, round about 1902, at a time when
that Salon, which today has the same official standing as the
Independents, was considered "revolutionary".

I met Francis Picabia for the second time thirty years later, at
Espeluche, in the Rhone Valley. I had stopped there for the night,
and in the hotel where I was staying I encountered a local poet who
offered to show me round. As we came out on to the main square,
we were startled by a bright light, a good deal of smoke and the
sound of shouting.

THE PICARESQUES 175

"A fire?" I asked my companion.

"No. Only a marriage."

We then made out a brazier burning on the pavement, and
around it some twenty or thirty people, in wedding-clothes,
dancing the farandole. From time to time a policeman or one of
the shopkeepers would throw an old chair, a table leg or some rags
on to the flames, while the dancers sang:

Et vive Diou

Et vive la mariee,

Ne cessera lafarandoulle

Qu'avec la flamme foulle.

Ah ! Flamboyeurs rfayez pitie

Ni desfii, ni de la mariee.

Si sesjambes deviennent moulles

Le mari mieux les enrebottira . . .

Et vive Diou 1 . . .

"It's not so much a local custom as a Montelimar one/' the poet
explained; "but since the bride comes from there, they're celebrat
ing as they do in her town. You're welcome to join in, if you like."

"What, and jig round till the fire burns out? Here come some
more people with a whole wooden bedstead!"

"In the old days the one who held out to the last could claim the
droit dejambe from the bride, if the fiance made a mess of it. ..."

I prudently went to bed.

At six o'clock next morning the fire was still burning and the
merry-makers capering; so I went down and joined in the fun.
I noticed that a heavy-set fellow with thick hair and bushy eye
brows, dressed like a sailor, was holding the bride by the arm. How
long had he been dancing, I wondered? I asked where the groom
was, and learned that he had passed out.

"Then you have the droit dejambe" I said to the sailor, and told
him about the local tradition.

"Well, how about it?" he asked the bride.

"No," she replied. "But I'll go for a ride with you in that fine
car of yours."

"Why, certainly," said the sailor, and he led the way to a huge
American car drawn up at the kerb nearby.

"Would you like to come too?" he asked me.

Ij6 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Of course I wanted to know how the adventure would turn out.
The "sailor" threw a trench-coat over the bride's white dress, and
she settled down on the seat in the back. He motioned me to take
the seat next to him. Then, to the amazement of what was left of
the wedding-party, he started the engine, and we drove twice
round the square. Glancing over his shoulder, he discovered that
the bride had gone to sleep; so he turned to me and said,

"Why not go on a bit farther?" And he drove out of the town
and took the road to Marseilles.

After we had passed Avignon and were well on the way to Aries,
I felt that I ought to introduce myself.

"Oh, it's you," said the sailor. "Would you mind taking the
wheel for a minute?" And reaching down to adjust his shoe, he
introduced himself in his turn;

"My name is Picabia,"

"The painter?"

"Some people say so."

We drove on for another thirty miles.

"If it wouldn't be too indiscreet," I said, "would you mind tell
ing me when we ought to take the young lady back?"

"Oh, yes. You're quite right. There is something asleep back
there. Well, I think the best place to lunch is Marseilles, don't you ?"

The Old Port. The Restaurant de la Cascade on the quay.
Street musicians singing "Une de Paris". Old Marie doing an
Italian dance on the cobble-stones. Accordions groaning to the
right and left of us, even out on the boats in front of us.

"Bring me some more bouillabaisse, with lots of shellfish and
bread in it," the bride was saying in her strong Midi accent. "And
for Monsieur a bottle of Camp Romatn, the wine which makes you
smile."

She was running the show. She sat opposite me, the trench-coat
thrown over the back of her chair. She ate steadily, quite in
different to the crowd of other diners or the onlookers around us.
She ate, she drank, and she smiled, showing all her gleaming
teeth.

"What will your husband think?"

"Eh You've got more curiosity than I have. I haven't given

it a thought. Besides, I can't stand him."

THE PICARESQUES 177

"Why did you marry him, then?"

"I can't imagine. He's neither young nor handsome nor rich
nor intelligent. I don't like his manners; I don't like the clothes
he wears; and he eats his supper at six o'clock, puts all his food on
the same plate, and only has a clean one for jam."

"Why did you marry him, then?"

"I can't imagine, I tell you. As I haven't asked myself the ques
tion, I haven't needed an answer. He kept insisting until I said
c yes', just to have a bit of peace. Anyway, it's right to get married,
don't you think?"

"Why?"

"Because that's what people say, of course. Give five francs to
that fellow who sang Douleur Amour > will you? He has such a
beautiful voice."

The singer bowed.

"Yes, beautiful lady, I could have sung in the theatre, you know.
But I would rather be free. Oh, I didn't mean to say that because
you've just been married. . . . Thank you, gentlemen."

"I'm not the one who's been cuckolded," remarked Picabia.

"No one has yet," retorted the bride.

As soon as we got back to the car she went to sleep again.

"Well, it can't be helped," said Picabia.

And we set off on the road to Toulon. We didn't reach Cannes
till evening, and we went straight to the port, where Picabia kept
his yacht FHorizon.

"Carry her carefully into the cabin," Picabia told the Russian
sailor in charge of the boat. He and I then went off and spent the
night at the Chateau de Mai, the house the artist owned nearby.

"She'll look pretty foolish tomorrow," said the painter as he
wished me good-night.

But he was the one who looked foolish when he went on board
next morning. For the Russian sailor and three other men were
busily employed painting the masts, the railings and even the decks
of r Horizon a ghastly red.

"What's all this?" he demanded.

"Lady's orders."

"What lady?"

"The new lady Monsieur's just married."

1 78 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

At that moment she appeared, dressed in a captain's uniform
which she had found among Picabia's belongings.

"I love red!" she told him. "I wanted to give you a nice sur
prise. And I've wired my husband to come and join us, poor man.
I'm a respectable woman, you know."

The dinner we had that night was magnificent. The husband
drank to the health of his host. But towards midnight he said
goodbye to us, explaining that he had to catch a train home; and
away he went, leaving his wife behind. Every time I visited Picabia
after that I found her there, abusing the Russian sailor and tending
the sheep she had installed hi a pen on board. She had had the
engines removed because, she said, they took up too much room;
moreover, they were useless since l y Horizon never left the quay.
She served tea to the artist's guests and entertained them with her
theories on the Dadaist paintings of Picabia, based on notes she
had asked me for as the price of not insulting me for two days.

"Why, it's quite simple," she would begin. "All the other
painters paint what they see outside themselves. But Picabia
paints what he sees inside himself. There are some critics like him
[designating me] who try to make things complicated, and claim
that Picabia is to painting what Jarry was to literature and what
Ubu Roi was to the heroic theatre of Henri de Bornier; and that he
has baffled the Cubists (who do more calculating than painting) by
putting nothing but numbers on his canvases. Who really knows
those gentlemen, after all? But I know #ry Picabia. Will you have
a little more tea, Mademoiselle Lily Pons? It softens the voice,
you know. Won't you tell us again that story about the Mexican
Revolution, eh?"

The story she was referring to was really Picabia's, and he had
probably got it from J.-G. Domergue.

"When I got to Mexico, three cannon-shots had just been fired
to announce the start of the Revolution. There were no cars any
where, so I had to take the tram just as Victor Hugo and Degas
had done in Paris."

"First class, I presume?" put in Mme. d'Escardot, a Picabia
collector, who was listening to the tale.

"Yes, although the first and second-class passengers were all
packed into the same compartment."

THE PICARESQUES 179

"How could you tell them apart?"

"The conductor made those who wore shoes pay the first-class
fare and those with bare feet the second. As it happened., a good
many of the latter were rich. But during the Revolution it was for
bidden for people to wear new shoes, and since there was only one
cobbler in the whole town "

"He must have been kept pretty busy,"

"Yes and no. I went to his shop, and found him smoking a
cigar and staring at a mountain of shoes. He looked up at me and
said., *I haven't the courage to begin'."

When he wasn't on his boat, Picabia was usually to be found at
the Chateau de Mai, situated on a hill near Mougins. It was sur
rounded by water and cemeteries.

"I didn't know you had such morbid tastes," I said to him,
when I noticed the gloomy situation.

"Don't worry. Those are fake cemeteries."

"What do you mean, fake?"

"Just that. I've camouflaged those fields of mine so as to force

down the price of the adjoining property, which I want to buy

But, speaking of morbid stories, I must tell you about the magnifi
cent ebony coffin with bronze handles that was sent to me the day I
gave my last big luncheon-party here. When it came to the time
for dessert, I asked my guests which of them had been responsible
for the joke. And, do you know, they all turned pale, and told me
that each of them had received a similar present that same morn
ing? I didn't manage to clear up the mystery until a week later. It
turned out that an undertaker friend of mine had sent us all
c samples' of his wares. And when I protested he said: 'Don't be
annoyed. Business has been bad and my s^ock was going to be
seized. So, in order to save as much of it as I could, I sent it to my
friends.' "

Apart from the cemeteries, Picabia's chateau was charming.
Everything was quite informal. Chickens wandered into the bed
rooms without even knocking on the door. And how pleasant the
bedrooms were! There was the sailor's room, the wild man's
room, the room of the lady of 1840, and the children's room, which
was adorned with Negro masks and suits of armour, and furnished

180 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

with cannons,, all the paraphernalia of witchcraft, and instruments
of torture. Every night a mechanical ghost went the rounds,
twitching the sheets and rattling chains.

"I designed it like that," the artist explained to me, "because I
wanted to train the children from childhood to be quite fearless.
When they get a bit older, I shall replace the ghost with a creditor
waving an unpaid bill."

His studio was an immense shed, in which sixty or more can
vases were under way at the same time: lovely Spanish women,
with flowers for eyes; and charming rose-bushes, with human
hands instead of leaves, each nail in the form of a snail reading a
newspaper. . . . The whole effect was sparkling and delightful.

"Do you know, old man, that it's all painted with ordinary
house-paint, the most durable kind you can get? I mi* it with
aviation fuel, and then varnish it with car polish, which never turns
yellow and protects the picture. Now, let's go and have a look at
my stable before lunch."

He took me to his garage, where ten Fords were lined up in the
stalls.

"So you're selling cars now, are you?" I said.

"No. But I've found Fords so practical that I don't want any
other kind. I bought ten of them at the same time to be on the
safe side, and so that I wouldn't be tempted to get any other make.
You can have ten Fords for the price of one Hispano. Wouldn't
you rather have ten Fords than just one Hispano? Of course you
would "

However, when I went to pay Picabia a visit on board his boat
the following year, I found him on the quay, gazing rapturously at
a huge Rolls-Royce; and his first words were,

"Isn't she a beauty?"

"Is she as good as a Ford?" I asked.

"Oh, shut up," he said. "I've just bought it. I got it for
running about in, errands in town and so on. But I've got some
thing better. I'll show you. . . ,"

We climbed into the Rolls and sped off to the Chateau de Mai.
As soon as we arrived, Picabia jumped out and ran to the staircase
leading to the square tower.

"Where on earth are you going?"

"Come on!" he called back.

THE PICARESQUES 181

We came out on to a terrace, and there was a superb car, with
enormous exhaust-pipes and bonnet, mounted on a steel bar with a
vertical pivot, like the horses on old-fashioned merry-go-rounds.

"And do you know what she can do? A hundred and twenty-
five miles an hour."

"I don't understand," I said.

"About the pivot? And the terrace? Why, it's all very simple.
Watch."

He sat down at the wheel, and started going round at a dizzy
pace.

"You see? I love speed, but I'm afraid of danger. So I thought
up this little dodge."

"But what about the pleasures of motoring? The scenery?"

"Well, I've got the hills round Grasse on one side, and the sea
and the islands off Cannes on the other; there are woods close by,
and the plain just beyond. Where else would I find more beautiful
scenery and such peace? Where else could I do a hundred and
twenty-five miles an hour without the risk of skidding, or running
into a telegraph pole, or colliding with some fool coming along on
the wrong side of the road? You try it. Get in and see. It's like
being on a boat; if you're not used to it your head starts spinning.
Perhaps we'd better have lunch first. Let's get back to the port
and go aboard the boat."

At that time Picabia had no less than three yachts, named re
spectively ? Horizon /, ? Horizon II and I' Horizon IIL

"So you don't approve of my cars? Whenever anything goes
wrong with one of them, I buy a new one. Do you like dessert?
For lunch today I've ordered nothing but various kinds of dessert,
served on palettes out of old paint-tubes. After all, old man, you're
visiting a painter, you know. . . ."

My charming, eccentric friend eventually died in poverty,
almost completely paralysed, and speechless. He could speak only
with those flashing eyes of his and in how tragic a language. . . .

JAMES ENSOR

In 1901, when I was still quite young, we had devoted one of
the special numbers of Plume to the painter James Ensor. And on
my first trip to Belgium I went to see him.

182 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

The well-known artist, with his fiery beard, ruddy lips and blue
eyes, was then living in Ostend, in the funny little rue de Flandre,
which, as it flows down to the beach, is a veritable flood of people,
flags and little carts with fried potatoes.

To get to his apartment, which consisted of two high-ceilinged
rooms with tall windows looking out on to the street, you had to
pass through a shop where all sorts of trinkets made of shells and
other souvenirs were sold. Ensor drew on these shells as much as
on his Flemish background for his inspiration.

"When I go through the shop in the evening," he told me, "as
I have had to do every day since my childhood, all those shell-like
objects seem to me like curious little people. At first I used to
amuse myself by adapting them for illustrations. It was, of
necessity, only later that they transformed themselves into dream,
into nightmare, figures."

The man himself resembled the crowds he used to draw, for he
was astonishingly many-sided. At one moment, as he bent over
his table, he looked like a little old man; the moment he straight
ened up he was a blond Don Quixote.

HENRY DE GROUX

I knew another Belgian, Henry de Groux, much better than
I did Ensor. But he was just as phantom-like, if not more
so. He often used to say, "It's not me; it's my ghost who's walk
ing around. And that explains a good deal about my queer
behaviour."

The "queer behaviour" deserves a special chapter to itself.

Henry de Groux, the son of Charles de Groux, was a pupil of
Rops and Constantin Meunier; the painter of the famous Christ
aux Outrages^ the madman of Florence; the sham corpse of the
Beaux Arts Salon episode; and the wandering ghost of the First
World War.

Whenever I met him he was always the same, with his long
poet's hair under his wide-brimmed charcoal-burner's hat; his
dark brown overcoat, whose frayed ends had swept the dust of
every city in Europe; and his sallow face, with its china-blue eyes

THE PICARESQUES 183

and ferret-like nose. His appearance never changed in more than
thirty years.

"Hi! De Groux!"

He would turn round, his eyes hardening at first beneath his
flat, straggling locks, and then lighting up.

"I've seen your face somewhere !" he would exclaim, as if search
ing in his memory, despite the number of times he had stayed at
my house, and all that had passed between us in former years.
But suddenly he would add: "I was wondering, too, who could
not only know me, but recognise me in this most extraordinary
and woeful of all the places I have ever been in."

It was through Catulle Mendes that I had first made de Groux'
acquaintance. I remember seeing them come into the Cafe Napoli-
tain together, one evening back in 1901. His Lavalliere cravat
hanging loose, Mendes pushed his corpulent way among the tables,
flicking at people with his light cane, while behind him trailed a
sort of "stage" priest who aifected a timid and modest air.

Calling as witnesses the waiters, the women at the adjoining
tables all of us, in fact, even the cafe mirrors Mendes announced
indignantly, in his burring voice :

"It's unheard of, absolutely unheard of! Tell them about it, de
Groux. Do you know what someone has just done to him? It's
unbelievable! De Groux has just spent two years of his life two
whole years ! painting a fresco in a gem of a church in the North:
the Life of Christ and the Apostles, in the style of Gozzoli and the
followers of Giotto. He worked by the light of an oil lamp, just
like the early Christians in the Catacombs, so that he could re
constitute the exact colours, and look at him now his eyes are
positively bleeding ! Do you know what the parish priest did while
de Groux, who was completely exhausted, was resting in a field
nearby? You can't possibly imagine !"

Mendes swept the tankards aside with his cane, and brought his
fist down on the shoulder of the person nearest him.

"The priest thought his colours too pale," he declared, "so he
had them touched up by a local painter. The filmy cloak of the
Christ, the gossamer threads of the Virgin's robe, the gauzy
wings of the angels, all repainted with washing blue and murderous
red. Tell them about it, de Groux; go on, tell them about it. . . ."

De Groux held out one hand, a hand clothed in a black glove,

184 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

through whose torn ends protruded fingers blacker than the glove
itself, and in his reedy voice he affirmed,
"True, alas. Quite true."

"Rubbish!" Ibels, who knew de Groux well, said to me after
wards. "On the contrary, what probably happened was that, after
doing the frescoes, de Groux got such a foothold in the church
that the poor priest had to resort to any expedient in order to get
rid of him."

For it must be admitted that every church in Flanders had reason
to remember de Groux. He had literally lived in them for years.
He would, for instance, go to visit one of them, and, hand on chin,
shake his head in admiration over the stained glass, or the relics, or
the high altar, or the architecture in general. And if he chanced to
run into the priest in charge, he would say:

"What a magnificent church you have, Father ! What a spiritual
atmosphere it has ! What excellent taste, the way everything is
arranged ! You will pardon me, I am sure, if I say so as an impious
person if, however, an artist can be impious in the House of
God ?"

"No one is impious here as long as he respects these walls; an
artist less than any other."

"That's very curious, Father, what you've just said about an
artist even one of little faith feeling more at home than others
in this place of final refuge. Is it because, from time immemorial,
the Church has always called on artists to assist, through their art,
in the understanding of religion? For example, Fra Angelico in
Florence. . . ."

The priest would be won over and would listen to the learned
discourse of the new disciple.

"Would you allow me to make a little sketch, Father, as an
offering to the church? A little pencil-drawing of this capital
here, which I am sure you are particularly fond of . . ."

De Groux would then do a sketch, followed by a pastel; then he
would ask permission to set up his easel on a strip of oil-cloth so
as not to dirty the flag-stones, and start on a picture of the stained
glass windows. When he felt that the moment had come, he
would say to the priest:

THE PICARESQUES 185

"Would you believe it. Father, I spent the whole night in your
church perhaps not in prayer, but at any rate in meditation. And
I slept on the oil-cloth, beside my work, because I don't want to
leave it for a minute until I have finished it."

And the priest would reply,

"You must have been very uncomfortable."

After that, it would not be long before the oil-cloth was replaced
by a mattress, laid down next to a litle stove, on which de Groux
surreptitiously cooked his potato stew; and he would install his
canvases, palette, tubes of paint, smock, clothing, toilet articles
and other belongings in a wardrobe nearby.

"You see that wall, Father," he would say. "Pm longing to
paint a Descent from the Cross on it in the style of Cimabue or
Simone Martini. Would you give me the pleasure of allowing
me to sketch it in charcoal? It could always be wiped off easily
enough with a rag."

When the worthy priest finally realised what kind of parasite if
such an ugly word may be applied to such an accomplished
bohemian he had on his hands, it was too late to put him out.
By this time, de Groux would have made many friends, and even
clients, among the congregation.

After the priest had exhausted his repertoire of polite hints
and expressions of deepest regret and apology, he would be
obliged peremptorily to order de Groux to leave. Whereupon
the artist would give vent to a fine outburst of indignation. And
he would go round the village and air his grievances in all the
cafes, in the local school, at the town hall, in the lawyer's office and
the doctor's consulting room.

"That priest is an absolute savage!" he would proclaim. "He
understands nothing. Think of it: an artist of my reputation ! I,
Henry de Groux, son of the famous Charles de Groux. I wanted
to do him the honour of immortalising his poor little church. I'm
quite prepared to finish what will certainly be my masterpiece.
And that man of God wants to put me out like an infidel, after
having accepted my services, when everyone knows that from time
immemorial the church has always been the protector of artists and
sculptors."

He would walk up and down, his hands clasped behind his back
under his ragged coat, and shake his greasy locks.

186 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Now, just consider. Monsieur/' he would say, addressing him
self to the school-teacher or the tax-collector, the doctor or the
mayor, as the case might be, "who really built the churches? Was
it a priest such as this one, with his weak and flabby hands ; or an
artist like me, with compasses and paint-brushes, setting the
stones in their true positions, from the foundations up to the tower,
whence shines the cross we are commanded to worship?"

And the old hypocrite would piously lift up his finger, cast his
eyes aloft and add with a jeer:

"Perhaps the good Father thought I was invading his temporal
domain by selling in his church, I admit a few pastels to some
of his parishioners. Selling, did I say? I practically gave them
away for the few francs people were willing to part with. Does the
good Father although he offered me some excellent wine, for
which I shall always be grateful imagine that I can do without
earthly nourishment any more than he can? What a fine gesture
he made in front of the crowd : but who is the poor merchant he
drove from the temple? A merchant whose only wish was to in
crease the glory of his benefactor by his offerings, not to diminish
it by commerce. . . ."

Things would eventually be straightened out. A little room
would be found for de Groux, for which he paid with his drawings.
But in his pride he would return to the church as a conqueror, his
eyes flashing, his mane waving, and there would hold forth like a
prophet to those sheep who were gullible enough to listen to him.

So it would go on, until finally the priest would decide that he
was master in his own house; and de Groux would take to the
road again, bag and baggage. And when he came to another likely
village he would make for the church, and, with the same smile,
begin looking around the nave as if he were inspecting a hotel
room. Then he would start the same little game over again, and
keep it up for a week or a month or sometimes longer, depending
on the patience and forbearance of the priest.

How was it, one may ask, that Henry de Groux, whose work was
already well known, should come to such a pass?

The Belgian Government had bought cheaply enough, it is
true an extraordinary canvas of his, the Christ aux Outrages,

THE PICARESQUES 187

which had established his artistic reputation. It showed Jesus, with
his hands bound, in the custody of richly-costumed and impassive
Romans, and surrounded by a furious mob. The whole scene was
done with the passion of primitive painting; for de Groux had
passed through the crucible of Constantin Meunier's school, and
had doubtless known Van Gogh.

He had long since used up or drunk up the money he had
received for the picture, and was bemoaning the trip he could have
taken to Italy with the proceeds, when one evening, as he was din
ing with his wife and his young niece Cordelia, a friend came in to
see him j&out a possible commission he had in view for the artist.

"You know, don't you," said the friend, "that I am one of the
architects for the new Casino de Picardie?"

"Oh, yes. You're working for that millionaire who used to be
a waiter, and is now putting up gambling-houses for silly fools at
seaside resorts."

"Pve been working for you too, de Groux, for I've got you a
commission to do the decorations for the casino."

"What! Who? Me? De Groux work for that scoundrel, that
bottle-washer, that panderer to human stupidity, when my only
ambition is to decorate cathedrals?"

"Hold on! He'll give you thirty thousand francs for the job."

"Thirty thousand francs !" echoed the niece. "But, uncle dear,
that's your trip to Italy, to the land of golden cathedrals. Indeed,
for that amount you could even go to Greece!"

De Groux rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, after all," he conceded, "you go to the lavatory to relieve
your mind as well as your bowels. I may as well go there to earn
my trip. All right: it's agreed," he said, rising to his feet.

His friend gave him the address, and de Groux put on his old
brown overcoat, which he had lugged all over Europe, crammed
his Tartuffe hat over his stage-priest's hair, and went off to see the
director. On arriving at the casino, which had just been finished,
he was asked his name.

"Just tell the director to come here," de Groux replied.

The commissionaire took the message to the director, who hap
pened to be talking with a contractor.

"Who's asking for me?"

"That queer fish over there."

188 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

The man inspected the "queer fish", from his enormous shoes to
his crazy hat, the sides of which were resting on its owner's
shoulders.

"All right. He's only a sponger. Let him wait."

De Groux waited fifteen minutes, half-an-hour, forty minutes,
grumbling the whole time.

"A retired vintner, a bottle-washer, a table-wiper, to keep me
waiting!" he fumed.

More than three-quarters-of-an-hour had gone by before the
director finally decided to wander over to the door, and, seeing
de Groux, said in an off-hand manner,

"Oh. Did you want anything?"

But our friend, exasperated by the other's tone, shook his head,
raised his hand, and, throwing away his heart's desire and the
thirty thousand francs, cried out in a strident voice,

"A beer, waiter!"

And away he proudly went, his shabby trousers flapping in
rhythm with his hair.

"But what about the trip to Italy?" asked Cordelia, when he
told her his story.

"Don't you worry about that," answered de Groux. "I'll go on
foot."

He set out the very next day, his portfolio under his arm, his
pencils in his pockets, his locks dangling on his shoulders.

From the start, of course, he tried to get permission to sleep in
churches, paying for the privilege with his sketches, and to cadge
his dinners in exchange for his gift of the gab. His progress was
slow, and as the months went by he tended to loiter more and more.

One day, however, he received an unexpected windfall in the
shape of a commission to decorate a private chapel. When he had
finished it, he sauntered forth along the quays of the good town of
Ghent with twenty-five thousand francs in his pocket. He wasn't
interested in the waterside, only in the antique shops on the
opposite pavement. Each one he came to filled him with the desire
for possession. Among other objects, he was fascinated by a
tapestry, and, following his usual habit, began talking aloud to
himself:

THE PICARESQUES 189

"How delicate, how graceful Is that young woman's body ! What
melancholy in her eyes: they remind me of stormy skies! What
must her romance have been, that charming woman embroidered

Henry de Groux by U. Brunelleschi

in silk, and dead so long ago? What a pleasure if one could know
her story ! How wonderful it would be to own such a piece. Ah,

if I were only rich! But but !" he exclaimed, "come to

think of it, I am rich ! Because I've got "

He entered the shop, and, with all the arrogance of an English
lord, demanded,

"How much is that tapestry?"

The shopkeeper stared at the poor wretch, at his worn shoes and
his eccentric hat and coat.

"Very expensive," he said in an off-hand way.

"Yes, but how much?" insisted de Groux.

"Twenty-seven thousand," said the antique-dealer, turning his
back.

"That's all right," replied the artist. "I'll take it." And he
pulled out the money he had just earned. "I hope you will pardon
me," he went on, "but I've only got twenty-five thousand francs
with me. Would you be willing to trust me, and take an I.O.U.
for three months from now?"

The dealer was only too willing to accept, and de Groux signed
the I.O.U., which was to poison his life for years to come. He

190 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

marched out of the shop humming a tune, while under his arm he
carried the tapestry, which he hadn't even bothered to have
wrapped up.

He sat down on a bench, unrolled his prize, admired it and
called to several passers-by to share in his pleasure. Then, when he
had admired it to his heart's content, he suddenly felt hungry. He
searched his pockets but couldn't find a single sou.

The aroma of stew reached him from a nearby eating-house.
Being a good Belgian, de Groux was never averse to a decent meal.
After debating with himself for an hour in front of several restaur
ants he finally capitulated.

"I've had my joy of it," he told himself sadly, as he gazed at the
tapestry for the last time. Then he went off to sell it to a second
hand dealer, for he did not dare to go back to the original shop.
He managed to sell it for just enough for a meal and his fare back to
Brussels.

His wife never heard a word of the story, but one can imagine
the scene that ensued between his niece and himself.

All the same, the artist did eventually succeed in getting to
Florence. It was the niece who managed to save enough money to
pay the third class fare for them both. During the entire trip
from Belgium to Tuscany de Groux did nothing but mumble to
himself, as if he were saying his prayers.

At last they arrived in the land of their dreams, and went into
ecstasies over the museums, the gardens and even the little hotel
raom they occupied together in the Piazza Donatello. But since
they had to earn their keep, de Groux went down to the Piazza
della Signoria with his pastels, got everything ready, put on a
smile and waited for a customer.

Alas, in Italy, as everyone knows, beauty, like flowers, is over
abundant. The painter's most subtle appeals were fruitless; he
sold nothing. Soon his meagre resources had melted away.

Yet the hotel bill had to be paid. So what did he do? He
started by pawning Cordelia's coat; after the coat he pawned her
dress; and then her slip.

"It's so hot," he informed her. "You can live here like a goddess
on Mount Olympus,"

THE PICARESQUES 191

"But I can't go out/' she protested.

"You don't need to go out. I'll go out for you.*'

He did go out, in fact, only too often, and held forth in grand
style in all the little trattorie he called at for a nip of Grappa or
Strega. In a few days Cordelia was as wild as a caged tiger; and
one morning, while de Groux was sleeping off the results of his
previous evening's drinking, she seized his clothes. Then, draping
herself in a curtain, she hailed an old-clothes' dealer she saw pass
ing in the street, and sold him her dear uncle's beloved overcoat,
trousers and shoes.

Presently the painter woke up with a start.

"My clothes! Where are my ?"

"They're at the same place as mine in pawn. 3 '

"But, you idiot girl, how can I go out?"

"There's no need for you to go out. You can live here 'as if you
were on Mount Olympus', like me."

"It doesn't matter," said de Groux, recovering his spirits; and
getting up, he majestically took his seat in an old arm-chair covered
with raised velvet. "Let us live as though we were on Mount
Olympus. I'm Jupiter."

"IflwereonlyDanae!"

"Alas, I can't make golden rain. ... If only I had a pair of
trousers, at least! Yesterday I met an elderly Englishman who
would certainly have bought Oh, well. . . ."

Henry de Groux "played Jupiter" for half-an-hour or so, and
then, realising that this state of affairs couldn't go on indefinitely,
he began to abuse his niece. For her part, she accused him of
having inveigled her into leaving their native land, where at least
she had a home and clothes to wear, and reducing her to nakedness
in Italy.

He retorted that she was talking nonsense, that she should, on
the contrary, be thankful to him for bringing her to this wonderful
country, and to this little hotel where she had only to lean out of
the window to see a corner of Brunelleschi's famous dome.

Cordelia answered that she didn't give a hang for that old stick
Brunelleschi.

"Blasphemy!" shouted de Groux.

By way of a reply, the young girl snatched up his box of charcoals
and hurled it at Jupiter's head.

192 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"My daily bread !" shrieked the artist, his face turning purple
under the splotches of charcoal, and he jumped up and made a
grab at her. She fell back in terror against the window, which
smashed behind her. Seeing the blood where she had cut herself,
she screamed for help and took refuge in a cupboard. It was not
long before the police arrived, and when they and the neighbours
forced their way into the room they found a naked man running
about foaming with rage. After a tussle they overpowered him,
wrapped him in a bed-spread, and led him off to the lunatic asylum,
where he remained for the next six months.

When he was somewhat better, he was allowed out, accompanied
by a nurse and wearing the uniform of the institution. During one
of these walks he ran into the painters Brunelleschi and Degaillaix
and several other people he knew, and told them his sad story.
They proceeded to get the nurse drunk and, taking de Groux off
with them, gave him some money and a few clothes. But at that
point he almost ruined the plot by refusing to leave Florence with
out his brown overcoat and hat, which, he claimed, were the only
things that brought him luck. Not till they had been found was de
Groux able to leave.

He went to Genoa, where he was given shelter by a rich lady who
lived in a palazzo. It must be admitted that, after a week there, the
artist began to grow bored, and, calling to mind his niece, whom
he had abandoned in Florence, decided to send her some clothes
he had picked up in a second-hand shop on the quayside, so that
she could come and join him. The clothes, by the way, were noth
ing less than the habit of a nun.

Shortly after this adventure it was announced in the press that
de Groux had died. La Societe Nationale des Beaux-Arts., which
was about to open its salon in Paris, decided to devote several
rooms to a retrospective exhibition of de Groux's work, while
several art revues among them Karl Boes 3 Plume put out special
issues about him.

I well remember those large rooms in which his pictures were
shown, and the Government ministers, critics, connoisseurs, artists
and others all queuing up to have a look at the Christ aux Outrages,
the portraits of Wagner, Leconte de Lisle, Villiers de TIsle-Adam,

THE PICARESQUES 193

Baudelaire and so on, which had been set up in the middle of the
main salon.

The night of the opening, after spending some hours at the
printers of Gil Bias, I started to walk home to the place where I
was then living on the Left Bank. It was not yet dawn, and the
deep blue sky looked like a torn silk ribbon above the uneven roofs
in the rue Bonaparte. The street was deserted, and the wind
whipped round the closed shutters of the various art shops, making
the weather-vanes creak and the cats mew plaintively under the
moon. It was a perfect night in which to meet a ghost. And I met
one!

For I suddenly became aware of a grotesque silhouette, whose
shadow was elongated on the dry, white pavement by the light of
the street lamp. It had crooked legs and a long overcoat, which
flapped about like a flag, while under the dark, wide-brimmed hat
two eyes glittered like steel points. Mystified and intrigued, I
circled round the apparition. Presently he began to talk to me, and
told me how a short while before he had been set upon by some
roughs. He had taken off his hat and said to them with exquisite
courtesy:

"Gentlemen, you are mistaken. I am not the one you are looking
for."

They had talked to him a bit, for they didn't know what to make
of this James Ensor character, who seemed like a walking, talking
automaton. The joke of it was that, instead of being robbed, he
had actually managed to wheedle a few sous out of them! On
another occasion, de Groux had coaxed money out of a highway
man, who subsequently gave Him a sound thrashing when he
learned that his money had been give to the poor.

"It was the only way to get out of the predicament honourably,"
the old man concluded.

"But, de Groux," I said, "I thought you were dead!"

"Well that's the official version, and, like most official versions,
untrue."

"Why didn't you turn up in your shroud at your private view
this afternoon?"

"To tell you the truth, I did think for a moment of doing so.
But it would have been in rather poor taste, don't you think? Be*
sides, I wanted to go to a lecture,"

194 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

We managed to find a little cafe which was still open. When the
painter had a big bowl of hot, sweet wine inside him his spirits re
vived, and after he had nibbled a crust of bread he gave a little
silvery laugh and tipped back on his stool.

"De Groux," I said, "tell me about your death."

"Sh-h-h!" he warned. "That's a secret. Do you think for a
minute that those people would have looked at my Villiers, my
Wagner or my Rops in the same way if they had known I was still
in my mortal form?"

He wrinkled his white, pointed nose. I ordered a steaming dish
of mussels for him; and de Groux giggled again as he exclaimed:

"Rops! A combination of artist and commercial traveller: a
braggart, a boaster who could hold us breathless for hours with his
fantastic stories. How he lied ! He lied with delightful ease, and so
persuasively that he would have taken in any woman, he would
have disarmed Germany. And how endearingly he would repeat
to you the same story, with embellishments, that you yourself had
told him the day before! Wagner I saw for the first time at Bay-
reuth, and I might sum up my impression of him in two words :
titanic and malevolent; great power and great cunning. Villiers
was a solemn chap; a spectral, ghost-like Bossuet, frightening at
times. Verlaine? A delightful, spoiled child. But a shocking
example! Yet how brilliant at repartee! I remember his quarrels
with Moreas, and the latter saying to him one day, 'Verlaine,
you're an ass 5 . Verlaine answered calmly, 'And you, Moreas, are
merely an imbecile'. Then the Greek poet accused Verlaine of
being drunk. The scene took place at a gathering of friends in the
rue Descartes. Verlaine jumped up in a rage. 'Who said that ?' he
demanded. 'Someone you don't know,' I said, trying to restore
order. 'Very well,' he said; 'hand me my hat and cane. I'm going
down the street, and the first stranger I meet I shall murder.' "

"Tell me, de Groux," I said, "did you know personally all the
people whose portraits you painted?"

"Of course I knew them Nietzsche, Hugo, Zola, Napoleon . . ."

"Napoleon?"

The cafe-owner urged us towards the door. Outside, the pave
ment was beginning to take on a bluish hue in the early morning
light. The artist grasped my arm and, slightly swaying, held out
his hand:

THE PICARESQUES 195

"But the one who intrigued me most/* he remarked, "was
Dante Alighieri. Imagine a night like this, and meeting him in a
street in Florence. . . ."

The First World War began. Late one night in August 1914, 1
heard a knock at my door. On opening it I beheld de Groux,
carrying a huge valise just like the one the famous down Grock
used. But Grock at least had a violin inside his. In de Groux'
valise there was nothing, not even a stick of charcoal. He had come
all the way from Brussels, on the eve of its capture by the Germans,
and was hoping to go down to the South of France to join his wife
and niece, who were ill with typhoid there. He had made the
journey so far as best he could.

"The Germans must be in Brussels by now," he informed me.

"Good Lord!" I said. "And what about the six hundred can
vases in your studio?"

"Ha, ha! It's not the Germans I'm worried about."

"Who, then?"

He hesitated a moment, then said,

"The Belgians."

For he was angry with his country ever since something that had
happened a few years before. He told me the whole story that
evening, temporarily forgetting his present distress.

"Well," he began, "it was all because of Victor Hugo's funeral.
I was in the crowd that day in the Place de la Concorde, meditating
on the fame of the great man who had just died. The head of the
procession had already reached the Arc de Triomphe, and there
were still a few groups about to start out for the Hotel de Ville.
I thought I was paying homage to the dead poet by being there
alone, instead of joining one of the marching groups. But all at
once I heard someone call, 'Hey, de Groux! de Groux!' It was a
delegation of Belgian writers, and they cried out, 'Come along
with us, cher maitre; come and join our party!' I was young then
and flattered by being called maitre. I didn't wait to be asked
twice. We hadn't gone ten yards before several of the group said to
me, 'Cher maitre., you are more worthy than any of us to carry our
banner', and they passed a shiny strap over my head and handed
me the standard. It was a rather heavy honour, in the literal sense

196 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

of the word. But it became even more so in the figurative sense, as
it turned out. For some time I didn't realise the weight of the
whole business; I was too busy with my own thoughts. In due
course, we arrived at the Place de PEtoile, along with the crowd,
and went two or three times round the Arc de Triomphe. The
Arc was hung with crepe, while at each corner of the cenotaph
were Horse Guards holding blazing torches. I went on marching
round and round. We were pushed here and there, and suddenly I
became aware that I had got separated from my Belgian delegation
and that the ceremony was over. I was dead with fatigue, and the
standard was killing me. I needed to collect my wits, so I went into
a cafe to get a little rest and refreshment. I placed the banner in
one corner, being careful not to crease it, and asked the waiter to
bring me a drink and some writing-paper. And I sat there writing
and writing for hours. When I had finished, I put the paper in
my pocket and went out. And I walked round and round the square
once more, still meditating.

"All of a sudden I ran into a band of students bearing palms. I
struck my forehead. 'My banner! 3 I cried. Tve forgotten my
Belgian banner! 5 I retraced my steps, I went into one cafe after
another, a dozen altogether, taking a little drink in each one out of
politeness. But I couldn't find the place where I had left that
cursed banner. And now those wicked Belgians accuse me of
having sold it!"

On that tragic wartime evening, de Groux asked me to do some
thing for him.

"I've written to several friends to ask if they could help me," he
said. "But where are they? Have they even received my letters?
Perhaps I was wrong in adding a postscript : 'Help me, and you will
be astonished by my ingratitude'."

De Groux had often imposed on my friendship, as on that of
many others. But seeing the fellow there without a sou, and know
ing that his wife was ill and his niece at death's door, I did all I
could for him. I persuaded a painter friend of mine, who was going
away, to let him use his studio, a sort of maid's room on the sixth
floor of a building in a little back street. Then I took de Groux to
the Beaux Arts, where he was given two hundred francs; he got
as much again from Rachel Boyer at the Union des Artistes.

THE PICARESQUES 197

Fasquelle, the publisher, commissioned Mm to do some drawings
and gave him an advance of eight hundred francs.

Once he had his money, I saw nothing more of de Groux except
when I ran into him by chance. I met him one day not far from
his studio, and he begged me to come up for a moment to see
something special. I climbed the six flights reluctantly, but be
fore I had time to inspect the drawings he had put up all over the
walls he feverishly unwrapped a long box, which had apparently
come from Liberty's.

"Look at these/' he said, holding up several tulle scarves
spangled with gold, as well as an opera cloak and other finery.
"There's more than five hundred francs worth "

"What on earth is it for? A model? Are you going to paint
that?"

"Oh, no. They're for my wife and niece."

"What! Those two women dying down there in the Midi, and
you send them opera cloaks, and in wartime at that?"

"Why, yes," he said with his familiar smile, "and I've also
bought a little donkey for them."

He was, however, in the midst of a frenzy of work in the small
room, the bed of which remained untouched as he preferred to
sleep on the floor, wrapped in a red plaid. He had been turning
out enormous compositions and tacking up his pictures side by
side on the walls all over the place, even out in the hall and down
the servants' staircase. There were prints, drawings, lithographs,
etchings and engravings on copper, wood and ivory. Along the
corridors of the kitchen quarters there was a veritable Hell in
pastels done for the glory of posterity : Jofire was shown decorating
Albert I of Belgium in front of some of his troops, the King's
figure designed as though for a stained glass window; General
Castelnau was there, looking haggard and tortured; and there
were scenes of the dead, with enough bodies to frighten the ghost
of Edgar Allan Poe. Throughout the length of the corridor, de
Groux had plunged into the trenches, watched operations and
visited mortuaries piled high with corpses. With his charcoal he
had "dissected" the countless anonymous dead, and had caught
their most horrifying expressions with such relentless realism and
vividness that when Degas saw the drawings he exclaimed,

"I can smell the stench of corpses !"

198 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

His living soldiers were even more frightening than the dead,
for they looked like serried rows of automatons, whose clenched
hands indicated their will to fight, though their eyes were dis
traught with fear. Out of the agony of those groups, those herds of
tragic victims, what a gigantic, macabre monument in paint this
visionary had erected for posterity.

Some nights de Groux would be picked up after he had fallen
asleep or fainted on the stairs, a piece of charcoal still in his hand,
and somebody would take him in and look after him. I persuaded
the manager of the Palais d'Orsay Hotel to let him have a warm
room with a soft bed, a carpet and a bathroom, because the artist
had caught a bad cough in his freezing attic studio. I shan't go
into the difficulty I had in getting him to accept new quarters. He
eventually consented to move, but took no interest in the radiator,
the running water or the silk eiderdown.

"I can't stand those mirrors!"

He turned round the wardrobes and the looking-glasses so that
they faced the wall, and smeared the mirror over the mantelpiece
with Spanish white. Each night his bed was prepared, the covers
turned down and his night-shirt carefully laid out. It was no use.
Each morning I found de Groux snoring a^vay fully dressed on the
bed, still in boots and his famous hat. And he even had the cheek
to reproach me.

"You would make me come here," he complained. "I can't get a
thing done. Ah, how much richer in sensations poverty is for the
artist! How many ideas I had buzzing round my head when I
climbed those dark back stairs to my little room ! Whereas in this
department store' . . . !"

It was about this time that the Bartholome incident occurred.
I have often wondered if the artist did it on purpose, for it was
certainly characteristic of him.

It so happened that the sculptor Bartholome, wishing to honour
the Belgian refugee artists in Paris, decided to give a dinner for
them. He decided to talk the project over with de Groux, whom he
had recently met and taken a great fancy to.

"How many of them are there?" he asked de Groux. "About a
dozen?"

THE PICARESQUES 199

"Oh, no," said the other. "Twenty at the very least."

"Then there won't be enough room in my house. I'll hire a
private room in a restaurant. Would you like to make up a list for
me?"

A week later de Groux brought Bartholome a list containing the
names of forty-eight refugee artists from Belgium.

"Oh!" exclaimed Bartholome, on glancing at it. "The room
Fve engaged won't be large enough for all these people. I shall
have to take the banqueting-hall at the Continental. What day
shall we set?"

"You must give me at least a week's notice," replied de Groux,
"because I think that when I write to them I ought to tell each one
how much we think of his talent."

"That is very thoughtful of you."

De Groux spent two whole days trying to decide what colour
note-paper would be most suitable in each case, finally choosing
mauve for the Impressionists, white for the more classical, and so
on. Then he sat up at nights writing the invitations by the light of
a smoky lamp. Having composed and torn up three or more drafts
of each one, the letters were finally done, and the date fixed for the
dinner.

When the day arrived, de Groux put on dress clothes : that is to
say, he called in various friends, people he knew in the neighbour
hood, several artists, his concierge, etc., and asked them to help
arrange his cravat, his cuffs and trousers. Besides, he wanted them
to see him in all his glory.

"It's going to be quite an affair," he told them. Then he
ordered a cab.

"Now, cabman," he said to the driver "take me to the banquet-
ing-hall at the Continental. I'm a trifle late, but I shall be all the
more welcome for that reason."

On arriving at the entrance, he called out,

"Come, pages and stewards, and conduct me to the banqueting-
hall!"

Solemnly, his head held high, his ringlets curled by tongs, de
Groux ordered the folding-doors to be opened for him.

And there, in the banqueting-hall, were fifty-two places laid at
two long tables, with chairs conspicuously empty^ while white-
stockinged lackeys stood waiting for the festivities to begin. At the

200 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

far end of the room., with their backs to the fireplace, stood Bar-
tholome in full dress, his Legion tfHonneur ribbon across his white
shirt-front, and Mme. and Mile. Bartholome in evening-gowns, all
three gazing at the scene in consternation. When they caught sight
of de Groux they rushed forward.

"Well, Monsieur de Groux, where are the guests?"

"Er I Hm "

"Did you send out the invitations?"

De Groux 3 little steely eyes opened wide. He felt in his pockets,
stamped his heel on the floor and struck himself on the forehead.

"Ah that's me all over! That's just typical of me . . .!" And
taking out a packet of letters he threw them down on the table.

"Well, there you are, there you are," he said. "I simply forgot
to post them."

The bridges of Paris. Drizzling rain, with night closing down.
De Groux, homeless and without shelter, trailing after him the
dejected pierette figure of Cordelia, whose gold-spangled black
tulle scarf fluttered wanly in the wind from the Seine.

"Monsieur Henry de Groux requests the pleasure of your com
pany at lunch in his studio, 9 rue Chaptal."

The sumptuous studio at 9 rue Chaptal, which the composer
Nougues had recently vacated, looked like a series of chapels, with
its black and gold hangings, stained glass windows and statues of
the Virgin in niches.

Among the people de Groux had invited for the occasion was the
painter Louis Degaillaix, who explained to me that a trusting art-
dealer had become excited about de Groux' work and had been
persuaded to take everything the artist produced, in return for
which he had agreed to rent this studio for him and pay two years'
rent in advance.

"De Groux bought the piano on credit," said Degaillaix, "as
well as all those ecclesiastical chairs, the Chinese vases and so on.
He has already given several receptions, with princesses and
Government ministers among the guests, his niece dressed up as a
heroine out of Shakespeare, and he himself in a frock-coat and old

THE PICARESQUES 2OI

slippers. And now it's half-past one, and everybody is here except
our host."

It was getting on for a quarter to two when de Groux made his
appearance, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Well, well, friends/' he said, "this is a pleasant surprise!"

"Surprise! Why, didn't you invite us to lunch?"

"That's so. I did. Quite true. But, you see "

"What?"

"I haven't got a sou left."

"Now, look here, de Groux: you're not going to try your
Bartholome trick on us."

"Oh, no. Certainly not. Would you like some lunch?"

"It wouldn't be a bad idea."

"Very well. If that's all that's wanted " And he went over

to the wall, took hold of the black and gold hanging and ripped
it off the curtain-rod with a single jerk. Then, rolling it up, he
tucked it under his arm and said, as he walked out of the room,

"I'll be back in a minute."

He returned with some money, and took us to a nearby eating-
place. We had quite a decent meal, in the course of which he re
counted an experience with Loie Fuller which was also in the de
Groux tradition.

It seems that the celebrated dancer had often done de Groux a
good turn. Among other things, she had wanted to buy a work of
his entitled Moonlight Sonata^ showing a scene in a German prison
camp, with a soldier playing the piano for his comrades. However,
when it came to fetching the picture, Loie changed her mind and
decided to take instead a portrait of a friend of hers which she
happened to see in the studio. De Groux refused, claiming that the
latter belonged to the King of England. Mme. Fuller was doubt
less wrong to resort to such extreme measures to get her way, but
one morning she arrived at de Groux', accompanied by a Miss
B .. .

But let me quote the artist's own words :

"The slut! The virago ! How dared she come to my house and
demand a picture that I'd promised to the King of England and the
Minister of Education, and for the same price that she'd paid for
the other ! Naturally I refused. She turned round, her back to the
picture.

202 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

" 'You refuse?* she said.

** *I certainly do,' I answered.

"Thai what does she do but bang her huge rump against it,
break the glass, slide the drawing out of the frame, and while Fm
shouting, 'Stop thief!' make off with it to her car, with the help of
her accomplice? But I'm going to hound her to prison, the harri
dan! I "

All at once he smiled.

"Maybe it was a theft of love," he suggested.

He called the wine-waiter over, and said to him:

"You must have read The Portrait of Dorian Gray, my friend.
Well, suppose it was a woman in the story, who, for love of another
woman, stole her portrait, and you will guess the secret of the plot
I was the victim of. You understand me, I hope?"

"Of course, maitre. . . ."

"Good. In that case, you can bring us each a little glass of
Calvados and a cheap cigar."

The War ended at last, peace came, and with it even harder
times at least for de Groux. One day in Cannes, I chanced to
meet the architect Tissier, who asked me if I would go with him to
Marseilles.

"We'll look up de Groux there," he explained.

"I haven't seen him for years," I said.

"You can't imagine how he's living now. A lady gave him shelter
in Avignon several months ago. But he left her house and went to
Marseilles, where he's taken refuge in the basement of the new
opera house they're building there."

I went with Tissier to Marseilles, and the next morning we en
quired for de Groux on the site. The foreman knew where to find
him, and presently a figure emerged from under the foundations,
covered from head to foot with plaster-dust and debris. Even his
gaunt face was white with it.

He wiped his eyes, which were still bleary with sleep and badly
inflamed, with the back of his sleeve, his face looking like some
tragic old Pierrot. Then, as he slowly recognised us, he drew him
self up and stood for several minutes motionless as a statue. At

THE PICARESQUES 203

length he made a sweeping gesture with his hand all down the
front of his filthy frock-coat, and, raising his head, exclaimed,
"Behold me in marble!"

I met him again one spring evening, all smiles, sitting on the
terrace of a cafe in "Cubist" Montparnasse, surrounded by a
number of creatures as extraordinary as himself. His chestnut
overcoat had turned the colour of bird-droppings, in spite of his
habit of carefully scratching the spots on it with his finger-nail. He
offered me a seat and, pointing to the canvases hanging on the cafe
walls, said,

"They look like lead franc-pieces someone has slipped into a
church collecting-box, don't you think?" And, without pausing
except to ask a passing waiter to bring a glass of Vieille Tito, he
muttered "Excuse me" and leaned forward confidentially. I felt
his locks brush my ear, and the edge of his soiled velvet hat touch
my forehead.

"Did you know " he began and then, as though he were

telling a good joke, went on, " that they want me to get married?
And to a young girl too." He rolled his eyes.

"She's one of my pupils," he explained. "Of royal blood,
though I'm not yet at liberty to reveal the name of her country.
Sixteen years old. One must do the honourable thing, of course.
I abducted her, as I once did my niece, and weak man that I am
I have given in to her entreaties. Here she is now "

A Hispano had just drawn up to the kerb, and out of it stepped
a divine creature, with blond hair and sky-blue eyes. A light scarf
half-hid her smile and rosy cheeks. She carried an armful of
spring flowers. She almost tripped and fell as she hurried towards
us.

"Cher maitre!" she said, as she pressed her lips against de
Groux 5 dirty forehead.

"Would you have believed it?" murmured the artist in an aside
to me. And with an indulgent smile he added ruefully :

"To think that I might muck up my engagement by some
foolishness or other," and he drew the lovely girl against his
grimy coat, while she gazed up at him with admiring eyes.

204 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

About a month after our meeting, the Paris Embassy of a certain
little country to the north felt that it should officially notify the
young princess's family that she seemed to be leading a rather
peculiar life, as she was to be seen not only every day but every
evening in the company of an old man so filthy that even the poor
in Montparnasse held their noses as he went by. That may have
been an exaggeration, although it is certain that de Groux had a
horror of bathing equal only to his aversion to mirrors.

The family sent a telegram to the princess's governess, asking
her for a full report, and the latter, who loved Montparnasse as
much as she did Amer Picon., replied that the gentleman in
question was none other than a great painter; that he was
the young lady's art-teacher; and that his morals were above
reproach.

The Embassy took the liberty of intimating to the family that
they would do well to look into the matter more closely; with the
result that they decided not to call the princess home, because of
the scandal it might create, but to send her maternal uncle, Aadge
Hockren de Bloodjg, to investigate.

That worthy gentleman, complete with frock-coat and luggage,
arrived shortly afterwards at the private house which had been
rented for the young lady. Although it was one o'clock in the
morning, he found all the beds unruffled except the governess's,
which as a matter of fact had been left unmade for several days.
Downstairs in the kitchen the only sign of life was a mewing cat.
On the table were the remains of a meal and a half-empty glass
of wine. The rest of the house was wrapped in silence and dark
ness. The newcomer poked with his umbrella at something he
thought was a wig under a chair, but it proved to be only a mound
of dust. He therefore sat down with a sigh and, in spite of the
importance of his mission, fell fast asleep.

He woke to his disgust at eight the following morning., and
hastened to one of the bathrooms. Seeing the bathtub full of stag
nant water, he shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to wash as
best he could. After putting on a clean shirt, he set out for Mont
parnasse on the stroke of nine, just ten minutes before his niece
returned home and fell into bed, fully dressed.

Aadge Hockren de Bloodjg stopped before one of the cafes, in
which, according to the information given him, his niece Edwige

THE PICARESQUES 205

had been spending a good deal of her time; then, taking a deep
breath, he went in.

He found himself in a long, narrow room, on whose walls three
or four paintings with many-faceted forms had been hanging ever
since the "heroic" era. There were also a hundred other master
pieces, which even a country barber would have hesitated to put
up in the back of his shop.

Several waiters were mopping the floor. Seated in the rear of
the place was a shifty-eyed, swarthy man, who looked like a tur-
baned ibis, or a caricature of Gandhi, or a fortune-teller from New
York. A short distance away lolled a girl whose eyes were puffy
with sleep. It was evident that both individuals had spent the
night there.

"I only sleep one hour a year and I live on curds and whey," the
turbaned ibis announced in response to a glance from de Bloodjg,
who quickly turned his head away. But changing his mind, he de
cided to speak to the man.

"Sir," he said, "would you by any chance know at least by
sight my niece Edwige Hockren de Bloodjg, and her art-teacher,
Monsieur de Groux? My niece, I might add, is closely connected
to royalty."

"I am the reincarnation of six hundred kings of Sweden and
Persia," replied the other to let de Bloodjg know that he was not
impressed by the reference to royalty.

Just then the girl who was lying on the other end of the seat
suddenly came to life and called out:

"Yes. I know 'em. They eat in the same restaurant as I do."

De Bloodjg abruptly left the Indo-Scandinavian theosophist and
went over to the young lady, who eagerly made room for him.

"A glass of milk" she said to the waiter, "and some croissants.
And a sandwich, too, if Monsieur will allow me."

"Yes, yes. Of course," said de Bloodjg, gruffly.

The early morning customers began to drift into the cafe. The
girl ate her breakfast ravenously.

"Where is the restaurant you mentioned. Mademoiselle? Would
you mind telling me how to get there?"

"Don't you worry. I'll take you. For the moment you'd better
wait here. They might come here first."

"Aren't they at the art school?"

206 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Oh yes. But which one? There are any number, you know.
There are three in the rue de la Grande-Chaumiere, for instance:
Naudin's, Dufy's and Lhote's. Then there's Friesz in the rue
Notre-Dame-des-Champs. And plenty of others. I know 'em all."

"Have you studied art?"

"No, I was a model. But I got peritonitis, and had to have an
operation; and now I can't pose in the nude any more. It's too
bad. They say my face is too ugly to sit for portraits; besides, I
can't earn enough at it. So at present I'm waiting till I can find
something better. Don't you want a drink?"

"I don't really know the drinks of your country."

"Waiter, bring the gentleman a double Pernod. That'll put new
life into him."

"What's that?"

"Atonic. It's got an odd taste. But it'll cure you of the dumps
and pick you up after your trip. You've just arrived, haven't
you?"

"Who told you?"

"My little dog, Nabouchim-Peraf-Jebel. Now I think we'd
better move on."

They "moved on" several times before lunch, and each time
Aadge Hockren de Bloodjg took a dose of that excellent, health-
giving tonic known as Pernod, the name of which he put down in
his note-book for future reference.

When they finally reached the restaurant, there was no Edwige
to be seen. Moreover, de Bloodjg was surprised by the modest
atmosphere of the place. The French cooking, which he had heard
so much about, struck him as rather mediocre. But then, he sup
posed, it was because of a slight headache he began to feel towards
the end of the meal. After the coffee he thought he would like to
have another glass of that tonic he had taken such a fancy to.

However, the girl, who was a good sort, persuaded him not to,
and, taking him by the arm, she led him to a little hotel where she
had once lived, and put him to bed as gently as a nurse. De
Bloodjg slept until evening, when he woke with a queer taste in his
mouth and a crick in his neck. As he gazed about him in surprise, a
woman who was looking at him with wide eyes cried shrilly,

"A fine state you've got yourself in! If your niece could only
see you now! Lie down again."

THE PICARESQUES 207

The word "niece" stirred some memory at the back of his mind,
and with a heavy sigh he turned over towards the wall, which
smelled of damp.

About one o'clock in the morning the girl, who had been lying
beside him, woke him up, and suggested that it might be a good
idea if they got up and went out for a bit.

He was astonished at all the lights in the streets and in the
cafes, as well as at the crowds shuffling along the boulevards.

The girl led him from cafe to cafe, taking a little "breakfast" in
one place and a little "supper" in another. They descended into
several cellars, which had been converted into night-clubs, and
pushed their way through such throngs of merry-makers as the
good man had never seen before, even on Midsummer's Eve.
"I used to dance myself then," he told his companion.
"Is it Midsummer's Eve tonight?"
"Oh no."

"Well, it doesn't matter. Let's see if you can dance anyway.
Come on. Everybody's dancing. You must do as the others do.
This is Montparnasse, you know. If you don't, everybody will
notice; and we can't have that. Finish your glass, and let's dance."
Aadge Hockren de Bloodjg started out by dancing very cir
cumspectly, taking care not to strain himself. But towards half-
past three in the morning he joined in a quadrille, kicked as high
as the late Valentin, and tried to do the splits, in emulation of no
less a personage than La Cimarosa, who had come down from
Montmartre that night to grace the occasion. He succeeded, in
fact, in executing an especially fine split, and as he sat in that
position on the floor, he raised his glass high and shouted,
"Sko-o-o-oll!"

It was at this moment that he beheld in front of him a figure
that looked like some sort of clergyman, with long hair and gleam
ing eyes, which drew itself up with folded arms and thundered,
"Sir, is this the way you normally behave?"
"I am dancing, sir. Have you any objection?"
"Have I any objection? What about this young lady?"
With that de Groux drew back, leaving Uncle Aadge still in the
same posture, but face to face with the niece he had come to Paris
to admonish and reform.

"Edwige!" he cried out, horrified.

208 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Avaunt, wretch!" declaimed de Groux, clasping the princess in
his arms. "And God help you if you dare to touch my sweet
young fiancee !"

"Then Gong-Tsu said to Fu-Tsu : 'There is good and there is
evil. But what is good, and what is evil? Why is it evil to kill your
fellow-man, if it gives you real pleasure,, and if, furthermore, your
fellow-man doesn't suffer enough in the process to be able to give
you even a scratch in his last convulsive movement?' Monsieur
Aadge Hockren de Bloodjg, I should like to kill you because I am
a good man/'

"Are you really serious, Monsieur de Groux?"

"Serious, yes, if you are willing to admit the generally accepted
meaning of the word. Now, good, according to the egotist school
(which I might have founded myself), is first and foremost the
satisfying of oneself alone, nothing in the world being of the slight
est importance, as the philosopher Tristum Bernardus pointed out,
except what happens to oneself. He should have added, 'before
death'; because after death you will see. . . ."

"What do you mean, e l shall see'?"

"That's just a manner of speaking, for actually you will not see
or hear anything again until your re-incarnation; and supposing

you are re-incarnated in a few million years My God, what an

atrocious-looking girl. . . ."

They were watching one of those cabarets in which the female
entertainers, though far less naked than many a society-woman in
the bars at Cannes or Juan-les-Pins, yet provoke cries of horror
from one end of Europe to the other, even to the Shetland Isles
and beyond.

De Bloodjg's eyes were glued to the stage, as de Groux pro
ceeded with his discourse, while Edwige's head rested quietly on
his shoulder, her two hands in one of his because the other was
holding a glass of Schiedam.

For a whole week, now, for seven whole days morning, noon
and night de Bloodjg had faithfully followed the painter and his
pupil, hoping to be forgiven his previous conduct; and in return
for a glass of Danzig eau-de-vie or a Pernod he stoically endured the
philosophical reproaches, cruel threats and paradoxical apoph-

THE PICARESQUES 209

thegms of the man who, on the very first day of their meeting, had
declared:

"If I marry your niece, sir, it will be to save her from the igno
minious debauchery into which her family and you, as their official
representative, were, by your scandalous example, trying to plunge
her. For two months this divine young girl has kindly entrusted
me with her education and given me her heart, and I have initiated
her into the ugliness of my miserable existence. While she wit
nesses these corrupting scenes, I talk to her in the purest language
so that her soul will become more uplifted, and she will become
more elevated in the company of a poor old man, such as I am, but
whose spirit is rekindled by her youthful flame. The child born of
our union will be another after my kind. And yet you wished to
interrupt one of the finest works of destiny. Edwige is happy in her
creative mission. And I am proud of having initiated her. It is
entirely moral, in the best sense of morality. And you come along
as a trouble-maker, trying to pollute the pure waters of this spring
of happiness. Hold your peace; otherwise your Court shall be
given irrefutable evidence. . . . Allow me to treat you to a glass of
this Mandarin, which is, I believe, unknown in your country.
Well, how do you like it? Can you not already taste that bitterness
which precedes the physical and psychic pleasure inherent in such
a drink?"

Meanwhile, the letters from the foreign Court began to accumu
late on the table in Aadge de Bloodjg's little room in the Passy
hotel; he went there scarcely more than once or twice a fortnight.
De Groux advised him not to touch the letters, but to write home
that everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.

Soaked in Absinthe, Amer Picon, Armagnac and different brands
of champagne, de Bloodjg meekly tagged along after his new tutor
and his niece. A month and a half went by in this manner. After a
night out they would take rooms almost anywhere, perhaps in the
rue Brea or in Montrouge, though they rarely went beyond the
Montparnasse quarter, "where," in de Groux' words, "a mystic
fever reigns: all the more sacred because it increases every day.
Woe to him who crosses the barrier and becomes submerged again
in ordinary life.* 5

Even so, it was necessary for them to pick up the cheques which
were sent care of Edwige's governess. But she, having no reason

210 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

not to cross the "mystic barrier", had already taken the money and
disappeared. Sometimes the princess and her two companions
would catch sight of her, perhaps in the midst of a crowd of
dancers in some Creole restaurant, where, dressed in a daffodil
gown, she was whirling around with the best of them. But before
any of the trio could descend from the balcony, the governess
would have vanished, lured away, no doubt, by the muscular
quadroon whose arms had been clasping her.

That was the reason (if any were needed) why one night de
Groux, Edwige and de Bloodjg went on a tour of all the bars in the
quarter. They even visited the lies Marquises, which, contrary to
popular belief, are not situated in the South Pacific but in the rue
de la Gaite, being a restaurant specialising in snails, uncooked
ham and strong Breton brandy.

They sat down at a table in the back room, where the colour-
prints on the walls, dating back to the era of the late President Sadi
Carnot, enabled those customers with a lively imagination to feel
as though they had escaped from the ugliness of modern times.

"In those days," observed de Groux, "this street had a charm
that is difficult to imagine now. Eleven cafes chantants^ not to
mention five dance-halls, enlivened the scene, and there were none
of those huge, oppressive tram-cars from the Halles. You could
hear the organ bellowing over at Gangloff's; while the Bobino per
formers put on their little act right in the street itself, on a small
platform arranged as a stage. And in the Impasse de la Gaite, where
they were building the Theatre de la Rochelle, where Antoine
was to win his first laurels, you could see cows grazing. They
weren't a bit frightened by the car being tried out every day in the
quiet street nearby. As for the fashions why, that woman sucking
shell-fish at the table in the corner will give you some idea of them."

Hearing his remark, the woman cried out,

"What insolence!"

"What do you think you are doing, Madame? Are you trying to
blind me?"

A prawn had just hit de Groux smack in the eye, the one he
usually winked with, he said.

Then something happened that no one could possibly have
expected. Little Edwige, coming to the defence of her lord and
master, hurled a carafe of water at the lady of the Sadi Carnot

THE PICARESQUES 211

period. The latter slumped to the floor with a faint sigh. She was
picked up and carried to the nearest police-station, where de
Groux appeared shortly afterwards as chief witness. As Edwige
and de Bloodjg had forgotten to bring their identity-papers with
them, they were locked up for the night.

De Groux then slipped away on the pretext that he had to see
his aggressor safely home. In fact, he did take charge of her. He
got a horse cab in keeping with the spirit of the times and
accompanied her out to Montrouge; and as they drove along they
began a conversation which became unexpectedly prolonged.

"I must have known you in Brussels," the lady said, "and your
father, too. I'm Bobette Lafeque. I used to be an intimate friend
of dear old Leopold, you know."

"Who would have believed it !" exclaimed de Groux, in astonish
ment. "And what are you doing now?"

"I have a little house in Miramas."

"Ah, Miramas : the sun, the olive trees !"

"I cultivate my garden, play bowk with the men and argue
with the village priest."

"What a sudden affinity I feel for you. Even in this old cab you
bring with you all the perfume of Provence!"

"But how bored I am there ! If only a man "

"Ah, the Midi!"

"Could I persuade you to accept an invitation, dear fellow-
citizen?"

"Heavens, it's tempting. . . ."

So it came about that, thanks to this little incident, de Groux
left his fiancee, Edwige Hockren de Bloodjg, and two days later
went down to the South of France with the one-time favourite of a
king. As they sat together in a third-class carriage, she described
to him how a year ago she had split the jack in a game of bowls.

"Oh, how marvellous!" exclaimed the painter, ecstatically.

PIERO TOLENTINO

He was known as a celebrity from Venice to Trieste and from
Berlin to New York. A man with a mania for the Gothic, he could
live in nothing but Gothic surroundings, and refused to tolerate
any art alien to that period.

212 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

It was my friend Mme. Doyen who first took me to see him in
his Palazzo degli Ambasciatori in San Barnaba, in Venice.

We climbed the stairs on tip-toe, partly out of respect and partly
because the marble staircase was shaky, showing how damp the
climate of Venice is. We knocked on the nail-studded door, and
Antonio the valet, who might have come out of a Goldoni play,
opened it for us.

We were ushered into a series of cathedral-like rooms, in which
the walls were done in woodwork like an altar-screen, each fireplace
was as spacious as a temple and each chandelier as large as the
crown in the hall of Charles V at Aix-la-Chapelle.

At the end of the "suite", behind a double curtain of Sicilian
velvet, lay the studio, whose bay windows provided a view over the
Grand Canal and the Rialto, with gondolas moving about like toys
on the green water. There we found the painter's wife^ a Botticelli-
like American, and Tolentino himself, a sort of Italian Pierrot. He
was busy scraping the surface of a painting with a tortoise-shell
palette-knife, and he had already brought to light the red and blue
wings of a Carpaccio angel, which had been painted over by an
unknown artist.

In addition to his various mediaeval chests, Virgins in niches
and statues of saints standing on pieces of precious material, Tolen
tino had a collection of climbing-plants which screened the win
dows from the outside world.

"I can't bear to look at this dreadful town since the City
Council was so misguided as to put office lights in the streets.
There's not a Venetian who wouldn't have been glad to give an
authentic old Venetian lantern."

Tolentino now lives in New York. He had one of his Venetian
rooms shipped over there complete, and installed in a Sutton
Place apartment house, where the decorations all happen to be
Gothic and the East River serves as the Grand Canal.

He has carefully preserved his visitor's book, in which you can
see all the names of the Italian and Austrian aristocracy, as well as
many notable French and English ones. And he amazes the
American aristocracy with his brilliant receptions.

Since I have included him in this book one might be prompted
to ask if Tolentino is a real painter. I must answer that he most

THE PICARESQUES

certainly is at least, that is what he told me. One day, yielding to
my insistence, he showed me one of his pictures. Or it would be
more accurate to say that he led me into a darkened room, took a
canvas out of a cupboard, asked me to stand a few yards away and,
lighting a match, allowed me to look at the painting for three sec
onds, holding it towards me sideways.

He came to see me one day in a little studio I then had in New
York, and I recall the face he made when he saw the modern can
vases I had put up on my walls. It made me quite angry; or at any
rate I pretended to be.

I made Tolentino sit down at an easel and, thrusting some
brushes into his hands, said:

"Now. I've locked the door of this apartment, and I swear that
I shan't let you leave here till you've proved that you can paint as
well as those others whose work you so despise."

"But I've got a lunch engagement," he protested. "Besides, I
can't paint without a model, or until I've had time to meditate.
I'm never in a state of grace unless the atmosphere's right. What
could I possibly paint in the midst of all this idiocy?"

I refused to give in, however. So Tolentino asked me to arrange
the light, but he was more exacting about it than Isadora Duncan
herself would have been. He made me hunt up some umbers and
blacks of a kind no one has used, not even secretly, since the days of
Jobbe-Duval's school. Finally, after more protests, he started to
work.

It was then that I saw this great lazy fellow come to life, and the
down become a genius.

He began by smearing the whole canvas with a perfectly im
possible tar colour, leaving only two or three spots which were
scarcely less sombre. These spots gradually became shapes; the
shapes, volumes; the volumes grew lighter or still darker, and
suddenly a Rembrandt emerged, vivid, luminous, ready to step
forth from its prison of canvas and colour. But Tolentino then
darkened the beard of the old man he had painted, turned up the
moustaches, put more warmth into the expression of the eyes,
refined the contours, and there was a Van Dyck. He asked me
for white, then vermilion, then emerald green, and, as he swayed
about on his stool like one demented, I watched him produce in
succession a Rubens, with delicate flesh-tones, a Velasquez, and

214

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

finally a Chardin. Like something supernatural, the pigment
seemed to create the different faces and bodies as though under the
influence of a magic wand, as Tolentino wiped off each image and
formed a new one from the eyes, the flesh, the body, the light of the
previous creation. And he kept this up for two hours.

At last he threw down his brush and said,

"There. That's enough."

I looked at the canvas again. There was very little left on it
except a vague mask of a pale Beethoven, which seemed about to
fade into nothingness.

"No!" I exclaimed. "You're not going to play Balzac's Chef-
d'oeuvre Inconnu on me. You must at least finish one face."

He picked up the brush once more, daubed about a bit, then
relapsed into a sort of apathy.

"I can't do any more," he said.

So I let him go. And he left me with a shadowy form, compared
to which a Carriere would be solid rock. And even today, and
every time I meet Tolentino, I keep wondering if he did not
hypnotise me, like some Indian fakir, and if his acrobatics were not
better suited to a music-hall stage than to a gallery in the Louvre.

In the World of the Society Painters

LA GANDARA

1 SHOULDLIKEIO say something about Antonio de la Gandara,
Antonio de la Gandara was a painter of exceptional elegance. He
was a gloomy and restless dreamer, a Parisian Spaniard who was,
as he himself said, "inspired by El Greco and fascinated by
Watteau". He began his career at a time when decadent literature
was having its last flare-up: Goncourt was dying; Samain was
fading away against the red-gold of his verse ; Mallarme was turning
into a sphinx; and Jean Lorrain was tossing off his first jewel-like
phrases. As the period required, La Gandara sought for poetry
in the morbid (the fashionable kind, of course); for grandeur in
melancholy; and for light in a glance or a precious stone. His
studio became a museum of ghosts clothed in trailing silks; of
automatons in frills and furbelows ; of half-dead creatures, pow
dered, rouged and laden with rings. For a long time the devotees
of the rare and the abnormal lived in a state of delirium. And there
were plenty of them. The doctors had just discovered neuras
thenia, the successor of the English "spleen" ; and all the swooning
beauties, American women frantic to be up-to-date, precious
writers, drug-taking actresses and every neurotic hi Paris rushed
off to pose for "their painter", who would knock them off in three
sittings, in shades of silver-grey and black, with a little pink
thrown in for good measure.

Even the walls of his studio (which was in the old rue Monsieur-
le-Prince), with its polished floors and antique furniture, were
painted a dark grey. 1 He received his friends there in a velvet
dolman, his back bent, his manner not at all affected but imbued
with a touch of Spanish negligence, even to his patent-leather
shoes, which he left unbuttoned. With his brilliant black eyes, hair
and moustache, set off by his sallow skin, and his low voice, he
was very much the grand seigneur,, receiving all the gentry, from
1 The studio now belongs to the artist Yves Brayer.

216 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Arthur Meyer to Boni de Castellane (still very dapper), and la
Cavalieri to the Duchesse de Rohan.

I recall the Duchess standing up while she posed for the portrait
which Andre Rouveyre sketched of her in a note-book,, if one may
use the term portrait for the monstrous caricatures that this pupil
of Gustave Moreau used to perpetrate in those days. They were
much more extreme than the most ferocious Rouaults or the most
incisive Lautrecs; yet for all their outrance> they were., paradoxic
ally, astonishingly true to life.

The Duchess posed standing up because of a ruling La Gandara
had established. For when he invited the smart set of Paris to
come and admire his canvases, he never offered them "tea or a
chair" because, if they were provided with either, the guests
would inevitably spend their time chattering and gossiping instead
of looking at the pictures.

But what a delightful man he was when one was alone with him !
I often watched him as he painted. He worked slowly, but with an
amazing sureness of touch.

"This portrait, which I have only sketched in so far, is of an
Englishman. I'm going to begin at the upper left-hand corner and
work down to the lower right. That is the way Velasquez painted.
At present I'm painting a woman who has often spoken to me about
you. Her name is Ida Rubinstein."

"Yes, I saw a very fine bust of her at the house of the Russian
sculptor, Naoum Aronson."

"She's going to put on some interesting works of Verhaeren's
and d'Annunzio's at the Chatelet. Claude Debussy is to compose
the music. She read one of your articles on the Russian Ballet,
and she would like you to write something about her and her pro
ductions. Would you do me a personal favour and go to see her?
She's staying at the Hotel Bristol, in the royal suite.

"Yes," went on the artist, "she really is a sumptuous creature.
When she orders a coat from Worth's, for instance, she gets them
to cut off the necessary amount of material, and then makes them
destroy the rest under her eyes, just as a copper-plate is destroyed
after a limited number of prints have been made. Do please con
gratulate her on what she is doing. As she is Russian, don't be
afraid of paying her compliments; lay it on as thick as you can.
When she's angry, she behaves like a llama: she turns her head to

218 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

one side and thrusts out her chin. . . . But she's a fascinating per
son: she has hunted black lions in Anatolia and slept under canvas
in Ethiopia."

I duly went to call on Mme. Rubinstein in the old Hotel Bristol,
where she had taken not one, but two royal suites, which had been
thrown together for her. She was waiting for me, and I was
ushered through wide-open doors to a drawing-room, where she
was seated on a kind of throne. She was wearing a zaimph and,
drawing her hand out from under it, she motioned me to sit down
almost at her feet.

She talked to me about her professional plans, which were cer
tainly most interesting. I waited for just the right moment to
"lay it on thick", as the kindly La Gandara had asked me to do.
Accordingly, when Mme. Rubinstein informed me that she had
rented the Chatelet Theatre for her forthcoming productions, I
ventured to remark,

"Then the two greatest stars in the theatrical firmament will
be shining at the same time and in the same place."

"And who are they?" she demanded, haughtily.

"Sar forgive me: you and Sarah Bernhardt."

Mme. Rubinstein's mouth twitched, and she turned her head
away, outlining her profile against the light of the window. Little
by little her charming lower lip protruded to a degree that would
have aroused the envy of any platter-mouthed Negro queen. My
audience with her was ended.

I must say, however, that later I saw that great patron of the
arts again in a setting of charming simplicity; that she took lessons
in diction from Mme. Bernhardt; and that Paris and the world of
letters and music owe to her many of their greatest stage produc
tions.

Another celebrity of whom La Gandara did a much talked-of
portrait was Jean Lorrain. Though a notable journalist and critic,
his artistic tastes did not range far beyond Lalique and the painter
Gustave Moreau. In fact, he would have enjoyed appearing in one
of Moreau's compositions. And to think that it was Lorrain who
tried to ridicule Rodin's tremendous Balzac\ . . .

How well I remember Lorrain, with his lock of auburn hair
falling over his deeply-lined forehead, his eyebrows contracted
over his glaucous eyes, which gazed out from under lashes tinged,

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 219

like his moustache, with flecks of gold. His chin was extremely
long; his shoulders square; and he usually kept one of his hands,
with its slender fingers loaded with rings, on his hip.

"Make me look healthy, my friend," he begged the artist.
"Everyone thinks I'm ill, that I take drugs, just because I've
written a few short stories. But I simply loathe drugs, just as I
loathe chemises shops. Opium and morphine nauseate me almost
as much as all the society women I have to go around with.
Give me a sea-port, with plenty of sturdy boys and girls eh,
Biscuit?"

"Biscuit* * was Jean Lorrain's secretary. Most of the writers in
those days seemed to have strange secretaries, Apollinaire and
Salmon among them. Lorrain had picked up his somewhere along
the banks of the Seine. Biscuit sported a sailor's shirt; but he also
wore gloves that didn't match one canary-yellow, the other with
black stripes as well as checked trousers and a top hat. He
would sometimes disappear for a week, and eventually be found
officiating as a preacher in the Salvation Army. Or Lorrain would
get a tearful letter from him and have to go to the police-station,
where his secretary had been taken for some minor offence.

While he posed for La Gandara, Lorrain would dictate one of
his gossipy articles to Biscuit, send it off to fat Journal and regale
us with anecdotes until Robert de Montesquieu arrived, his elbow
resting on the little finger of one hand, his shirt-collar hidden by a
muffler and his voice pitched as high as the ceiling.

One Sunday, when I went to see La Gandara, I found him
absorbed in a copy of tilt Journal, the front page of which was de
voted mainly to Sem's latest book of drawings, in which the cele
brated cartoonist, making fun of the current fashions, had cari
catured the smart women of the moment, showing some dressed
like taxi-drivers and others like sausages in a butcher's shop.
Some he had pictured as mere girls, despite their seventy years,
and still others were decked out in finery that would have made the
old harridans of the music-halls weep, with waist-lines round
their knees and ruffles on their shoulders.

The so-called "hobble-skirts" were in vogue then, and Sem had

given the ladies not only horse's legs but horses's hooves as well.

"His talent is so great," asserted La Gandara, "that unless we

firmly resist his influence we shall never be able to see a pretty

220 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

woman except as Sem has depicted her, with all those minor imper
fections he can insinuate so subtly. At the races I see people look
ing exactly like his portraits of them, and his visual and visionary
power is so great that even after twenty years I'm sure they will
still look exactly as he has sketched them, however much the
fashions have changed."

Then we fell to talking of women's fashions in general, and, as
he had been painting the portraits of most of the fashionable
women for half a century, the artist declared:

"But often the caricaturist is wrong because of the nature of
truth itself. Instead of making a synthesis of the styles of his period,
as Guys did, for instance, or Velasquez or Goya in their day, he
grasps only one phase in the development of a movement, a mo
mentary aspect which is leading to something else. There is too
much chiffon at present, of course, too many hoops and other
accessories. There always have been. But all fashions are charm
ing when seen through the eyes of great painters. People often
swoon over the dresses in Watteau's pictures. But I should like to
have seen a woman of the people or even a bowrgeoise in such attire.
Just imagine all the extras on a stage dressed like that. Naturally,
then as now, there were terrible errors of taste in the non-essentials.
We don't have to go back very, far before we come to the bustle,
for example, which will never attract us, in spite of Stevens, Rops,
Cheret and Seurat. Naturally, the women themselves helped. It
is a living paradox how a woman's body adapts itself to the pre
vailing fashions and to the gestures appropriate to them. Look
how pink-fleshed and plump Boucher's models are, while David's
are positively starchy. If sport became the vogue tomorrow, you
would see every woman bulging with muscles. As for the errors,
well, they disappear quickly enough of their own accord. But
when all is said and done, the most beautiful dress will be the one
which most closely follows the lines of the human figure, without
any need of hoops, bustles or corsets."

On another Sunday shortly after, Marcelle Meyer came to my
house and played a new piano work of de Falla's for Diaghilev,
Fokine, Karsavina, Picasso and Massine. As she finished, Apolli-
naire came in, followed by Rouveyre, who whispered in my ear a

"La Gandara has just kicked the bucket,"

IK THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 221

SEM

With his big umbrella under one arm, his brown raincoat and
his rolled-up trousers, Sem really did look like a bespectacled
marmoset going to the races. He laughed about it himself.

One day, as we were about to cross the street together, I caught
his arm just in time to save him from being run over by a large car.

"I'd have sounded like a nut being cracked/* he remarked.

He thought he was ugly, and, in the same pitiless way that he
portrayed others, he used to caricature himself as a monkey.

Once, when I took the train for Deauville, I entered a compart
ment where there was a little man whose face was almost entirely
covered by enormous dark glasses. He stared steadily at me, and I
finally said to him, with a smile,

"Pardon me, but for a moment I thought you were Sem."

Sem removed his glasses, held out his hand, and replied,

"Do you think that's very flattering?"

He was never malicious, but he liked to make ban mots, just as
his friend Forain did. He called Pierre Lafitte, the half-hearted
sportsman who was always complaining of some malady, a
sportsmaL When he heard that Coty, the perfumer, had gone
bankrupt, Sem remarked, paraphrasing the Emperor Vespasian's

"Odour has no money."

When he had an operation, some time before his death, I went
with Fernand Vanderem to see him in hospital.

"Ah, my friends," he sighed, "they're draining my liver. I can't
be peevish any more: I've no bile left."

"How do you manage to make people so unattractive, and yet
make such good likenesses of them?"

"I simply try to make them better looking than they are, and
that's how they turn out."

222 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

How often I used to lean over Sem's shoulder at Cannes or
Deauville, watching him as he worked, his hat pulled over his
eyes, drawing a lip, an eye, a nostril again and again on little pieces
of paper with a tiny pencil. Later, at home, he would co-ordinate
them with the aid of tracings, and finally get the effect he wanted.

In Paris he lived in the Boulevard Lannes, in a handsome apart
ment, with a drawing-room furnished with comfortable arm-chairs
and wicker settees. On the light-grey walls were pictures by his
friends Helleu, Forain and Boldini, with whom he often used to
go for walks.

King Edward VII, whom Sem had frequently caricatured, ex
pressed the wish to make his acquaintance; and when he met him,
said to the artist,

"You have always flattered me."

When the King of Portugal was forced to leave his country,
Sem told me that the caricature the artist had done of him was
found on his bedside-table.

Yachts, trains, Casino dinners :

"All these people bore me stiff," Sem would say. For this man,
who made others laugh, always gave the impression of being bored
himself.

"I'd like to teach the ordinary people how to dress," Sem once
remarked to me. "It really embarrasses me to see a working-man
in a smock and a derby; or a clerk with a formal wing-collar and
a soft shirt; or an official wearing brown shoes with a dinner-jacket.
I'm going to do a book of drawings of them some time, and I'd
like you or Marcel Boulenger to do the text for it."

"Why don't you write it yourself, Sem?"

"That's an idea."

"I have another idea: you should illustrate the text as well."

"Flltry. But, apropos of ideas, let's play a joke. Let's pick out
some girl not too bad looking, but unshapely with a prominent
chin, pop-eyes, awkward shoulders, big feet, a protruding stomach,
and with her umbrella thrust under her arm."

"Like that girl there, for instance?"

"Yes. Then, with your articles and my drawings, we'll 'launch'
her as the prettiest girl in Deauville. I'll bet you that for the entire
season every single woman will carry her umbrella the same way,

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 223

stick out her chin the same way, roll her eyes like an idiot, and wear
a bow on her stomach."

For the entire season? It lasted the whole war, and even longer !
And even ten years later fashionable women in South America were

still trying to look like Mile. F , who had served as the model

for our little joke.

But, in all modesty, Sem must be given the credit

BOLDINI
JEAN-GABRIEL DOMERGUE

Sem, Boldini, Forain and Helleu: I can still see the four friends
striding down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne each morning.
Sometimes they were joined by a fifth: Abel Faivre. Sem I have
already described; he looked smaller still when walking along be
side the sallow, bearded Helleu, who was long and lean like the H
in his name. Forain looked bent over, as if folded in three, with
his hands clasped behind his back under his coat, making a kind of
bustle; and his lips were always "set", ready for a caustic remark.

"It seems that they're going to change the name of the Avenue

to Avenue Foch. X [a well-known parvenu] is furious about

it. He told me the other day that he had decided to continue having
'Avenue du Bois 5 engraved on his stationery and visiting-cards.
So when I write to him, I'm going to put 'Avenue Dubois' on the
envelope."

Boldini was almost as deformed as Lautrec. He looked like a
sort of hermit-crab, with his broad forehead, large eyes and quick
gestures. And it was as a crab that Sem pictured him in one of his
books of drawings. For his part, Boldini had done a fantastic
portrait of Sem, giving him a nose like a corkscrew spiralling into
infinity.

Boldini was misunderstood and sometimes scorned by the
moderns, in spite of the quality of some of his work such as his
portrait of Verdi, in which he proved himself equal to the best.
But a short time before his death he began to be bought by the
more advanced among the collectors.

One of his pupils, Jean-Gabriel Domergue, had helped to bring
about this well-deserved recognition.

224 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

How, you may ask, could Jean-Gabriel Domergue, the society
painter, have any influence on

Ah, but you don't know Domergue.

First of all, he is one of the wittiest of Parisians, and that counts
for something, even in Paris.

When you talk to him about his painting, he is often frank
enough to say:

"Oh, I'm Ecole des Beaux Arts. I'm a stuffy old academic."

The result is that one is forced to respect him. For he is fond of
Degas and Constantin Guys, and he proclaims Picasso a genius
on the wrong side of the fence, but a genius all the same. As for
himself, according to his own description he is only a caricaturist,
but instead of copying Hogarth he has gone back to the tradition of
Giovanni da Bologna and the great animalists of the Renais
sance. And, like the painters of the Renaissance incidentally, his
profile reminds one of Francis I Domergue is both a painter and
an architect and, one might add, a sculptor at least through his
wife, who models and makes her own castings. It was apropos of
this that he, or one of his "friends, composed a verse to the effect
that

Domergue est assure d y avoir un nom qui dure

Sinon dans h portrait . . , du mains dans la sculpture.

As an architect, he began by designing first a Venetian bed, then
a summer-house, then a villa, and finally a chateau, the most beauti
ful on the Cote d'Azur, facing the Esterels, with gardens, terraces,
fountains, dove-cots, servants' quarters and a tall chapel-like
studio, a studio with great Venetian chandeliers, where every sea
son society folk from three worlds the Old, the New and the
Demi-monde come and rhapsodise over his canvases, which are
as vivid and gay as life on the Riviera itself.

As I stood one day in one of his red and gold drawing-rooms, I
could not help but admire the thrust of three brilliant columns,
which reminded me of those in the setting for the ballet Schehera
zade.

"Do you know how those columns are done?" he asked me with
a laugh. "With drain-pipes; and a waste-pipe runs through this
one here."

Domergue had, as the Slavs say, "fought so well" for Boldini

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 225

that when Maurice de Rothschild came one morning to ask him if
he would sell his Boldinis, the artist replied :

"Never! I've millions of francs* worth of them. But they're'
going up/*

"I know," said de Rothschild. "One of his pictures was bought
at nine o'clock yesterday for two hundred thousand francs, and
sold for five hundred thousand at eleven, nine hundred thousand at
seven in the evening, and a million and a half at midnight, to an
Englishman."

"Not really?"

"It is absolutely true," concluded M. de Rothschild, "because
I was one of the buyers and sellers."

"And what of the man himself?" I asked Domergue.

His Francis I beard quivered.

"A monster in mind as well as body. And a terrible flirt ! One
day I sent him a pretty model; a young girl, little more than a
child. The first thing he said to her was : You get undress'. Good
God, how bee-ootiful you are! I never saw a woman so bella*
Von* you come vith me to Italia? 5 'Italy, maitreT she said. 'You
don* know Italy? Madonna! The Gulf of Genova, it curve aroun'
like this,* and he put his hand on the girl's hips; 'the Gulf of
Venezia go like this, 5 and he put his other hand around the nape of
her neck; 'Napoli is like this pretty breast. . . . And the Lombardia
plain is smooth like your stomach. . . .'

"He went on in this style for three-quarters-of-an-hour. Then,
being somewhat wearied, Boldini said to the delighted girl, who
was busy dreaming of blue waters and golden skies :

" 'Now you can get dress 5 . But vot is that you put on?*

" 'That? That's my corset, maitre:

" 'A corset! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Vot an ugly corset. You go away.
I never take a girl to Italy with such an ugly corset.*

"On another occasion," went on Domergue, "I said to him,
'How are your amours going, maitre? (He had just turned eighty-
four at the time.)

" Tooh. I don't even try any more. I know they'd be failures.'

"When the painter Sargent died, Boldini remarked:

" 'He was a man who was supposed not to have a heart. But
after his death an autopsy was performed on him, and they found

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 227

that he had a heart three times as large as the average. He had a

heart, but nobody knew it.'

"And when he himself was dying, he said to his wife,

" *What a pity God won't grant me just one more beautiful day.

What a portrait I would do of you. . . .' "

Before taking leave of Boldini, I must say something about the
quarrel he had with Sem. It occurred because of the caricature I
have already mentioned. Not that Sem was offended by it. On the
contrary, he wanted to keep it; but Boldini asked him to give it
back. One day, saying that he wanted to "touch up" one eye a
little, Boldini took it away with him, and never returned it And
the two friends did not see each other for a long time afterwards.

The years went by. Boldini grew old and melancholy. One
evening he was sitting alone, without even the housemaid, who
had left him because he was so difficult. There was a veritable
mountain of dust on the floor and over all the furniture. He had
just turned eighty-three, and he thought bitterly:

"Nobody comes to see me any more, not even Sem. Maybe I
should give him back his portrait? No, that's impossible. All the
same I should like to make it up with him."

He went to the telephone and rang up his old friend.

"Hello! Hello! Is that you, Sem? Guess who's calling you.
It's poor old Boldini, who's going to die soon, and wants to see you.
Do come over, will you?" And he hung up.

He waited.

A quarter of an hour passed, but no one came.

"If I were really about to die, he would get here too late,"
Boldini said to himself crossly.

Suddenly he had an idea. He did something that would have
scared most people of eighty-three. He got undressed, placed
lighted tapers around his bed, left the door partly open, lay
down, crossed his arms over his chest and pretended that he was
dead.

Another quarter of an hour went by, and still nobody came. At
every little noise Boldini raised his head to listen, then resumed his
pose.

Finally, he heard a sound, not very loud but more distinct than

228 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

the others. It was Sem. He came in, saw the pathetic spectacle,
made the sign of the cross and knelt down to pray.

Whereupon Boldini rose up, cried, "Boo!* 5 , and hopped out of
bed like a Jack-in-the-box.

Sem fled; and the two never saw each other again.

Domergue had known the Lautrec family at Albi.

"Albi," he asserted, "is as beautiful as Toledo. But poor Lau
trec was completely ostracised there. He was, in fact, driven away
from the place. Yet today he is the boast of the town. It's a
delicious irony. The archbishop's palace has been transformed
into a Lautrec museum, and you can see there his works depicting
the brothel houses where he used to spend his nights sketching, in
the company of his friend Coolus."

Great news! J.-G. Domergue had been made an Academician!
When Paul Leon, Fasquelle and several other old friends presented
him with the ceremonial sword, engraved by Mme. Domergue
herself, the old Parisian asked,

"Why should one be given a sword at an age when one has to
begin to think of crutches?'

After the ceremony I accompanied Domergue back to his Paris
home, which is as spacious and elaborate as his house at Cannes.
It has a gallery of bronzes and a marble dining-room large enough
to seat the whole Academy, similar to those depicted in Veronese's
paintings. But on the walls are pictures which Veronese could not
have shown: early Renoirs; Goyas of the Saragossa period; Cana-
letto palaces, out of which had probably come the gilded chairs in
which we sat.

"I see you have a copy of the Botticelli Virgin and Child in the
Louvre," I said.

"It is the Louvre Virgin and Child that is a copy," he retorted,
"because it is painted in oils. Botticelli painted only in tempera.
Mine is authentic. Look at it carefully. The things they have in
these museums ... !"

The painter chuckled in his short beard; his lips were very red,
his teeth gleaming white. His Francis I nose twitched, and his
eyes glinted.

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 229

"These museums !" he repeated.

For this man, who calls himself a stuffy old academic and a
society painter, is in his way a fighter and a revolutionary.

"These art galleries. And your so-called 'moderns'. They are
a hundred times more academic than I am; and far more prisoners
of their technique. You'll see what is left of their colour a hundred
years from now!"

"Well, now you are an Academician. Tell me how it happened."

"Why, it's the most fantastic story of my life."

We were sitting in another of the artist's studios, the one in
which he exhibited his pictures, Looking at them, one would have
said that Domergue had undressed
women of every shape and class, and
put them up, carefully framed, on
his walls. There were hundreds of
nudes, slightly elongated, in accord
ance with the "tradition of Giovanni
da Bologna" and the great animal-
ists of the Renaissance. For every
painter of women is an animal-painter,
whether he represents her as a para
keet, a greyhound bitch, an owl or just
a simple female of the species which
is sometimes worse.

But Domergue is not given to cruel
caricature, as his friend Van Dongen
is. If he seems to harp on the worth-
lessness of certain ladies of the town
or of the present generation of nobility,
at least it is more out of relish than out of bitterness that he seems
to crush raspberries on their lips, as though wanting to stuff them
with the fruit. And with the same innocent relish he paints a
peach-coloured skin under the transparent light of a parasol in
stridently brilliant colours, and adorns his whores with bird of
paradise plumes.

"The Institut is the logical climax of your career," I said. "You
were born in Bordeaux; you are related to Lautrec; at fifteen you

Domergue : Self-portrait

230 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

came top of your year's entry into the Ecole des Beaux Arts; you
were taught by Jules Levebre, who moulded such painters as La
Fresnaye and Segonzac. At sixteen you won an honourable men
tion, and left all the others behind with your Robejonquitte canvas.
You were awarded a medal at nineteen; the Institut prize at
twenty; and the Grand Prix de Rome in 1913, with your Rhapsody
Singing the Praise of Heroes on the Outskirts of an Ancient Village"

"Joke about it if you like/' replied Domergue. "It wasn't for
any of this really. The fact is that during the 1914 war I published,
under my own name, a book of drawings on 'German Atrocities'.
I never gave it another thought until 1942, when a German officer
came to see me. 'We believe that a foreigner used your name to
sign a certain book of drawings,' he told me. 'Whoever he is, the
person has already been condemned to death, and will be executed
as soon as we find him. Meanwhile, you are requested to come to
the Kommandatur's Office.'

"I didn't exactly feel like breaking into song on the way to the
Place de la Concorde. After waiting there for half-an-hour, I was
told that Prince Metternich wished to see me, and I was taken to
the one-time residence of Talleyrand. I was ushered in between
two rows of German officers standing to attention, and my knees
were shaking pretty badly. A door opened, and I saw a queer little
man, sitting behind the huge desk of the Prince of Benevento. He
rose as I came in, and looked at me hard.

" 'Now,' I said to myself, c he's going to read my death-sentence.'

" 'Are you Monsieur Domergue?' he asked.

" 'I cannot deny it,' I said.

" 'Sit down, then, and allow me to inform you that I, Prince
Metternich, have nothing in common with the infamous Nazis
who are in charge here.'

"For a moment I thought he was making fun of me. But he
went on.

" 'Let's forget this affair of the drawings. Now what can I do
for you? Can I help you to get out of Paris ?'

" 'I should prefer to remain in Paris/ I said.

" 'That will be a more difficult matter. Unless you have an
official position. You aren't a professor or a member of the Acad
emy, are you? Or even a candidate for the Academy?'

" 'I could be that,' I said.

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 231

" 'Very well. Monsieur Domergue, you can begin your visits to
the Academicians and, as long as you are not elected > you can remain
in Paris. I will give the necessary orders/ "

"And that/' continued Jean-Gabriel Domergue, "is how I be
gan making my calls as candidate for the Academy, begging each
member as hard as I could not to vote for me. The Liberation
came; and all those whom I had visited during the bombing
elected me, in spite of a thousand dirty tricks on the part of certain
little pals, among them, those who had denounced my book of
drawings to the Germans. I shan't mention any names."

"Are you glad now?"

"Yes, because I can still live in Paris, or go occasionally lo
Algiers or Morocco and paint the portraits of worthy industrialists,
as a change from people like the charming Murat princesses or the
Duchesses de Rohan and de Gramont, or the Goulds, or the
Clarks "

" Speaking of the latter, wasn't Clark the American senator who
owned as fine a collection as the late Richard Wallace's? I re
member he was so furious because of the capital tax they wanted
him to pay here that he took his pictures over to America instead of
bequeathing them to the Louvre."

"Yes, that's the one. And this was after the Government had
missed the boat over the Wallace Collection."

"Have you started attending any of the Academy meetings?"

"Oh, yes. As in most Academies, they have a 'Right' and a
'Left'. The 'Right' isn't bad because it includes among its mem
bers the best of the so-called 'Rightist' painters. But on the 'Left'
you won't find Derain or Braque or Rouault or Segonzac or
Matisse. . . ."

At that moment our conversation was interrupted by the arrival
of the director of a gallery. He had come to offer the artist a con
tract.

"Why?" asked Domergue.

"Well," said the visitor, "because a painting that is put on the
market brings in more than one that is sold privately."

"Certainly," replied Domergue; "but I should prefer that it
brought me more than it did you !"

232 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"But suppose there were another war. Everything you have
might be taken from you. You yourself might be persecuted."

"Nonsense,," said Domergue; and, pointing to the pictures of
the slender, graceful women on his walls, he went on, "And if they
applied the law of retaliation, they would have to sentence me to
end my days in a nudist camp."

ALBERT BESNARD

Albert Besnard, president of the Societe des Artistes Franais,
Director of the Ecole des Beaux Arts, and later of the Ecole Fran-
aise in Rome, was a most excellent man. He encouraged young
artists, and in his own work tried out such bold experiments that
he was nicknamed "The Pompier Who Wants to Start a Fire". 1

I had gone to see him one day with Louis Vauxcelles, and we
were rather taken aback when he said,

"As a matter of fact, I'm expecting the King of England. . . ."

The King of England was as yet only the Prince of Wales; but
the future Edward VII (who admired Detaille!) liked to pay visits
to well-known painters.

"Oh, well you might as well stay," said Besnard, who, incident
ally, was dressed in a very odd fashion. He had spent the whole
morning trying to decide what to wear for the occasion, and
whether he should put on a jacket or just his artist's smock. He
had finally compromised by pulling his white smock over his jacket a
while Mme. Besnard had also slipped one over her silk dress.

A secretary came to announce the Prince's arrival, and, to his
embarrassment, was introduced to us. Besnard gave us a wink and
then hastened to welcome the royal visitor. His Highness ap
peared, all smiles, bowed to his hostess, and., gloves, hat and cane
in hand, began his tour of the studio. In the back of the room
Besnard had placed an immense panel, and the Prince stopped
to examine it with his host and hostess. For a moment no one
uttered a word; then the Prince of Wales took a cigar-case out of his
pocket and held it out to Besnard, saying,

"Do you smoke, Monsieur Besnard?"

Mme. Besnard came forward, and the artist replied,

1 A play on the word pompier, which means fireman as well as anything
banal or academic in art. [Trans, note.]

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 233

"Yes, and my wife smokes too."

The Prince passed her the case without batting an eye; and the
three, cigars in hand, continued to look at the panel. Then some
thing unexpected occurred. It may have been a draught, or per
haps the picture was not fastened securely; or the emotion in the
room may have been highly charged: the fact remains that the
canvas suddenly fell flat on the floor in front of them. Despite the
royal presence, the painter could not prevent himself from crying
put,

"Merde!"

Aghast, Mme. Besnard looked from her husband to the Prince,
and as if to confirm what destiny had evidently ordained, she
raised her cigar and repeated,

" Merde !"

Finally, the Prince, with immense gravity, removed the cigar
from his mouth and, with a gesture of the hand, exclaimed,

CAROLUS DURAN

Carolus Duran, the father-in-law of the playwright Feydeau,
and for a time the teacher of the American painter Sargent, was
the most self-possessed man I have ever known, and the most
diplomatic.

It so happened that a beautiful foreigner, among many others,
once commissioned him to do her portrait. Unfortunately, for all
her elegance she was insufferably high-handed, like so many of
her compatriots, who are accustomed to driving men to work as
animals are driven to the slaughter. And as for the way they treat
artists. . . !

The maitre had given in to all the pretty lady's whims. In spite
of his easy-going disposition, he would not have put up with such
behaviour had she been a Frenchwoman. However, as she was
something new in his experience, she rather amused him. He even
agreed to paint the portrait at her house, which was a considerable
concession, as it meant that he lost much valuable time. Moreover,
she was often late for her appointments, and she would tell lies to

1 Euphemism for the word merde, meaning "Dear me!" [Trans, note.]

234 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

excuse herself, heap reproaches on him and indulge in all sorts of
whims and tricks, even to the point of wanting to change her dress
in the middle of a sitting, or suddenly remembering an engage
ment with her hairdresser, or asking the artist to alter the size of
her eyes or of a jewel in the painting.

At last the portrait was almost finished, and ready for framing.

When Carolus Duran arrived at the lady's house one Saturday
for the final sitting, the maid informed him that Madame was ill
and could not see him; but she hoped he would come back the
following Wednesday or Thursday.

The next Wednesday he returned punctually, but, just as he was
about to mount the stairs, the concierge ran out and stopped him.

"Are you going to Miss X's?" she asked.

"Yes. Isn't she any better?"

"Any better? Why, she's gone away!"

"Gone away? Will she be back soon?"

"Why, Monsieur, she's gone to America. She sailed last night."

"Good Lord. But my picture "

"Oh, don't worry. Monsieur. It was well packed. I helped to
crate it myself. Madame was very anxious about it."

"And you never heard from her again?" I asked Carolus Duran.

"I learned, after it was too late to do anything about it, that the
picture had been exhibited all over the place, and that she had sold
it and then bought it back again."

"And what became of the lady?"

"Oh, I met her subsequently at a reception in Paris. She smiled
and held out her hand."

"And what did you do?"

"I kissed it. After all, ours is a wretched profession, in which
we take our profits as we can, and our losses without complaint
unless we are caddish enough to demand payment in advance. If
I'd started a lawsuit or made a fuss, I'd have got the reputation of
being a trouble-maker, which is even worse than being a bad
painter. I shouldn't have got any more commissions. Whereas in
this case. . . . You won't believe me, but she actually had the cheek
to ask me to come to her house and do another portrait. And I
consented. That portrait brought me three others, for which I was
well paid. I was still young then, and it was worth my while."

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 235

"And did you get paid for the second portrait?"

Carolus Duran took out a cigarette, lit it, and made no reply.

HARPIGNIES

Harpignies was not a "society painter", but rather a painter
whose work was bought by "society people".

I met him through Vauxcelles; and what tales he used to tell
me about the old boy. How, for instance, the vieux chene, who
was still good for two Absinthes a day at the age of ninety-seven,
used to assert that he would not die during the War unless he was
deprived of his favourite beverage.

He had lived for almost a century, and had always refused to see
a doctor except once, when he fell seriously ill in his eighty-
fourth year. On that occasion he said to the doctor,

"I warn you: I won't take any medicine."

"And I warn you, sir, that if you don't keep to your room for at
least a fortnight "

"A fortnight! Are you pulling my leg?"

"And if you don't take this medicine tonight, it will be all up
with you."

"I don't believe in doctors or in medicine."

"On my word of honour, you'll be done for."

"All right, all right. I'll take your drugs."

"I'll come round and see you in the morning."

Next morning the doctor returned, and found Harpignies up
and working at his easel in the garden.

"What? You're up?"

"Of course. You can see for yourself that I'm perfectly well."

"Did you take my medicine?"

"Oh, yes. I promised "^

"It wasn't so bad after all, then?"

"Ugh! I chucked it all into a good strong Pernod, and I didn't
taste a thing. . . ."

"I went to see Harpignies one winter's night," continued Vaux-
celles. "He was probably about ninety-three then. He kept me

236 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

until one o'clock in the morning. As I thought it was high time for
him to go to bed, I got up to leave.

" 'Stay just a little longer/ he begged. 'What time is it? Fll
go with you as far as the corner.*

" 'What, at this hour? Besides, it's snowing.'

"'Nonsense. Nonsense. The snow's lovely.'

"He got up and wrapped himself up well in a big cape.

" 'You can do me a little favour/ he informed me, once we were
out in the street. 'Let's go this way.'

"We had walked for perhaps half-an-hour, when he stopped in
front of a tall house.

" 'I'm all right except for my eyes/ he said. That's why I

wanted to ask you You see, I have a little friend who lives up

there on the sixth floor, and we've agreed on a certain signal. Will
you look at the third window from the left and tell me how the
curtains are fixed?'

"'White curtains?'

" 'Yes, that's it. How are they fixed?'

" 'They're drawn.'

" 'Merde /' exclaimed Harpignies, sending the snow flying with
his cane. 'She's got her "old man" with her tonight.' "

Poor Vauxcelles. He died during the war, half-blind. My
friend Waldemar George told me of one of his last mots.

The great critic was standing in the street one day, looking at
a poster of a German soldier kicking the behind of a poor non-
Aryan/

"What do you think of it?" brusquely demanded a German
officer who had come up behind him.

Vauxcelles looked round at him, and said calmly,

"It's very badly drawn."

PAUL CHABAS

As an art critic, I had occasion, in 1935, to attend one of the
dinners the Societe des Artistes Fran9ais gave each year before
their private view. It was held in a restaurant in the Champs
Elysees. All those around me seemed to be decent enough people,

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 237

and even sincere painters. But when the speeches began my fellow-
critics and I were appalled. And when Paul Chabas, the president
of the Society, rose to speak, our dismay became stupefaction.

Every year Paul Chabas exhibited his work, which consisted
mostly of graceful, naked young girls bathing in a lake, against a
background of misty mountains. And this same gentleman had
the impertinence to say at the end of his speech:

" but we are all eclectic here. We welcome 'everyone*

even Signac. Yes, even Signac," and he repeated the phrase three
times, each time stressing the name which was doubtless scorned
by most of those present, for was he not the man who emulated
Seurat, the man who had written that little Bible of an, D y Eugene
Delacroix au Neo-Impressionnisme ?

"Even Signac" ! With the words still ringing in my ears, I ran
into an old painter standing in the door of that respectable Salon;
on seeing me, he threw up his arms and said in a lugubrious tone,

"Well, I've done it!"

"What have you 'done', my friend?"

Then, as though he were some society woman confessing to an
amorous intrigue, he whispered :

"It's too bad, but I've gone 'modern'. Come and look at it.
After all, this is 1945 ; and ne has to live." And he led me up to an
Impressionist canvas in the style of 1875.

WERBOFF

M. Michael Werboff, whom I have often met in Cannes, Biarritz
and New York, has painted kings, queens, Royal Highnesses,
millionaires, even artists. He has counted among his patrons
Gustav V of Sweden, King Carol, Alphonse XIII, Grand Duke
Dmitri, Grand Duchess Marie and the Duchess of Mortemart;
also Vuillard yes, Vuillard himself Romain Coolus, Courteline,
Leon Blum, Boncour, Harold Vanderbilt, Titta Ruffo, Jos Straus,
Tristan Bernard, Henri Torres, Mrs. Osborn and many others.

If he ever wrote his memoirs, it would be a most interesting
book. But M. Werboff is as discreet in his talk as he is in his art.

"I have been received by sovereigns, just as the artists of the
Renaissance were welcomed to the tables and homes of Popes and
Tyrants. Should I not appear to be an ungrateful guest if, for

238 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

instance, I were to reveal that Gustav V has such big teeth that I
felt I should paint him with his mouth closed? "Come, come/ he
said to me. 'I know Fve got ugly teeth. But they've been exag
gerated so often in caricatures. Make them just as they are:
they're my teeth, aren't they?'

"Apropos of AJphonse XIII, I was once invited to a formal din
ner given by a new Spanish grandee. The King had sat himself
down next to a very pretty woman. Whereupon the host came and
showed him the place reserved for the royal guest. 'The place for
Royalty is wherever I happen to be sitting/ declared His Majesty.
*And what is more, let it be understood here and now that, as a
Spanish grandee, you must tutoies me, or else call me "Your
Majesty"; but not "you". 5

"Carol was much simpler, and Madame Lupescu kept her dis
tance. One day I asked if they would allow me to take a photograph
of them together, and the King obligingly called her to come and
stand beside him. But she refused, saying, 'No. I must not be
photographed with you when you are wearing your uniform.'

"It was Coolus's opinion that *a portrait should reveal the sub
ject to himself, and explain him to others'.

"Titta Ruffo often used to fume at present-day audiences, and
maintain that 'singing is not shouting. An artist is not a vocal
phenomenon. But people today don't really listen; they don't
appreciate a mezza-voce. All they are looking for are the high
notes.'

"As for Courteline, what a fine fellow he was ! To give you an
idea of his character, I must tell you an anecdote about his wife and
their dog. His wife wanted to give the dog some medicine, but,
being unable to manage by herself, she asked her husband to hold
their pet while she administered the dose. Courteline was furious.
*What!' he said. *Do you think I am mean enough to fool a little
animal that trusts and loves me; and betray it even for its own
good?'

"The last portrait I did,' J concluded Werboff, "was of Torres,
the lawyer and senator. Unlike most people I have painted, he
wanted to pose standing up. He chatted away fifteen to the dozen
the whole time. And he was indignant because, so he said, he
was being urged to betray his fellow-men."

IN THE WORLD OF SOCIETY PAINTERS 239

JAN STYKA

Jar* Styka was known in France chiefly through his celebrated
portraits of Tolstoi, Maxim Gorki and Chaliapin, whom he painted
seated together at the same table. He also did the illustrations for
Sienckiewicz's Quo Vadis? a work, by the way, which owes a
good deal to the elder Dumas's Acte.

With his big moustache and side-whiskers, his high boots and
his fat stomach, Jan Styka looked like the embodiment of General
Durakin, who comes in the Comtesse de Segur's tales. But when
ever anyone took hi for a Russian, he would make a furious ges
ture and thunder in his burring voice :

"Russian! I've been a Pole for almost eighty years now, and
I'm as solidly built as the oldest brothel in Warsaw, where a rose
wood leg caressed by Napoleon hangs over the main window.
What do you think of this rainy weather? It's all the fault of these
stupid people in the casinos. How idiotic to dress up that way, and
drink die stuff they drink, and look at cabaret girls, and throw
streamers about all the dreary amusements you see in the films
when they want to show you what gay life is like in high society.
Fd rather go round the Riviera dressed like a fife-player, as in
Hebert's La Malaria the way I dress in Capri, which I became
king of. It was there that I received the poor Spanish Infante,
whom all the ragamuffins threw stones at one year because he tried
to be even more original than his confrere in the Villa Tiberius.
You know, the one who died last year at the foot of the fresco he
had commissioned the painter Brunelleschi to do for him. He was
the descendant of a lover of that queen of France who ended up
on the scaffold. You know who I mean: her fichus are famous.
Well, to cut a long story short, the Infante conceived the idea of
recreating Paul Ddaroche's picture Sicilian Grape-gathering in the
Quisisiana gardens. He started out by getting together all the
young models in the island, bambini 'more beautiful than della
RobbiaY, with curly hair, golden skin and sensuous lips. He
stripped them naked, as in Virgil, and set them to ravaging all the
vineyards on Monte Solaro. And at sundown they began a bacchic
dance above the Gulf, which lasted till the moon rose. Their
parents all applauded happily, and their older brothers and sisters
brought mandolins and lanterns. The whole island was enchanted.

240 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"The scene took on another aspect when it came to paying the
bill. The Infante sent the enraged owners of the vineyards to his
steward. The steward pleaded for time. Next day the Infante was
nabbed on the wharf, as he was trying to slip away from the island,
after the manner of Ulysses. He was taken back and shown the
ruined vineyards with their vine branches still green.

"Each of the children had meanwhile been given a thrashing.
Now it was the Infante's turn; he was undressed and put into a vat,
where he was kept long enough to acquire an aversion to grapes, as
well as to the painting of Paul Delaroche, for the rest of his life.
He was finally rescued by a marchesa, who settled his account.
That was no worse, believe me, than what goes on in France.
I'm thinking of doing an enormous picture. . . ."

Adam and Tade, the charming Styka's two sons, are in America.
Both of them are first-rate portrait-painters, and they earn a great
deal of money which is just as well. . . .

Lithographers and Engravers

How MUCH SPACE I should like to give to the different illustrators
among my friends. For example, there was Bernard Naudin, who
did the illustrations for our Cri de Paris. He used to frighten us
every time we lunched at Baty*s by coming disguised as a National
Guardsman and flourishing a sword; or as an acrobat and walking
on his hands from one table to another. And then, suddenly, he
would start talking in a frenzy of enthusiasm about the "Art of
Drawing", about discovering a certain "line", a certain style.
Unfortunately, he ended his life among people less wise than
himself. . . .

Then there was the aristocrat Cappiello, who first modelled his
faces in clay and afterwards drew them in pencil, often using a
window-pane, or the window itself, to draw on.

"But to get the exact volume," he would say, "and to replace
tonal modelling by the use of line, I have to distort, not follow, the
contour. It is a question of art as opposed to artifice."

There was also the Assiette au Beurre crowd, who came down
from Montmartre, and the "Edgar Allan Poe-ish" Gus Bofa, and
the Araignee group: Chas-Laborde, Orsi and Guy-Arnoux, the
Naval painter, who went out every evening to argue in all the bars
of the Marbeuf quarter, wearing riding-boots and carrying a
crop under his arm, followed by his dog> which tugged like re
morse at his coat-tails. ("Just one more glass, old man. Not a
drop more.")

And there was Bib, with his wit: "That woman has had her face
lifted so much you can't even put a pencil into her snub nose any
more. Where is her nose, anyway? You can hardly recognise it
except by the smell."

I recall Rabajoi, too. He was a professor at the Polytechnic;
but he could draw those women in the casinos with a quiet
ferocity.

And there was Paul Colin, the poster artist. He had left Nancy

242 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

with Lursat, "who had 'flunked' medicine in order to go in for
painting". Colin's name is on every wall; he is a Commander of
the Legion d'Hormeur and, as a supreme tribute, the Government
put on an exhibition of his work at the Pavilion de Marsan. When
ever you meet him, he is surrounded by women of an extraordinary
and exotic beauty. Nevertheless, Colin is inclined to be melan
choly, and he is tormented by that noble discontent which plagues
all great artists: "Have I done my task well? Could I not have
done better, aimed higher, done something else?"

Paul Colin : Self-portrait

"So you're satisfied with your car, are you?"

I stared at the scatter-brained fellow who had asked me the
question, looking at me with large eyes which appeared even larger
through his glasses. As I was in a bad humour, and we were in the
middle of a crossroads with taxis hooting all round us, I answered
him sharply. He got hot under the collar; and I did too. But all
at once he burst out laughing, introduced himself as Regismanset,
and with that we made friends. He threatened to "knock my
block off" if I didn't come with him to Tartine's. Tartine was
the young lady with turned-up nose and mocking eyes who was
sitting beside him, and had been doing her best to calm him down.
Just then Galtier-Boissiere came along, and we all went off to
gether and wound up in Tartine's kitchen. A month after that,
Regismanset went round with me getting material for U Illustra
tion. If we stopped anywhere for more than a minute, the white

LITHOGRAPHERS AND ENGRAVERS 243

pages of the artist's sketch-book would be covered with drawings,
thirty or more sketches appearing with the rapidity of an animated
cartoon, the proper setting for each one emerging at the same time.

VERTES

I must not forget those two virtuosi, the fashionable designers
for New York magazines and Paris stores, Vertes and Touchagues.

"Last week," Vertes told me, "I went to see a well-known critic,
who lives in a sort of garret without heat or running-water or bath
room; and I shouldn't be surprised if it weren't still lit by paraffin
lamps. When he saw my car he said, 'That isn't yours, is it?* And
when I politely assured him that it was, he shook his head and
raised his hands. Yet he's an intelligent man. He writes about
modern painting, and contributes to a dozen big newspapers. It
really is extraordinary. There are still plenty of people about, even
artists, who think of painters as they were thought of fifty years ago,
and can't conceive of an artist having a car like any ordinary
tradesman."

This conversation took place in Vertes car, a Buick, which was
running smoothly along at sixty miles or so an hour on the road
from Deauville to Paris, where the artist was going to see a
publisher about some book illustrations he was doing.

It was through my dentist, a charming fellow named Breger, that,
ten years previously, I had made the acquaintance of the artist who
since 1935 has been a great favourite in America.

"One of my patients is a young refugee," Breger had told me.
"He says he comes from Hungary, that he is a painter, and that he
has no money. I asked him to let me see some of his work. I have
been to his place, and seen the kind of thing he is doing, and I be
lieve in him. Here is one of his drawings."

"You are right to believe in him," I said. "That is the work of
an honest man."

An honest man, indeed. With his gloved hand on the wheel,
Vertes told me more about the job he was working on.

"The publisher commissioned me to do the illustrations for a
book of Zola's, which he intends to sell at twenty thousand francs a
copy. To be exact, the book will be sold in a set with three others,

244 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

and so each purchaser will have to pay eighty thousand francs for
the lot."

That was in the days when there was an enormous amount of
speculation going on both in books and in pictures.

"When I asked the publisher how he wanted me to do the illus
trations he replied, 'It doesn't matter. Other artists have done line
drawings for me, and I had blocks made/ 'But/ I said, e you can't
sell a book with line-block illustrations for a price like that. 1*11
do some engravings for you.' 'All right, if it won't take too long.'
Well, I worked on the copper plates for two years, and as I wasn't
satisfied with them, I destroyed them last year and began all over
again. And if I could, I would still do two of them over again."

We reached Paris and went straight to the publisher's. Ten
minutes later Vertes reappeared looking rather pale.

'"What's the matter?" I asked.

"That swine! "he expostulated. "Do you know what he did? I
thought he'd be anxious to see the work I had done so carefully.
You can appreciate how much it means to an artist to see a pub
lisher take up the proofs one by one, and watch his eyes light up
and a smile come over his face. But this fellow put my work in a
pile, counted them without so much as a glance, shoved them all
into a drawer and handed me my cheque. He didn't even give me
time to thank him. I must say I prefer Andre "

The Andre he was referring to was the intelligent owner of the
casinos at Deauville, Cannes, La Baule and several other places.
We had lunched with him that day, and when Vertes had men
tioned to him that he was going to Paris to collect some money
owing, Andre had remarked:

"We three are lucky to have found a way of keeping alive without
having to work at the bottom of a mine, or staggering to an office
on time even if you've got the gripes. I have my casinos ; you your
books; and you, Vertes, your drawings."

"I love the circus," Vertes said. "If you're fond of horses, you
like to draw and paint them. You like seeing them even at the
circus especially at the circus. What a marvellous opportunity
the circus is for the painter, those wonderful bodies, in that won
derful light. You can paint human bodies there much better than

LITHOGRAPHERS AND ENGRAVERS 245

you can in an art-school. I remember one pair of acrobats who had
more the grace of swallows than of aeroplanes, as they literally
flew from one trapeze to the other. I asked the female member of
the team to come to my studio one day. She was only a tiny girl,
yet she seemed like a goddess when she was up in the air. She had
a perfect body, supple and strong, but you had no idea of that
from the way she dressed. So as to make her feel at home I talked
to her while I made sketches.

" 'When you're "up there", 5 I said to her, 'suspended between
life and death, I suppose it must always be an exhilarating and
terrifying moment, in spite of your being used to it."

" 'No. We're used to it, as you say.'

" 'But you talk to each other sometimes, don't you? I saw you
talking last night when you stopped for a second.'

" 'Oh, that was nothing.'

*' 'But I'm sure you said something."

" 'It wasn't anything, I tell you. My partner said that the coat
a woman in one of the boxes was wearing was made of fur, and I
thought it was monkey. When we were on the ground again, we
found out which of us was right.' "

Vertes doesn't go to the circus any more. Nor does he run races
on all fours with Fujita and the charming Dora on the promenade
at Deauville, as he used to. As I write these lines, the artist, who
delights the readers of Harper's Bazaar each week with his novel
and amazing ideas, has retired to the studio of his home at North-
port, Long Island, where he has been working on a large panel for
a house in Dallas, Texas. And what beauty, gaiety and style he
has put into the painting!

To the right is a mauve Harlequin, leaning on a grey horse and
playing with a gold coin; in the centre a slim young woman places
a garland of roses on her head; while on the left a young child
holds out his arms towards a flock of birds.

He painted the woman's head no less than seven times. After
adding a few more touches, he laid down his brushes. He was
already in his bathing-trunks, and we went across the road and
down to the beach.

"I don't much like doing panels," he said. "I really prefer

246 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

lithographs to anything else. I learned how to do them when I
was young. One painter who made superb lithos in those days
was Willette."

"I knew him/ 5 I replied. "I often went to his studio in the
Batignolles, on the ground floor of a little house there. I almost
always arrived just as he was finishing his weekly drawing for the
cover of the Courrier Franfais. He did his work standing at a large
high desk. He drew from memory, but with the aid of casts of
arms, legs, necks, etc. He was always bewailing the times we lived
in, for he belonged to what I used to call the 'generation of
grumblers'.

"On the other hand, what times those were. Do you remember
the Chat Noir cabaret, with Willette's famous painting Farce
Domine on the ceiling; and all our friends there, including Lau-
trec? . . ."

TOUCHAGUES

For all his dark face and high cheek-bones and chameleon-like
eyes, Touchagues was neither Hungarian nor Mongolian. He
came from Toulon, via Cannes; and almost immediately he

Touchagues: Self-portrait

arrived in Paris he found his niche in the Rue de la Paix, in the
salons and dressing-rooms of the mannequins, or "models", as

LITHOGRAPHERS AND ENGRAVERS 247

they are called nowadays. He usually lunched at the Cabaret, or
at Berkeley's.

He was truly bewildered by all the models and women customers.
So much the better for him,, if he was!

Just as Soutine abstained from meat in order to paint it more
sensually, I imagine that Touchagues remained chaste the better
to savour visually the delights of the breasts, legs and hips that
were continually being displayed before him.

I once went with him on a trip to Italy, which he was visiting
for the first time, and I tried in vain to get him to look at the
old palaces and mediaeval towers and bridges. Whenever I called
his attention to some historical site, he would invariably answer:

"Look at the way that woman walks. She moves her legs as
nervously as a cat." Or : "Just look at that young woman with her
child at that window. Watch how her stomach moves under her
red dress when she breathes. Here: hand me your pencil. If I
could only Yes, I Think I can get it. . . "

In the Shadow of Utrillo's
Tragic Drunkenness

I WANTED TO wait until now before giving an account of my
many meetings with Maurice Utrillo, a painter who was erratic
yet always himself, unrestrained yet disciplined, a bohemian yet a
furious worker; the artist who brought perspective back into
painting with a child-like naivete, whose genius was primarily
intuitive, but who painted with scientific exactitude.

Discipline was his foremost quality, even at the most difficult

periods of his life and he had many such periods, including

poverty and confinement in institutions. Yet he never abandoned

the principles of his metier, or was careless in his technique.

It is a curious fact that great artists who have been on the verge

of madness, or mortally ill, have
nevertheless been able to keep
their genius intact when at their
work-table or when painting, no
matter how disorderly or ex
hausting their lives may other
wise have been.

I shall not attempt to repeat
here all the details of a life which
has already been described so
often by others; or go over again

Utrillo at the Piano

UTRILLO'S TRAGIC DRUNKENNESS 249

the early years, spent mostly in the bistros of Montmartre, tied to
the apron-strings of his mother, Suzanne Valadon, the former
model of Degas, Lautrec and Gauguin from all of whom she
inherited a love of beautiful design and vivid colour.

Dorgeles, Carco, Pierre Mac Orlan, Andre Warnod, Armand
Ziwes, Rene Barotte, Easier, Pierre du Colombier, Ch. Terrasse,
Maximilien Gauthier, Georges Charensol, Mosellan and many
others have written of Utrillo's youth and early beginnings; of his
friendship with the masons who got him into the habit of drinking;
and how his fortunes rose in 1939, when he was awarded the Car
negie Prize; and again, in 1951, when he received the rosette of
the Legion d'Hormeur.

One wonders whether, at any stage of his life, Utrillo was ever
very far from the days when he used to make faces at passers-by
and yell,

"No, I'm not crazy. I'm just an alcoholic!"

"He would go wild," his father-in-law, the painter Andre
Utter, told me, "when he saw people sitting outside cafes; and we
had to drag Him over to the other side of the street. He was jealous
of their drinking."

His charming wife Lucie said to me not long before his
death:

"He doesn't need to drink to get tight nowadays. His imagina-
tion is enough to intoxicate him, all the more so now he has enough
to eat. For I realised that his drunkenness needed something solid
under it, so I always make Him eat first. And look at the home I
have made for him. Did he ever have one like it before? And it
wasn't old Bourdelle who arranged the villa this way. It was I,
Lucie, who did it," she insisted, with embarrassing candour. "Old
Bourdelle was a great sculptor; but the good taste and the cleanli
ness of this house are due to Lucie, and no one else."

Lucie is a plump, well-dressed woman, with eloquent eyes and
expressive hands. She always used to call the painter "my jewel of
a husband, my child husband". And he would reply, as if repeat
ing a litany, "My darling, my dear Lucie".

"There is no greater painter in the world," she would assert.

True, she should be the first to think so, but the last to say it.
Is she to be blamed or admired? She dedicated her life to the
"freak", as his father-in-law called him, and had as her reward the

250 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

satisfaction of personally exploiting (and why not?) all the advan
tages of his money and fame.

She played more the role of mother to him than nurse. She
bought his cravats, and took as much care of the "Utrillo legend"
as she did of his pocket-book.

"The master can't see you," she would tell intruders. "He's in
his oratory, saying his prayers."

The "oratory" in question ^vas a small room full to overflowing
of Joan-of-Arcs in marble, bronze, plaster, paintings, stained glass,
even in the form of picture postcards.

"I kiss all my Joan-of-Arcs several times a day," Utrillo once
informed me, adding, "It's hard work, but very holy." Even as
he was speaking, he suddenly remembered to kiss one of the
numerous medals he wore on a little chain round his neck.

Almost to the end of his life his hair was black and smooth; and
he wore his moustache in the Charlie Chaplin style.

"Tell me," he once asked in a hoarse, faltering voice, "do I look
my age? I was born in 1883, and I still haven't a single white hair.
And Fm pretty strong. Yesterday I played billiards with that big
milkman from Croissy. You ought to see what a stocky lad he is.
Well, I beat him. Have you seen my parakeets? I've got seven of
them. And we've got palm trees and magnolias and cedars that my
Lucie ordered from the Midi. I didn't care how much she had to
give for them."

He smiled, but did not try to hide the habitual look of melan
choly that lurked in his light blue eyes.

On that occasion I went over to examine one of his frescoes,
which covered the entire wall of his living-room.

"That's the Montmartre Jungle, the whole Jungle done from
memory," Lucie told me; "from the Sacre Coeur to the 'Lapin-
Agile'. It's just as good as his Montmagny period or his 'white'
period, don't you think?"

"All my periods are good," put in Utrillo. "Just now I'm paint
ing in new orange tones, with lighter and lighter greens, and work
ing in one thin layer over another. But you've got to know how to
use it. I've achieved a euphoria of colours that ignorant people
dislike. People are always wanting painters to do something new,
and yet they prefer their earlier work. Why? As if their older
canvases weren't 'new' at the time they were painted! As if my

UTRILLQ'S TRAGIC DRUNKENNESS 251

present canvases won't be c old 5 some day! I'm very proud of
having been given the Carnegie Prize for a picture I did in 1938.
But if I were a collector, I should want to exchange all my earlier
canvases for those Fm doing now. 93

And how did Utrillo paint?

There are very few who ever saw him at work; for he liked to be
alone, in a state of ecstasy bordering on a trance, with no one look
ing on just like his mother Suzanne Valadon. I remember once
going to see her with some American friends who wanted to buy
one of her pictures, or at any rate talk to her. There was no one at
home when we knocked at the door of her house in the rue Cortot.
We were told we should find her in a little wine-shop at the corner
of the street. And there, huddled on a cane chair at a table, was an
old woman with grey hair done in a little bun on top of her head,
her heavy-lidded eyes peering out through steel-rimmed glasses,
dressed in a jacket and a blue and white apron.

One of my American friends went up to her and said,

"Pardon me, Madame, but can you tell me if Madame Valadon
is here?"

"Madame Valadon? What do you want her for?"

"We should like to talk to her."

"Yes? Well, you can talk to me."

I came forward then, and introduced everyone.

"My friends would like " I began.

"Oh, yes," she answered, "The Americans don't buy anything.
They just come to see you."

"Yes, but if they're friends "

She got up, and we followed her. She took us to her house,
pulled a large key out from under her apron, led us up a narrow
wooden staircase, and opened a door. We entered a big square
studio, with a view of the grey plain to the north.

"That's the landscape poor Georges Michel, the first Mont-
martre painter, used to paint. He died in poverty in 1843. Almost
all the Montmartre painters died in poverty, even in those days.
You want to see my pictures? What for? I know you didn't come
to buy anything from us. Maurice's canvases? You don't want
much, do you? Come along; I must go back downstairs. Have
you seen enough? No, none of that is for sale: they're souvenirs.
Come this way. My apron's undone; it's lucky I discovered it. I

252 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

mustn't ruin what's left of my appearance. Look out for that
second step."

*****

How did Utrillo paint?

Petrides, Utrillo's art dealer, used to take the artist into the
woods in his car. Maurice would choose a site, and, with ruler and
compasses, draw meticulously inside the car, which was fitted up
like a film studio.

By way of contrast I remember Vlaminck, with his nose in a
muffler, his feet in sabots and his sabots in the snow, brushing in
with heavy, careful strokes his wonderful landscapes, as romantic
as those of a Courbet or a Ruysdael, but entirely his own in their
lofty conception. I recall the poor, half-mad Modigliani out in his
shirt-sleeves in the Montmartre winter; and Utrillo, too, at one
time, his nose and fingers red with cold, numbly gripping his brush
as he shivered in a village street. He certainly had a right to the
car he had "earned" for his art dealer who loved him, understood
him and cared for him.

First, Utrillo would trace with long, straight lines his perspec
tive scheme in his big sketch-book, then put in, as he worked from
the ground up to the sky, the thick lines of the trees, tapering off
the branches and rubbing in the leaves lightly. His lips would
contract when he was concentrating on what he was doing; but his
fingers remained calm and sure in their touch.

In the evening (but only after a glass of red wine, of course)
Utrillo would prepare his canvas himself, making his ground with a
base produced by mixing all the scrapings on his palette together;
this gave a fine unity to the whole canvas, from the sky down to the
foreground.

The next morning, when the canvas was almost dry, he would
take a heavy black pencil and draw with the utmost precision the
smallest details, even a lamp-post, which would look afterwards as
if it had been done with brush-strokes.

Then he would set about preparing his palette. The colours,
the contrasts, which he wanted were already part of him; and his
palette would, therefore, remain astonishingly "clean".

He used zinc-white, not flake-white.

"Look," he would say, "I had to pay fifty francs a kilo for this
white, and it used to cost two and a half francs !"

UTRILLO'S TRAGIC DRUNKENNESS 253

Next he would choose yellow-ochre, burnt-sienna, cobalt-blue,
vermilion and pure emerald-green.

What a simple vocabulary for such richness !

And, in contrast to Corofs principles, he would always start with
the sky to establish his values.

"Lucie dear," he would call, "come and look at these values!"
And he would begin his work rapturously, without further hesita

tion.

Utrillo always cleaned and prepared his sable brushes himself,
and lined them up on the table. There were fifteen of them; in the
same way, the figures in his pictures were always an uneven num
ber, generally five.

He would put aside his original design and nearly always work
from memory, rarely making use of a reference-note of any kind.
As a rule, he turned out at least one canvas a week.

As a relic of his bohemian days, he used to get up late, about
eleven-thirty; there were prayers until twelve-thirty; then con
versation with his dear Lucie, followed by lunch.

Like Rodin, Utrillo was fond of tripe a la mode de Caen', but
he had a special weakness for Russian squirrel, roast chicken and
garlic sausage. No coffee. A Manila cigar. And so to work.

At half-past four he would often fetch himself a glass of red
wine from the dining-room, and return to work on his canvas by
artificial light.

"He is so sure of his colours, of his values, of just what he wants
to do/' Lucie would boast, "that he could almost paint in the dark!
The inner light: that is the whole truth. . . ."

They usually dined at nine, either in their villa Le Vesinet or out
somewhere, often with friends. When he was in company, Utrillo
scorned compliments, unless they came from one of his neighbours
or an impoverished artist.

"Because," he explained, "if he is poor and not jealous, then it

is all right."

He would grumble when people reproached him for not being

pleasant to this or that person.

"They all say the same thing !" he complained; and an ugly look
would come into his eyes, and he would frown. He would fidget
with his hands, put his elbows on the table and sulk. But after the
dessert he was "allowed" to sit down at the piano. Then the

254 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

famous painter, who growled when people complimented him on
his pictures, would smile beatifically, glance from right to left,
launch forth into a rendering of The Moonlight Sonata with one
finger, cover up his mistakes, improvise, accompany himself in
syncopated time, and think himself in the Seventh Heaven of de
light whenever anyone applauded, or when the proprietor of the
bistro said to him,

"Go on, Monsieur Maurice. You're a great musician."
He would rise modestly from the piano, serene once more, and
mumble a few verses. For he had a penchant for poetry, and had
written a poem about his mother, another about Joan of Arc and
a third about Modigliani. And when he pronounced the latter's
name, he would say:

"We had our differences, but he was a god. May the Lord keep
his soul in grace. . . . When we met for the first time, back in those
bohemian days, to prove our admiration for each other we could
think of nothing better to do than to exchange overcoats. Then we
got drunk. Then we fought. And, finally, we were found lying
almost naked in the gutter because thieves had stolen practically
everything from us."

I never saw Utrillo in a more complete state of bliss than on the
evening of the private view of an exhibition of flower-pieces by
Suzanne Valadon and himself, put on by Petrides in his new gal
lery in the Avenue Matignon. Everyone in the art world was there.
Utrillo had come, accompanied by his priest the "guardian of his
conscience", as he called him who restrained him in his drinking.

"Just one more glass. Father, so that I can explain better what a
wonderful artist my mother was."

"Very well, cher Maitre"

Scorning the champagne and the fruit juice that were being
served, Utrillo slowly sipped the cheap red wine that had been
specially provided for him, and then he led us to the pictures.

"Look, look," he said. "My flowers are nothing compared to
my mother's."

The two artists' paintings had been hung alternately on the
walls. Utrillo's lilies, poppies, corn-flowers and carnations seemed
as if casually and capriciously tossed on to the canvas against their

UTRILLO'S TRAGIC DRUNKENNESS 255

solid backgrounds; whereas Suzanne Vakdon's pansies, prim
roses and anemones looked serious and demure in their circles of
light.

"They're different; but why should one be better than the
other?"

At this, Utrillo's mouth twisted in anger and his eyes blazed.
He grasped each of us by the sleeve in turn, and shunted us from
one canvas to the next.

"She had a better sense of design, of form, of volume!" he de
clared. "We should get down on our knees. . . ."

It was a far cry from the rows between mother and son in the
little bistro on the corner of the rue des Saules, where the old jade
used to splutter so hard that the spray splashed her spectacles,
while she rumpled her hair with one hand and her apron with the
other. But they would always end by kissing and making up and,
of course, sharing a good bottle of wine.

That night, as we were all gathered together, Utrillo suddenly
raised his hand and asked for silence. He wanted to read us a
poem he had written for the occasion in honour of his mother:

Creature d : 'elite et de bonte imbue
En ce monde ellefut Pdpre verite nue.
LOTS, prodiguant le bien d'un sur discernement
Aux humbles accordait son parfait denouement.

Las 1 le sort jut cruel a Vame disparue

Qui de mille tourments fut la proie ingenue

Me cherissant toujours de son doux cceur aimant . . .

"And Honegger is going to put the poem to music!"

Utrillo the poet; Utrillo the pianist. . . . !

When the evening was over and the last cocktails drunk, and
the beautiful ladies and their escorts had departed in their cars* we
found ourselves alone under the lovely chestnut trees in the Avenue
Matignon. Feeling somewhat lachrymose from his red wine, Mau
rice surrendered to his sadness and, putting his hand on my
shoulder, said,

"I'm a poor sort of chap, aren't I?"

"You're a splendid fellow," I assured him,

"Nevertheless, a poor sort. . . ."

256 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Out of the tail of his eye he watched the last of the visitors
drive away. They had come there to fete him or, as he said bitterly,
"to make my canvases go up in price".

As his wife joined us, he added quickly,

"Now Pm not a poor sort of chap any more, thanks to Lucie."

But the expression in his eyes did not change. He wasn't
fooled.

All at once he said to her,

"Leave us alone." And though Lucie still followed us, he went
on:

"I want to like everybody now even Utter, who so often gave
me good advice. Let's walk a little faster. My wife doesn't like me

to say so, but I shall, just the same, because " He cast a hasty

glance over his shoulder, and took my arm again.

Poor, great man. . . .

Yes, poor, great man.

Some years later I chanced to run into him in the lobby of the
Hotel Majestic in Cannes. His wife was in evening dress, and he
had on a dinner-jacket. She was drinking a glass of champagne;
he was having his usual red wine, but in a crystal goblet. I sat
down with them.

"Just one more glass," he begged, timidly.

"No. And it's not because your friend is with us. You've had
your ration, you know. If you take any more, you'll be complaining
of feeling ill again tonight."

Maurice looked at me.

"Do let him have just a spot," I said. "It won't do him any
harm, and it will make him happy."

"No. He'll want still more," replied Mme. Utrillo. But she
poured him out a few drops, nevertheless, while the poor wretch
gave me a grateful look.

A crowd of fashionable people were moving about in the lobby.

"What a pity there's no photographer here to take a picture of
you two," said Lucie.

"That's easy enough to arrange," I assured her. "All I have to
do is to call up the Avenir de Cannes"

"Oh, please do."

UTRILLO'S TRAGIC DRUNKENNESS 257

I went out to the bar, called up the offices of the paper, and was
told that a photographer would be round in five minutes. But as I
was triumphantly returning to our table, a horrible spectacle
greeted my eyes; for there was Utrillo, foaming at the mouth, his
eyes starting from his head, being dragged to the lift. The minute
he saw me, he shook a trembling finger at me.

"Go away!" he raged. "You're no true friend. You've been
betraying me for the last forty years. I don't like false people !"

"Quick. Quick. Get him into the lift," said Lucie; then added,
raising her voice, " with a bottle of Bordeaux."

"But what have I done?" I asked her, when Utrillo was finally
"stowed away".

"Nothing," she replied. "It's just that he saw you go into the
bar to telephone, and thought you were going to have a drink
without him."

Two Methods in Oils

GOERG

Vv HEN YOU RING the doorbell at the home of Edouard Goerg
(who paints Hoffman-like figures with brilliantly lacquered faces),
a valet in an immaculate white coat opens the door and takes you
to the artist's studio through a hall decorated with Negro masks.
There you are welcomed by a man wearing a pair of sandals, a
loose velvet jacket and a raw-silk shirt with an open collar, above
which appears the most smiling face imaginable. It is a healthy
pink, and the eyes are light and sparkling behind the spectacles,
while the domed forehead is surrounded by blond curls. Goerg is
at once joined by his wife, a Botticelli-like creature with eyes even
lighter than his. This sylph makes an astonishing contrast to the
round-headed, round-eyed, doll-like figures which look out from
Goerg's canvases, holding flaming bouquets of flowers, or shrink
ing in fright from the gentlemen who would be grotesque if they
didn't look so convincing.

"I am becoming more human, much pleasanter," he says.

"Do you think so? In any case, your colour has improved, and
that's what matters most."

"Yes, that's the most important thing. There's been too much
'sketching' these last few years; personally, I want to paint in oil,
using no turpentine, and explore all the possibilities of that
medium, from the most fluid transparency to the most solid sort of
pigment."

"But the man in the street that is, the average man who visits
the art galleries is apt to ask: 'Why do you paint these fantastic,
unreal figures?' Don't answer as Rouault or Matisse did, and tell
me it's because you see them that way. There's some good reason
or explanation, just as there is with Chagall."

"Yes, perhaps. But I have no idea what it is. I was born in
Sydney, but I'm of pure Champagne stock. In everything I paint
I am seeking.

TWO METHODS IN OILS 259

"At the beginning of my career I wanted to escape from what we
all considered then a horribly bourgeois atmosphere, and for a
while I thought of becoming an actor. I was haunted by the faces
of two people: Little Tich and Grock. For a rime I was a pupil of a
painter named Lauth, who had married Aurore, George Sand's
grand-daughter, whose round pink face and brown hair contrasted
sharply with the velvet collar of her dress and her jade buttons.
That, perhaps, made an impression on my painter's subconscious,
even after I had left Lauth, who wanted to make a society painter
of me. You can imagine what I should have made of my sitters.
But I kept working away. My father once said to me, 'You want
to be a painter so that you can spend your days in cafes with a
model on your knees', and that produced a violent reaction in me.
I took a definite dislike to cafes, though I couldn't do without
models. In addition to that, I went on a most fantastic journey. I
was in love with a young woman who had gone to live in India, and
I followed her there, although I was under age, and had no pass
port and almost no money. When I came back, I entered Maurice
Denis's painting-class at Hanson's. He made us paint from
imagination or memory, just as Gauguin, his teacher, had made
him. He talked very little. We all dreaded Saturday, which was
correction-day. I finally summoned up courage to show him a
large canvas I had done, a sort of synthesis of Paris and its 'fauna'.
After all, Maurice Denis was the painter of the ceiling in the
Champs Elysees Theatre, and the author of Theories, which con
tained the famous maxim: 'Remember that before a picture is a
naked woman or a landscape, or some anecdote or other, it is first
and foremost a plane surface. . . .' So I waited, trembling, for his
verdict. Denis singled out a corner of my canvas, and, pointing to
a woman's foot, he said, 'That shoe isn't bad'. A teacher little
knows what harm a remark like that can do, and how long the
harm lasts.

"For that reason, in the course I am now giving at the Grande
Chaumiere, I am always careful what I say to even the least
talented of my pupils. But I have known many older men who
have been helpful: Laboureur, for instance, who introduced me to
the world of engraving. For it is a world in itself, I assure you.

"Do you remember the meals we all used to have together?
Pastin used often to be there."

260

FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

"Yes 5 with a bowler hat on his curly head."
"With a tulle veil fastened to it, like an Englishwoman in Cairo.
But we never dared to smile. What an odd man: very difficult to
figure out. And always followed by a group of admirers. A woman
left her husband one day in the hope of converting Pascin. The
young painters pestered him too. *Am I a good painter?' one of
his compatriots once asked him. *Am I ?' he retorted. At times he
would take flight, and cross frontiers and oceans, trying to get

away from people and places; he kept
running away, always fleeing from some-
thing, until he made his final tragic
escape. . . .

"We'll skip the war of 1914: five years
of mud, filth, glory, heroism much of
it in vain, alas. Let's talk of painting
instead. I give precedence to expression;
to beautiful pigment. Among the painters,
I like Rebeyrolles, who is worth watching,
and Lorjou, with all his grandeur and
naivete. Lorjou seems to think that he's
the first artist since Goya. Villon? Well,
yes. He has become too much a man of
'taste'. His subtlety lessens his value for

those who can't grasp the richness underlying his apparent timidity.
Derain? People don't do him justice. Like his friendly rival
Vlaminck, he is one of the greatest painters of our time. I very
much liked a young painter named Gruber, a pupil of Jacques-
Emile Blanche. He knew very little about the art of the past, but
what tremendous power there was in him. I talked to him about
Griinewald, and he went all the way to Colmar to see his work. He
was entranced by it."

We resumed our discussion of Goerg's own pictures, and the
artist argued lucidly, while his "sylph" stood beside us, rolling
Caporals.

"I have tried to express the essence or spirit of human beings in
plastic terms. I am accused of being a 'literary' painter. I don't
give a damn. After all, poetry and imagination aren't such bad
things in painting. You can't escape them any more than you can
escape your own times. Not one of us is entirely free. There are

Goerg : Self-portrait

TWO METHODS IN OILS 261

all sorts of influences obvious ones, and secret, mysterious, un
known ones. And we are forced from time to time to borrow from
others or even from ourselves. My figures often resemble each
other, don't they? Well, they're my children, so it's hardly
surprising."

YVES BRAYER

Yves Brayer's success was assured within the space of a few
years. Is it because his canvases are almost conventional, despite
the fact that his palette range is quite his own? Does he perhaps
represent a certain tendency among the young to try to satisfy the
taste of the public? In his clear and intelligible landscapes, there is
a tempered audacity, a technique that is both austere and appeal
ing, and a reaction against what today may seem objectionable in
other, apparently more daring, painters.

Yves Brayer is a big, blond fellow, who still wears a little beard
that frames his mouth, the collier de barbe so popular at the Ecole
des Beaux Arts. His wife, who is tall and straight like an Ancient
Greek statue, is named Hermione, so he has every reason for re
turning to the classical tradition. His paintings, done in light
ochres, with bare foregrounds almost entirely devoid of detail, his
sweeping horizontal lines, and his palette, on which the cold tones
often predominate, have all caused him to be accused of monotony,
in spite of his technique, which is so perfect as to be sometimes
disconcerting.

But in his studio in the rue Monsieur-le-Prince, not far from the
one La Gandara had, I saw huge, vital, chaotic, tortured composi
tions, with houses and buildings hurled, as though by a storm,
against the dense skies of the background.

When I asked him what these pictures were, he answered,

"My rough drafts."

"Your what?"

"Yes, just that. I know that nearly all painters start out with a
small canvas and end up with something vast, but I do just the
opposite. I brush in a big canvas out of doors or in my studio, and
then reduce it to the smaller kind of pictures I've shown you."

"But my dear Brayer," I said, "these large canvases that you call
'rough drafts* are really finished works, and to me infinitely more

262 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

interesting than your cold, condensed, geometrical arrangements,
which are much too perfect. Your so-called rough drafts, which
you do in one session, have real resonance ! Each colour pleases the
eye, each perspective delights it, each contrast attracts it. This
Siena church, here, looks like an immense whiteness placed upon
the city's wounds, whereas in the perfect painting it is only a per
fect church. The larger version is really 'inhabited' : its windows

Yves Brayer : Self-portrait

are open, its campanile reaches towards the clouds like an out
stretched arm. It all speaks, sings, even shouts, at times; it stirs
and moves us. The light effects are all varied; each detail smiles at
us ; the distances call to us ; and we actually 'live' in the foreground
of your picture."

"I rather thought so too. But then I wasn't sure. . . ."

"Oh, that eternal doubt, that everlasting inability of artists to
trust the inspiration of their own souls ! How infinitely more
human, more alive and true are these larger paintings !"

"Well, I thought of including that canvas in my show in Lon
don. But I felt it my duty to react against the disorder that pre
vailed between the two World Wars, against improvisation,
against "

"When improvisation produces that?"

Then Brayer brought out of his racks a picture of a skinned
lamb, all dark and bleeding; a nude whose muscles seemed about

TWO METHODS IN OILS 263

to burst through the skin; scenes of the Camargue ("where nothing
ever happens", but on what a plane of despair !) ; views of Rome and
Venice, in which the touches of ivory black were like iron masks
on tender flesh; and Spanish cities smelling of fire.

"You were pregnant with all that, you had to give birth to it, and
yet you hid it? Or you made one of those perfect paintings out of
it. ... Oh, Jivaro of painting! You reduce your works to such an
extent that you almost desiccate them."

Protests from Hermione. I have gone too far, of course. But
the artist's gaze wanders from one canvas to another. He shakes
his head. Tomorrow he will do just as he likes. . . .

And yet he had been brought up in a hard school. He had been
taught not only by the kindly Lucien Simon, but also by Forain.
The young Brayer had often gone to study under that ferocious
draughtsman.

Once Forain asked him,

"What are you doing at the moment?"

"A portrait of a model," Brayer replied.

"A portrait of a model?" echoed Forain, his lip curling sarcastic
ally. "Indeed? It is possible to do a portrait of your concierge, or
of some passer-by, or of a laundress; but not of a 'model'. A model
has no soul any more than a lady'. A model is only a body, a
subject for study, an image; not a portrait."

Brayer smiled as he told the story. "I was rather angry with him.
But Forain was right."

Forain by Sem

The Salad Generation

BERNARD BUFFET

I>ERNARD BUFFET: THE infant prodigy of post-war painting;
winner of the Critics' Award in 1948; and fought over ever since
by collectors and museums all over the world.

And yet> how harsh his work is: a desperate "aestheticism",
desperate in its stiffness, its discipline, its ugliness, in the bourgeois
sense of the word. But it is faultless in its architecture, and when
he suddenly enriches his vast compositions with immense sombre
tones, which enable him to escape from the cage which he has
v built round himself remarkable in its technique.

More than all the other young painters even those who seek a
new form of interpretation in the "abstract" or non-figurative he
is that rare artist who throws himself headlong into the fight. The
expressions of admiration and abuse written in the visitors' book
at his exhibitions are reminiscent of the controversies that raged
before 1914 around the innovators of those days.

Certain critics, when they see his elongated, tragic faces, so de
void of any romanticism, have gone so far as to call them "inmates
of a concentration-camp"; this only makes the painter laugh.

For the creator of these works from an icy Hell is a smiling
young man, with sparkling eyes and a fresh complexion. He is
quite slim (though not as thin as the figures he paints I); and, like
a former Prince of Wales, orders his clothes from Sigvald's or
Dorian Guy's (which has often made me want to psychoanalyse
him).

He was born in Paris. In 1944 ^ e studied at the Beaux Arts,
under a teacher named Narbonne, who was "intelligent, and liked
Picasso, but had nothing to teach".

"I learned far more in the evening courses in the Place des
Vosges from a teacher from the Ville de Paris by the name of
Darbefeuille, who showed me how to draw 'honestly'. I was

THE SALAD GENERATION 265

already interested in the architecture of a picture, the rigid lines
which give it its spirit, its balance and its buoyancy. I put my
figures in and, of course, their construction harmonises of its own
accord with that of the picture. Was I interested in the 'Golden
Section'? Oh, it quite excited me. But I didn't use it. Taste and
instinct are sufficient. Otherwise, what prison bars those numbers
are, no matter how enticing they may be. You ask about Abstrac
tion. I have a horror of the Menessier, Lapique and Pignon kind of
thing, and especially of odd literary titles given to works of art
not that that is anything new: Picabia was doing it in 1901 . . .
Hartung? Yes, his black lines give me a certain feeling. The same
holds true of several painters from Pierre's gallery. I liked the
Cubists; and Juan Gris's reserve; and La Fresnaye's stylisation.
Where is the new painting going? Or, rather, what is its ftiture? I
believe in the future of a kind of painting that is less 'debauched':
I believe in more careful drawing. I think that David should be
rehabilitated though not if it produces what I have seen at cer
tain Salons. (We won't mention any names.) That's a real cata
strophe. And so is this idea of going back to Ingres. IntheMusee
de 1' Armee, which is nothing but a magnificent collection of odds
and ends (I'm speaking from the point of view of 'painting'), there
is an emperor by Ingres which would make you prefer any other
painter, especially the work of one man whom I admire: Gros.
The Spaniards? I don't care for them so much. Piero della Fran-
cesca? Not much. Raphael? No. El Greco? Too mannered."

"Well, in heaven's name, whom do you like, Buffet?"

"Apart from Gros Courbet, Degas, Derain, Vlaminck, even
Gruber; and also those I mentioned before; and, above all, the
Avignon Pieta"

Why hadn't we thought of it before? That is the key to Buffet's
work.

"Not entirely," Buffet said. "I painted in my present style be
fore I ever saw it. I use as few colours as possible, on a white or
grey ground. Black and zinc-white or flake-white. Recently I've
added ochres afcd earth colours, cadmium-reds, lemon chrome-
yellows. I like that very cold colour."

In three months Buffet painted the ten enormous panels he
showed in his last exhibition, with stiff tapestries hanging over
divans, on which his amazing figures lie, their flattened stomachs

266 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

balancing their long faces. He worked directly on the canvas with
out any preliminary sketches, putting in his main values > the har
monies of which he had planned in his mind before he started.
The encircling black lines round the subjects were added after
wards.

"Certain canvases 'come along' of themselves; others, never.
Then for a while I'm in despair, like Gros. I like drawing, you un
derstand. That is why I prefer^ for example, Valadon to Utrillo.
But expressiveness also moves me, as in Van Gogh's work, and
Soutine's, although their point of view is the opposite of mine; or,
perhaps, because of it. The Impressionists, on the contrary,
scarcely move me at all. Cezanne's Baigneuses, yes : the unchanging
aspect of the subject. For the subject does count, of course after
the actual painting, after the architecture of the work."

And he smiled, this painter of iron cages, this young million
aire, whose brushes had earned millions of francs by the time he
was twenty-five. On that very day he was calmly awaiting the visit
of an eminent member of the Government. . . .

Bernard Buffet: Self-portrait

The Sculptors

RODIN

1 HE CLOCK IN the tower of Saint-Germain-des-Pres struck two.
I had not yet had lunch. There was no restaurant open in the
neighbourhood except one of those "chain" eating-places to which
the well-known dandy Alexandre Duval gave his name.

I casually entered the half-deserted place. In one corner the
waitresses were going over their accounts. Near one of the windows
was a solitary diner, a robust old man with a wrinkled forehead, a
flowing beard and a napkin tied round his neck like a baby's bib.

Whenever the napkin slipped out of place, one could see the
tiny rosette of the Legion d'Hormeur on the silk lapel of his black
frock-coat.

I went towards him. There was something familiar about that
square forehead beneath the hair en brosse; the large, full eyes be
neath lowered lids, like those one sees in paintings by Filippo
Lippi; that pink skin; that nose, which was slender at the bridge
and broad at the end; and that wavy beard, with amber glints in it.

"Why, it's Rodin!"

The diner raised his head. From under the light-coloured lashes
the clear blue eyes gazed out at me. Rodin tightened his napkin,
held out his hand and, without further preamble, said:

"I often come here. I don't care for the larger restaurants. You
can't get broth in them any more. And I love broth. I like the
old-fashioned soups : beef-soup, without that burnt taste or arti
ficial colouring. That's the kind of dish I used to have when I was
young. And cabbage-soup. And bread-soup. Ah, the virtues of a
good bread-soup, thick and digestible and health-giving! A
bread-soup is a panacea. It is a national monument. And that is,

too " he added, as the waitress brought him a dish of tripe.

The sculptor's smile became positively Gargantuan. Pointing to
the tripe, he went on:

"Doesn't that look like stone, the stone of cathedrals? The

268 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

cathedral of Beauvais, for instance. Do you know the cathedral of
Beauvais? Few people do. Yet it towers over France, over the
whole world. The deep, warm colour of this tripe, with its cre-
nellations, makes me think of the cathedral of Beauvais."

What an epicure, Rodin, and how whimsical !

The sculptor then ate a whiting cooked in wine, and a dish of
stewed prunes ; and, after a half-bottle of Graves, he half-closed
his eyes as he sipped a well-sweetened cup of coffee.

When we had finished lunch we strolled along in the mellow
sunshine under the leafy chestnut trees, which held up their flowers
like tiny candles. Then we got into his waiting car and drove off to
Meudon, Rodin expressing his approval or disapproval of different
places as we went along.

"The Place de la Concorde has beautiful proportions, although
the little columns are somewhat squat. The roof of the Grand
Palais is horrible : it looks like an Arab tent. There shouldn't be
anything in cities but domes, like Santa Sofia. I make an excep
tion for the Medici palace, of course, and a few fifteenth- and six
teenth-century houses."

Every other minute he would return to the phrase "the propor
tions are beautiful". And he would describe a circle in the air with
his hand before bringing it back to rest on his knee.

From time to time he would take a boiled sweet out of his pocket
and munch it. Then his face would become still. Under the heavy,
arched brows, behind his glasses, his sea-blue eyes remained fixed.
The large nose stood out firmly between his slightly flushed cheek
bones. Only his white beard stirred majestically in the wind.

His left hand, resting on the handle of his umbrella, twitched
and stretched, as if too confined by its grey glove. His ungloved
right hand, the fingers of which were powerful at the base, rather
thick at the joints and squarish at the tips, was still.

Our first stop was at the Depot des Marbres, where Rodin picked
up some mail and got back into the car. Glancing at a copy of the
Courrier de la Presse he was carrying, I asked the artist if he read
everything that was written about him and his work.

"I certainly do," he replied. "The press is a very great force.
And it is only because of the liberal press that I have been able to
live. It has kept me from being completely crushed by the
academic art that has always oppressed me, and still does. Yes, it

THE SCULPTORS 269

is the press that has enabled me to live. And it is thanks to the
press that my Thinker stands in front of the Pantheon today. It is
placed a little too high, but I shall have it lowered."

Rodin's eyes sparkled, grew malicious; and he began to remi
nisce about his career.

"At first I was far ahead of the ideas current at the time. I was
so much in advance that I and all those like me were treated as
madmen. It took 'them' forty years to understand me. And now
academic art, which fought against me and plagued my life, wants
to give me a seat in the Academy. I am above bearing a grudge. I
don't have to revenge myself, even by showing contempt. I shall
accept the flower or the palm which the conquered enemy wants to
offer me. Actually, my great official victory was the unveiling of
my Thinker. You were present, weren't you? We went back to my
house together. Do you remember the fine solemnity of the occa
sion, and the splendid figure of Madame Weber, with the peplum
of her Greek dress and her bare arms outlined against the colon
nade? Since that day I don't believe a single soul has shown hosti
lity to me."

We arrived at Meudon, where the land, with its winding foot
paths, slopes gently down to the Seine. The dark, straight pop
lars are sharply silhouetted against a background of paler trees, the
hills are tinged with red, and the woods are suddenly cut by the
black line of a train.

"Don't the trains worry you?" I asked, as we walked out on to
the terrace.

"No. They are like enormous pythons boring through the forest,
diving into the greenery, reappearing* and diving again. . . . This
way."

We went round the summer-house and past a colonnade, behind
which were numerous white forms in marble and stone. In a pond
nearby several swans were lazily floating, pecking at the golden
leaves that fluttered past them.

Rodin led the way to his studio and > installing himself in a
large arm-chair, sat there musing with half-closed eyes, his hand
stroking his beard, a satisfied expression on his face.

"People used to plague me about the silliest trifles," he said,
"without understanding the meaning of my work. The public and
some of their servile critics have reproached me all too often for

270 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

exhibiting sculptures of separate parts of the human body. I have
even been the victim of impudent cartoonists. Couldn't those
people understand anything about sculpture or the studies for
sculpture? Couldn't they realise that an artist has to work just as
hard to make a hand or a torso expressive as he does a face? And
that it is perfectly logical for an artist to exhibit a single arm instead
of a c bust', which arbitrarily has no arms or legs or abdomen? The
thing to aim for is expression and proportion. The means of
achieving it is by the modelling; for it is through the modelling
that flesh is made to live, to vibrate, to fight, to suffer. . . . But
enough of that. The truth will prevail, or is beginning to prevail.
The truth will always prevail. Look there, for instance "

I raised my eyes. In the autumn sky a spot of gold near a white
cloud began to grow larger. It became a line, then a sail, turning
alternately from grey to white and from white to black, as it was
borne into the shadow or into the light, on the waves of the wind.
The rigid wings, the roaring propeller, seemed to form an aureole
of grey around the breast of the bird.

"There is Leonardo's dream going by," murmured Rodin.

The plane passed over us, without even casting a shadow.

"That," resumed the artist, "is the yearning of a whole people,
which has taken shape in the sky. It makes me very happy. Those
planes going by are a Renaissance. They have the greatest kind of
beauty; that is to say, the beauty of courage and sacrifice. Even
before the War the aeroplane had rehabilitated the country in the
eyes of its citizens. It had restored their pride and confidence. It
had kindled the spark of ambition in the eyes of the young, making
them resolve to conquer the clouds. I have often talked with
aviators, and what pleased me most about them was that they
spoke of their 'birds' just as engineers do of their locomotives, or as
real sculptors do of the texture of their marble. And for that rea
son, because they were, in a sense, fellow-artists, I regarded these
young men as if they, too, were creators and demi-gods. Formerly,
I used to wonder what it was that enabled one to recognise this
glorious fraternity. But now I know. It is something which, since
the days of antiquity, has united heroes and artists. It was this
surge of patriotism, a surge of ideas like upraised swords, which
sent a thrill through the whole of France. Indeed, at the most
terrible moment of danger, the artist gripped his pencil or his pen

THE SCULPTORS 271

more firmly while he sought inspiration in the skies of France.
And as love for his country grew inside him, the aviator felt his
wings grow larger too."

Rodin fell silent for a moment, his head thrown back, his eyes
fixed on the distant blue. Then he gently took me by the arm.

"Come with me: I want to show you my biplane. You will be
the first to see it."

We went back through the studio where stood the slender,
white figures of young heroes : Leonidas, Icarus,, Apollo., La Patrie,
Inspiration, The Sun. We threaded our way among fawn-like
nymphs of marble, with limbs contorted in a frenzy of passion; un
finished busts, whose lips already seemed to smile, the eyes to
speak. Presently I found myself in a large room containing only a
single monument. It was a bare column, crowned by an elon
gated sphere, which seemed to tremble under the touch of some
unseen being.

You must know Houdon's Diana, poised on one toe, so alive in
her grace that you almost expect her to come running up to you.
You must often have seen Giovanni da Bologna's Mercury, with
wings on his heels and arm outstretched. You must at least have
heard of the wonderful Nike of Paeonius, in front of which virgins
were warned to hold their breath.

But if only you had seen Rodin's Biplanel

It is composed of the figures of two vigorous young men in
marble, curved like reeds. The light is reflected on their foreheads,
which are lifted towards the sky; it plays over the torsos, with their
broad yet subtle modelling, and spreads out across the wings. The
two figures are back to back, one foot just barely touching the
sphere.

As for the wings, you might think, perhaps, that Rodin would
have made them as they look in real life. You might imagine them
widely extended, in the classical style. Not at all. They are partly
folded, the feathers quivering and ruffled, the frames intermingled,
almost awkwardly, but beating energetically; pushing, aiding,
shattering each other. One wing is drooping, as if broken; and
I was actually surprised not to see the feathers falling.

The studio, the walls, the ceiling everything disappeared
before those twin shapes of white. And from the two vibrant,
ecstatic bodies, so frenzied in their ardour that their arms bent

272 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

back to touch their heels, the blue air seems to bound and re
bound. . . . The air shimmers at the tips of the wings, at the young
men's finger-tips. From wherever I looked, the group on the
column seemed to be in flight, harmonious as light.

Standing beside me, calm and smiling, Rodin changed from his
frock-coat into a smock, clothing himself in whiteness also. And
only a short while before he had been extolling the virtues of
beef-stew!

When he returned from Rome, I went to see him at his new
studio in his home, the Hotel Biron. On one side of the large en
trance-hall there was an amazing bronze doe, on which sat a squat
Nippon god, laughing with his mouth and his eyes and his ears.
And the deer's horns cast a tracery of shadow on the white wood
work.

A little further on, framed by the wide arch of the window, a
nude Eve, with bowed head, was weeping her eternal sorrow into
her lovely arms, in front of the melancholy garden with its bare
trees.

On the floor were several hollowed-out stone basins, in which
fawn-like, full-bodied nymphs twisted their marble torsos. And
there on a cloth-wrapped pedestal, like some flower coming out of
the ground, was a radiant, smiling face just emerging from a block
of stone which still bore the marks of the quarryman's pick.

The door opened, and there appeared the harassed face of Mario
Meunier, the sculptor's learned friend. I followed Meunier along
the hall and entered an even lighter room, where a thousand draw
ings were hanging on the walls in faintly gleaming, unobtrusive
frames of gold.

Meunier drew aside a screen, and I beheld the imposing
spectacle of Rodin sitting motionless, a velvet cap on his head, his
white beard rippling down his chest. His nose looked more angular
than ever, his cheeks more flushed; and his eyes gazed out serenely
but with a certain mischievousness from under his heavy brows.
Two locks of white hair had escaped from beneath the black velvet
cap. His hands rested inert on the arms of the chair. His legs
were wrapped in a wool rug from the Pyrenees.

The head was the living image of Michelangelo's Moses ; the

THE SCULPTORS 273

covering over the knees reminded me of Denys-Puech's Meis-
sonnutr.

I waited for the statue to speak, and finally it did.

"I am nailed to this chair as the result of bronchitis/* Rodin
told me. "But I'm almost better. The climate here is certainly not
as mild as it is in the country I've just left, although it did rain a
good deal there. Contrary to what people say, I was given a de
lightful welcome in Italy. I superintended the placing of my
Walking Man in the courtyard of the Farnese Palace, which is our
Embassy in Rome. Its modelling goes well with the impressive
architecture. The modelling is the dimension that really counts.
The modelling is the diapason, the proportion. It is that which
gives the 'impression 5 , much more than the height or breadth. I
am very glad that my Walking Man has been put there. 1 It was a
demonstration of something I wanted to prove. For I wanted
especially to do a modelled piece of work, a powerful example of
sculpture. It is not 'complete'. It has neither head nor arms. But
that is of little importance to artists. In commercial art they never
forget to put the arms and heads on statues, whether they sell for
five francs or ten or two thousand; and sometimes each individual
hair is shown."

Rodin's calm face with its rosy skin showed not the slightest
sign of a wrinkle. An inexpressible serenity had relaxed the
muscles of his leonine countenance. He spoke placidly, his eye
lids drooping a trifle; yet beneath their shell-like transparency his
eyes were as alert as ever.

"I looked at Rome with the eyes of a young man. I was seeing
it again; or, to be more exact, I was seeing an entirely new city.
One's first impressions fade with the years. This time I had the
profoundest impressions. And I recaptured beauty the three
most beautiful aspects of Rome.

"The first of its beauties is its antiquity, the immortal power of
which strikes deep into our hearts and eyes.

"The second, which is also very appealing in its fecundity and
richness, is the rococo style of the sixteenth and seventeenth

1 The Walking Man has since disappeared from the courtyard of the
Farnese Palace, just as the Thinker has disappeared from its emplacement
in front of the Pantheon. No one knows who took these great works or
what has become of them.

274 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

centuries. True, the size of the monuments, the bronze fasces y the
gold of the columns, never let you forget the dignity of antiquity;
but I love the rich setting, the varied shapes of the fountains, the
many palaces which make up this second of Rome's beauties.

"And the third of Rome's beauties is by no means negligible. It
is the great monument to Italian Independence by the architect
Pio Piacentini. It is not ugly from the point of view of our time;
and, although it is enormous and dominates the city, it doesn't
shock you. It represents a new trend in Italy. And the aesthetics
of the palace are very agreeable."

"And what about the fourth beauty of Italy?"

"Which one is that?"

"Futurism."

"Oh, I saw it. I saw it. Their pictures look like something out of
a child's kaleidoscope the bits of coloured glass which always
look exactly the same. That's true of Cubism, too. It is a pity.
Those young fellows must have a certain artistic temperament,
and they could put it to better use. Nowadays, when it isn't non
sense, it's simply showing off. After all, 'The Past', which some
moderns scorn, includes the Greeks and the Romans, and they
were really something. . . ."

What paradoxical blindness on the part of one who fought for
his own "too advanced art" !

"The unfortunate thing," Rodin went on, "is that there are no
crafts any more. If they still existed among the common people,
the common people would have more understanding. An old
cabinet-maker will always prefer, say, the well-turned foot of a
chest of drawers to any whole piece of furniture made for a cheap
store. In the same way, an artist prefers a well-modelled head or
arm to a complete statue of the commercial variety."

Night was falling gently over the silent formal garden: a silvery
reflection of light, dimmed by the black sky, clung wanly to the
sad branches. We looked out at the scene. The fire leaped in the
fire-place. The old Master rose to his feet abruptly. He pressed
his grave face against the window-pane, and murmured,

"It is beautiful, very beautiful. . . ."

THE SCULPTORS 275

I saw Rodin for the last time during the 1914-1918 war. The
twilight over Paris that evening had been exquisite. It is not such
an unusual phenomenon, but you have to walk across one of the
bridges over the Seine, and along the Place du Carrousel or the In-
valides Esplanade, really to appreciate it. I ran into Rodin just as
I was crossing the Esplanade.

His hand on his beard, his umbrella under his arm, his pince-nez
wobbling on his thick nose, the famous sculptor was standing
looking at the sky. Sombre violet clouds were piling up behind the
base of the Eiffel Tower, while higher up the heavens had taken on
a rosier hue. Overhead a little purple island, followed by a patch of
gold, swam slowly through the limpid blue.

"You know, in Italy," remarked Rodin, "the skies are very
beautiful, especially in Rome. But the tones are more intense. It
is only in France, in the Ile-de-France, that you see these lilac
shades, these extremely pure pinks, which blend harmoniously
with the other tones, however varied they may be. They cast an
enchantment over the whole city. Even the walls are delicately
tinted by the reflections of light. They play a ceasless, gentle game,
chasing and catching each other. They mingle without confusion,
like layers of gauze; from one end of the horizon to the other, they
play in harmony a symphony which no art, not even music, has
ever rendered."

The great artist folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella.
A beam of gold flashed on his glasses, and he said softly, thojugh
without despair,

"Ah, to be able to sculpture that !"

276 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

BOURDELLE

Bourdelle: I recall his round brown face, framed by a soft
collier de barbe, and his voice booming as if he were in a cathedral.
His studio was in a blind alley, which today bears his name. His
little apartment, which was quite bourgeois in character, was one
flight up in a shabby house in the Avenue du Maine. On the walls,
still covered with nondescript paper, were photos of Greece; on
the mantelpiece a terracotta head the artist had brought back from
Crete. There was an oval table, and near the window an old lady
busy mending clothes.

Was this the birthplace of his huge Heracles, the bas-reliefs in
the Theatre des Champs Elysees, the great statue of France gazing
anxiously towards the horizon?

"I was an architect before I took up sculpture. Moreover, I
always want to know where my sculpture is to be placed so as to be
sure that it fits in well with the 'landscape'. Now, during the
Renaissance "

I met him again in St. Mark's, in Venice. He was studying the
mosaics in the great cupola, where dozens of saints are shown
seated side by side.

"What magnificent proportions !" he exclaimed. Then, nudging
me^ he added:

"What would happen if all those saints suddenly stood up ! ...
Shall we go to Torcello tomorrow?"

Torcello is the ancient cradle of Venice. In order to reach it, you
have to go via Burano, an island famous for its lace-making.
Burano has a Northern appearance, with its brick houses, its still
canals and its sunburnt, sad-eyed needle-women. We lunched
there in the sunshine, pestered by flies and ragamuffins sucking
melon-rinds and grape-skins, and surrounded by a collection of
cats and dogs with eyes more pitiful than those of the beggars.
And how many there are in that blessed land!

It was not a gondola but a flat-bottomed sandolo that we took in
order to cross the short stretch of lagoon separating the two
islands.

Torcello, the island of fire, is deserted except for a few little

THE SCULPTORS 277

thatched houses, where antiques are sold. Everything in and
around Venice is antiques, for that matter. Everything is "period".

A visitor to one of the antique-shops was stroking a kitten
which had jumped into her arms.

"How pretty it is !" she said.

"Authentic fifteenth century, with a full guarantee/* declared
the shopkeeper, who had not even bothered to raise his eyes from
his account-book.

But in the Torcello church, with its bare brick walls, there are
the most beautiful mosaics in the world, more beautiful than at
Ravenna, more beautiful, even, than those in St. Mark's.

"Only in France are there any more beautiful," asserted Bour-
delle. But as we entered the basilica, the sculptor grasped my arm
and whispered,

"They have stood up here!"

They were tremendous, those saints; quite overpowering.
Curving under the vault, it seemed as though they were leaning
down from Heaven over the Faithful, and about to annihilate
them.

"They must have frightened the early Christians as badly as the
ancient idols did the pagans."

Directly opposite there was an enormous Virgin, extending
from the altar to the top of the dome, her head and shoulders
curved in an infinitely gracious gesture. And she was all gold and
purple, azure-blue and fiery red.

"What a lesson," Bourdelle said to me as we departed. "And I
thought that the four chief pillars of Italian art were Michelangelo,
Raphael, Correggio and Titian. But that is the chief pillar."

Here was the inspiration for his France Veillant. The day it was
unveiled he nudged me in his familiar way, and said,

"Do you remember the Virgin of Torcello, and how she seemed
to rise up to Heaven?"

278 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

BARTHOLOME 3 THE VICTIM OF
BARTHOLOME

The painter and sculptor Bartholome derived his fame primarily
from his Monument to the Dead> which was set up in the Pere La
Chaise Cemetery. It must be admitted that the work owed a good
deal of its inspiration to the tomb of Canova. Nevertheless, when
Degas was doing his sculpture, he went to Bartholome to ask him
for technical advice.

The sculptor was a rather austere man and very decided in his
opinions. I recall a conversation I had with him in his studio,
where I had gone after Rodin's funeral. Speaking of his late con
frere, he remarked,

"They made him a member of the Academy, and he meekly
allowed them to, like a steer being led to the slaughter."

On the way to his house he had fumed the whole time about one
thing and another.

"I wish we had a tyrant, an intelligent tyrant, at the Beaux Arts,
who would pull down such atrocious agglomerations of stone and
bronze as the monument to Victor Hugo (the one in the Place
Victor Hugo), and the one to Jules Ferry. Yes, a responsible
tyrant: there was one, for instance, in Michelangelo's day."

"Yes, and he preferred BandinelU!"

Unfortunately for Bartholome, he was the first, if not the only,
victim of the very "demolitions" he had demanded so fiercely.
The Government had commissioned frim to do a statue of The
Defence of Paris, to be placed in the Cour du Carrousel. Bartho
lome executed a monument that was really beautiful in its expres
sive simplicity; but, since it did not harmonise with the statues
around it, it was removed after the sculptor's death.

THE SCULPTORS 279

ARISTIDE MAILLOL'S LAST "WORK"

Dear Maillol: as robust and firm on his feet as his own large-
hipped, thick-ankled statues, which he certainly did not skimp.
How well I recall his discussions with Picasso at Ceret, not far
from his own Banyuls, in the Basses Pyrenees !

A follower of the classical French tradition, Maillol gave this
advice to the artist who had just broken with academic form:

"You must do as everyone else does."

To which Picasso replied,

"You must do diiferently from everyone else. You must do
everything afresh."

Maillol

"You must do better than anyone else: that is the way to do it
differently."

"You must do it differently, and do it better."

"It is more difficult to do as everyone else does, and yet do it
better."

They went on in this strain, but ended by embracing. Picasso
had a great admiration for the older man. And Maillol sensed
what was boiling up inside Picasso.

For sixty years Maillol worked away almost in silence, even
when he was visiting his friend Renoir, Both men loved full,
ample forms ; and their only joy was that of the gods: to create.

Why were MailloFs last days saddened by secret slander?
Some people even went so far as to speak of his "regrettable atti
tude" during the German occupation of France. I asked Lucien

280 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

Maillol about it, and I recall his very just indignation when he told
me.

"Aristide Maillol did not go to Berlin, and for several good
reasons. First of all, his old friends who had received him in Ger
many in 1926, including the millionaire Kessler, had died, victims
of the Hitler regime. He had been deeply grieved by it. Secondly,
his villa and studio at Marly had been occupied and sacked by the
Germans in 1940, and his works scattered. That certainly didn't
encourage him to fraternise with the enemy. Though some people
made slighting allusions to his two visits to Arno Breker in Paris,
he deserves only praise for it. For Maillol was eighty years old
when he left the safety of his home, and he first requested and then
demanded that his little model Dinah and her husband should be
released from the prison at Fresnes, where they were being held,
pending deportation to the salt mines in Poland. Maillol undertook
the trip knowing full well that he would be exposed to criticism
from people ignorant of the facts. And he had to wait a long time
before he accomplished his mission and then only by sheer force
of courage. Since Dinah, who was of Russian origin, had been
working for an English underground group for two years, it was a
very risky business. Maillol won, finally, and saved the lives of
two people who were very dear to him. He died in spite of the
care given him by Nicolau and Tallez, who were the soul of the
Resistance Movement in Perpignan. For this reason he deserves
a halo for being a great human being as well as a great artist."

It is an open question whether or not Count Kessler helped
Hugo von Hofmannsthal in the writing of Elektra, for which
Richard Strauss composed the score. It is of little moment. It is
sufficient that Kessler took Maillol to Greece. On his return, I
went to see the sculptor and asked him to give me an account of his
impressions of that country.

"Yes, it is very beautiful," he said, "But what did I learn there
that was useful for my work? Almost any woman in my native
Roussillon, with its harsher skies, moves me as deeply though
differently as the Greek statues. Perhaps even more. Of course,
under the pellucid skies of Greece contours seem to move, to live,
to melt away like sugar, only to reappear immediately and more
sharply, especially in certain lights tod at certain times. It is very

THE SCULPTORS 281

moving. But here, you see, I can feel the sap mounting from the
ankles to the head of my peasant women, the young ones, and this
naturally helps to make my clay and marble live."

ARCHIPENKO LAURENS - ZADKINE MATTED
HERNANDEZ DESPIAU - LIPSCHITZ

In the exhibition of sculpture at the Petit Palais there were no
works by Archipenko, who had gone to America. I had been told
the most fantastic stories about the way he had tried to flout social
conventions, and his efforts to avoid the commonplace in sculp
ture.

There were no Laurens, which was a pity. The moderation of
his constructive innovations was wholly French. There were no
Zadkines either. A sculptor in wood, Zadkine's studio, filled with
tree-trunks, was like an enchanted forest, with roughly hewn
nymphs aspiring to a new kind of grace, very different from that of
ballerinas, with their smooth, round arms, or Dianas with "ele
gantly posed" hands.

A salute to the black granite sculpture of Matteo Hernandez,
cut out of the raw rock, the most massive animal representations
that any sculptor has attempted since the Egyptians. And yet
Despiau, blinded by his fine sensitivity, unjustly condemns them.

And there is Lipschitz, whose work bursts out of him with such
power that the forms he creates seem to tear open the solid volume
of traditional sculpture.

"Have you seen the Bourdelles?" he asked me. "The days of the
big-wig who did the Monument to the Dead are over. Nowadays,
it seems as though Bourdelle is himself influenced by his Czecho-
slovakian pupils. But, after all, it is Rodin who still dominates
here, as everywhere else."

"I thought you didn't like Rodin."

"I didn't like him before because I didn't understand him. In
1911, when I first exhibited my head of a young Italian girl, Leon
Cladel came to me, very excited, and said, 'Rodin stopped to
look at your head. He asked for your name. He said that the piece
was redly good/ I immediately felt depressed. For if Rodin,

282 FROM RENOIR TO PICASSO

whose work I didn't like, took to my sculpture, I was sure that my
work couldn't be much good. To me, he seemed anarchic. It was
only when I saw some of his work in the rough ten years later that
I suddenly understood it. In some of the pieces he had put aside,
there was such a freedom of execution that all at once I grasped the
great richness of his tremendous personality. I had simply mis
taken liberty for anarchy. A man must cling to order as a base for
his own security, and use that as a point of departure. What about
my cubism, you ask? and cubism itself? It is a point of view. One
must free oneself from natural forms. An aeroplane flies. But just
because of that you don't have to represent it with feathers and
feet like a bird. Take my Europa and the Bull, for instance. The
bull is not an exact copy of a bull, yet it is more 'bull-like' than a
real bull. I tried to interpret its strength, its bestiality, and also
Europa's tenderness. But the important thing is to win the con
test between volume and light. If you achieve the volume, then
you have won. Of course, you must have a subject. But when you
have chosen the subject, the contest between light and mass re
mains. And the victory! The rest is nothing but words. . . ."

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