Hopeless Utopian

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Sunday, June 29, 2008

Personalities in a Parisian Salon: More Portraits in Pencil and Pen

Originally Published: The Century Magazine Vol. 110, No. 2 -- June 1925

BY WALTER TITTLE
Social life in the Latin countries is not the free and open institution to which we are accustomed in America
and England. The Anglo-Saxon has his barriers that are more or less easily passed, and, this achieved, social
intercourse is so general that it can easily become a cumulative burden, with some a business. To the
Frenchman his home is particularly his castle, which he guards most carefully and jealously. He may have
"cafe" friendships" with men for long periods without a thought on either side of introductions into the
respective homes of the participants. When this finally comes, it may be taken as the best compliment that
its donor can bestow.

My first invitation to a Parisian home came from Baron Denaint, who, being half English, was a partial
exception to the rule. Another was from a French boy whom I had met casually in Rome, and whose undying
gratitude I had won by a trifling loan of a sufficient number of lire to tide him over until his belated allowance
arrived. These were pleasant and alluring glimpses into French home life. A third was from a member of the
Chamber of Deputies at a time when his family were at their country place; whether this was carefully timed
because of that fact, I do not know.

Paris, which usually dwells in the rosiest chambers of my mind as a city of sunshine, gaiety, and laughter,
can at certain seasons rival London in its chill inclemency. On a dismal October day of violent downpour I sat
in the writing-room of my hotel answering accumulated letters that I would have joyously neglected were
Paris only living up to the reputation that I still reserved for her. Suddenly I was confronted by two men,
objects of dripping misery, with hats and umbrellas that seemed to weigh pounds, or kilos if you prefer,
because of the moisture that they had absorbed.

"How do you do, my friend?" one of them addressed me. "I am Monsieur Bélugu. We met often at Baron
Stoops's in London. My wife sends her most cordial greetings. Do you remember us? I was just passing the
Galerie Devambez and saw the posters of your exhibition there. The gallery attendant gave me your
address."
Mme. Carolus-Duran, our hostess
I was touched by the kindly interest that braved the weather that I was carefully shunning, and I greeted
my visitors with corresponding enthusiasm. The following Sunday found me at M. Bélugu's house for
luncheon, the party having been arranged not only as a reunion with my host and hostess after our pleasant
contact in London, but also for me to meet the Due de Guise. The bearer of that historic name was unable
to come on this particular day, however, and the pleasure of meeting him was reserved for another time.
Among the guests were the Count Dumiere and Mme. Carolus-Duran, daughter-in-law of the celebrated
painter.

The luncheon passed with much gay chatter; fortunately for me, the English language was in evidence in
sufficient, but varying degrees of, perfection, saving the strain of my slender stock of French. Toward
tea-time we all repaired to the house of Mme. Carolus-Duran near by, where a most interesting company
gradually assembled. Among the early arrivals were the principals of the Moscow Art Theater, fresh from
their first successful season in New York and full of praise of my native land.

The cordiality of their reception in America had warmed their hearts to us, and their leading actress, Mme.
Chekhov, widow of the great writer, voiced her enthusiasm in excellent English for everything American.
They were to open soon for a short engagement at the Theatre Champs-Elysees, and after that a brief
sojourn in London was planned; but these, apparently, were mentally hurdled with an eager eye turned
toward New York, where, she told me, after a second engagement in the metropolis they were to have their
first real view of our broad land in a tour from coast to coast. She was expecting keen enjoyment of the
scenic wonders of our great West.

Russians were much in evidence, and all classes and regimes were represented, from the czar's, in the
person of his former procurator-general, to several persons of apparent Bolshevist convictions. Between
these extremes stood a venerable gentleman greatly resembling Tolstoy, who had been president of the
Douma under Kerensky, and the diminutive, alert, smiling General Skouraud, Tatar from top to toe, who
had achieved fame during the war by capturing a German general with his entire staff. In this same house
on another occasion two Russian noblemen played with a skill and beauty that was astonishing upon balalaika
and zither for the amusement of a company as mixed as the present one; their spirits found vent in song as
the concert progressed, and the climax was reached when the impish Skouraud leaped to his feet and
launched into a wild Cossack dance that would have been creditable in any Russian ballet. Some of his
audience emphasized the rhythms with their hands, and echoed his almost savage cries with joyous
enthusiasm.

Aside from the Russian contingent, there were many interesting French people in the party. One was a
favorite prima donna from the opera whose name escapes me, another M. Mille, director of "le Temps." M.
Edouard Julia, publisher of the "Journal Politique et Parlementaire," was most interesting, as was also the
Marquis de Castellane, the former Count Boni, of whose doings I had read with much interest as a boy. He
is still quite handsome, with his patrician cast of features and exceedingly erect carriage; his salient chest
suggests military training, and his blond hair is still worn high, though time has thinned it considerably. He
was clad in light tweeds, with white boutonnikre and kerchief in evidence, the note being repeated by white
spats, which he always wears. He had a bulldog in leash, smart with its curious clown-like ruff of heavy
leather trimmed with monkey fur, and the frantic greetings between it and Mme. Carolus-Duran's dog, one
of the same litter, stopped all conversation temporarily and threatened the physical equilibrium of guests
and furniture alike. In acknowledging our introduction I was surprised to find the marquis's English almost
wholly without accent, and further surprised, and pleasantly, when he said:

"I know all about you. I saw your exhibition in London last year. I can remember many of your sitters:
President Harding, Lord Balfour, Lord Beatty, Marechal Foch—" and he enumerated more of them. His
manners suggest the old school of courtliness, his voice is low and pleasant, and the impression that I
received on the whole very agreeable indeed.

He was not in the least what I expected him to be. The keen and piercing
eyes alone proclaimed the great wit and satirist. They seemed able to
penetrate to any depths, and there was an element of forceful determination
in his expression and quick decisive movements that to some degree
identified the man as one knows him through his work; otherwise there was
no hint of the artist about him.
Certainly the most charming person in the entire assemblage was madavic, my hostess. One could readily
understand how she had naturally become a rallying-point around which so many interesting personalities
had gathered. She had beauty, intelligence of a high degree, and esprit far beyond the usual allotment. She
writes with ease, paints and draws with unusual skill, and is talented musically as well. I sometimes think
that people who consume their talents in the very fine art of living must be happier than the ones who labor
unceasingly to pass their product on to the world at large. Mme. Carolus-Duran chooses the former
expression; direct acquaintance with her is necessary to share the delightful result, and this of necessity can
be accorded to comparatively few; but a visit to her salon proves that Parisian society is not insensible of its
privilege. M. Anatole France was one of her closest friends. A bust of him by her brother-in-law, Francois
Sicard, recently created an academician, at whose studio I spent a most delightful afternoon, adorns her
dining-room. The grave and witty Aristide Brand, whom I had met before and portrayed at the Washington
conference, may frequently be encountered in her drawing-room. Gabriele d'Annunzio, André Gide,
Countess de Noalles, Maeterlinck, tout Paris, in fact, find at her hearthstone a common meeting-ground.

§2
"Whom would you like to meet while you are here?" she said one evening, looking up with appraising eyes
from a sketch she was making of me. "Who would interest you most? Name any one you like; I can probably
arrange it for you,"

I cast about in my mind for a moment, thinking that there was no one about whom I was particularly
curious, when suddenly a figure of my adoration loomed very large indeed. With a feeling of reckless
adventure and a challenging smile, I replied:

"Forain."

"That will be very simple," madame replied quietly; "he is my very good friend." She stopped her sketching
and opened a portfolio near at hand. "Here are some caricatures I made of him, and also some that he drew
at the same time." I examined with eager interest the fragments of paper bearing the inimitable line of this
master draftsman.

She picked up the telephone, and soon the miracle was done. M. Forain said that he would be glad to meet
me if I would come to the Institut de France on the following afternoon.
 "I told him," madame continued, "that you wish to make an etching of him; so be sure to take a few of your
portraits with you."

"Well," I exclaimed, somewhat aghast, "I have let myself in for it this time with a vengeance! To sketch the
pope would not perturb me in the slightest degree, but to sit down before the great Forain with a plate of
copper and try to make a dry-point of him is like putting one's head in a lion's mouth. Does he speak
English?"

"No, not at all."

"Then you must come with me to translate," I begged.

"No, it would spoil your interview to have me along. Have confidence;

M. Forain
your French is sufficient. Now, is there any one else you would like to meet?"

"Oh no, no; this is quite enough for the present," I protested. "If I suggested Anatole France, you would
doubtless commit me to a debate with him on medieval French literature at the Sorbonne, or some equally
enticing thing." She laughed.

Late that night I walked from madame's house, near the Etoile, the entire length of the Faubourg St.
Honoré to my hotel at Place Vendome, chatting busily with the Spanish painter Del Pina and a former
minister of the czar, there being about enough French in the possession of the three of us to equip one
Parisian taxi driver. Excellent practice for the morrow, I thought.

I was in the entrance office of the Institut at the appointed hour on the following day. M. Forain had not
yet arrived, an attendant told me, and in the same breath: "Wait; I hear his voice on the stair. That is M.
Forain," as a head appeared over the balustrade. He came up very briskly, evidently finding his seventy-two
years no burden.

He was not in the least what I expected him to be. The keen and piercing eyes alone proclaimed the great
wit and satirist. They seemed able to penetrate to any depths, and there was an element of forceful
determination in his expression and quick decisive movements that to some degree identified the man as
one knows him through his work; otherwise there was no hint of the artist about him. Of medium height, of
rather stocky build, with sallow skin and conventional dress, he would tempt few to follow him with a second
glance. His greeting of me was most cordial and kindly. He was staying at his place in the country, he said,
and invited me there for the following Sunday afternoon. He drew a little diagram to assist me in finding his
house, and wrote the address beneath it.
 "I have begged my father for years to allow me to sketch him," he said in
English, "but without success. He has stubbornly refused to sit to any one
until now. When your plate is finished, it will be the only portrait of him
extant."

The following Sunday found me in a fiacre rolling through the park at Versailles to the village of Le
Chesnay, three miles distant. The house was easily located, and M. Forain received me with a hearty
greeting. Madame, his wife, a cheery and buxom little person, was with him, and we got acquainted over a
glass of Cointreau. I was somewhat taxed in answering a running fire of questions from both of them about
myself, and soon M. Forain asked to examine the contents of my portfolio. With some inward trepidation I
produced it, and was relieved and most agreeably surprised by the generous praise that my work received
from the master. I had, unreasoningly, expected him to be intolerant of anything differing at all from his
particular point of view, but such was not the case. Each of the twelve prints he carried to the window for
careful examination, commenting most enthusiastically on the quality of the work, and asking many technical
questions about points, copper, paper, and methods of wiping and printing. He asked to see my tools, and
wanted to see the particular instruments that yielded certain effects. The compactness and arrangement of
my etching-box interested him greatly, and he examined it carefully. One particularly vigorous and sinuous
line in my portrait of Briand brought numerous inquiries, and I had to produce the stout, blunt diamond
that achieved it.

"Come," he said, "I will show you my park before we get to work," and off we went through the considerable
expanse of luxuriant old trees and shrubbery that surrounded the beautiful eighteenth-century house. He
told me the names of some of the trees and shrubs; at the back was a kitchen and flower garden. Beyond
the wall that surrounds the park he has a farm, the working of which is his chief recreation, he said.
Returning to the house, he showed me various rooms that possessed much architectural beauty; in some of
them the original eighteenth-century wall-paintings were still preserved. Madame then showed me some of
her own works in oils, and I was delighted with their excellence.

M. Forain's summer studio occupies the second floor of the stone lodge beside the main entrance to the
park. Climbing a narrow stairway, the ample square room was revealed. Several easels stood about, and an
etching-press occupied the middle of the floor. Stacks of canvases leaned against the walls, and about
twenty of his latest paintings he brought out for me to see. They were in varying stages of completion, and
consequently more interesting than they could possibly be otherwise, as they clearly revealed his method.
First he evolves his form in a sort of mist that recalls in some degree the work of Carriere, giving the final
definition by drawing on top of this atmospheric under-painting with his powerful, flowing line. Twice in rests
between his sittings to me he worked on one of the canvases, and to see his marvelously robust line
emerging rapidly from under his hand identified this man as Forain more vividly than anything else could
have done. His latest work is an undoubted advance over any of his previous product. The painting is more
colorful and voluminous, and the line freer and more flexible. He showed me many sketches on tinted paper
in two colors of chalk, different from anything I had previously seen of his. He had not exhibited any of these,
his son told me later. Many were of nudes, and often a single swift line, varying in quality and intensity as it
sped along, would describe one whole side of a figure.
M. Briand
I produced my portrait in about an hour and a half, directly on the copper, my eminent sitter conversing
the entire time. When my French was inadequate, he would adopt a different phraseology until I understood.
He had about six words of English, which he recited proudly, with an accent that was exceedingly funny.
Greatly did I regret my inability to converse with him freely, as I am told that no wittier man exists in France
to-day. Constantly was I impressed by his keen, almost hypnotic gaze; it made me feel that he could see
more than I knew about myself.

He examined my plate from time to time, approving the composition and finally the likeness. He brought
me a tube of black paint to rub into the lines so we could see them better, and when I added to it some
powdered whiting, a bit of which I found in his studio, stiffening its consistency and adding greatly to its
efficacy, he was delighted, never having seen it done before. He tried a couple of my points on a corner of the
plate. The marks can be seen below my signature.

My first glimpse of M. Forain's son was when, in the midst of my sitting, I became aware of a third
presence, and turned to find him busily sketching his father. We were introduced, and he apologized for
sharing my sitter so unceremoniously.

"I have begged my father for years to allow me to sketch him," he said in English, "but without success. He
has stubbornly refused to sit to any one until now. When your plate is finished, it will be the only portrait of
him extant." I ventured the hope that the result would not be displeasing to his father. "If he does not like
it, you will not be kept in doubt for a single second. He is rather merciless in his condemnation of anything
that displeases him," he replied, with which comforting assurance I pursued my task.

Like the Americans, the French people frequently elevate their idols only to
demolish them later. The greater the first grand burst of worship and
adoration, the more extreme is the final iconoclasm.

The approach of the time for my return to Paris dictated the cessation of my activity. M. Forain suggested
that I take a proof of the plate on his press. This was impossible unless we dispensed with tea that he had
ordered to be served, and his kindly hospitality decided in favor of the latter. It was necessary for him to
announce its arrival several times before I could tear myself away from some portfolios of his marvelous
drawings that the son was showing me. M. Forain still contributes his weekly cartoon to "Figaro," and often
redraws it as many as forty times before he produces a result acceptable to him. The others he destroys.

Tea concluded, M. Forain accompanied me to the house to take my leave of madame, and then to the gate,
where his son awaited me in their car to drive me to Versailles. Later I took a proof of the plate to his
beautiful house in Paris, and was gratified by his kindly approval of it. At my departure he warmly urged me
to come to see him whenever I happened to be in Paris.

§3
Returning a few days later to my salon, I found that Mme. Carolus-Duran and M. Julia were conspiring to
have me portray M. Georges Clemenceau. My current stay in Paris was rapidly drawing to a close, and
careful machinations were being concocted so as to approach the wily Tigre as diplomatically as possible.

First of all, I was not to show him my portrait of Briand, who is to M. Clemenceau as a red rag is to a bull.
One or two more of my portraits were withdrawn from my portfolio for reasons of political animosity.

The morning chosen for my call upon M. Clemenceau was the one devoted to the celebration of the visit of
President Masaryk of Czechoslovakia to the French capital. I entered a taxi with time to spare for the
journey from my hotel to his house in rue Franklin, but, unfortunately, I found myself on the wrong side of a
prodigious procession that seemed to span Paris. Farther and farther west we went in our endeavor to
circumvent the huge parade, and beyond the Etoile I was forced to abandon my cab and take to the tube. I
arrived at the Trocadéro ten minutes after the time appointed, and at my destination five minutes later.
Number eight is a pleasant old house inclosing a small court. The concierge directed me to the entrance
door, and a butler led me to M. Clemenceau's study, a handsome room furnished lavishly in the style of Louis
Quinze, the walls being entirely concealed by heavy silk draperies.

What a splendid figure he was, with his beautiful, massive head, his clear,
blue eyes and full, white hair, which grew with vigorous volition from his
broad, low brow in thick waves that any woman well might envy! With like
vigor his handsome mustaches seemed to spring from his lip, and his bushy
eyebrows shot forward with a long upward curve that provided a necessary
balance for his other hirsute protuberances.
Like the Americans, the French people frequently elevate their idols only to demolish them later. The
greater the first grand burst of worship and adoration, the more extreme is the final iconoclasm. I had heard
M. Clemenceau described, with an expressive shrug, by several of his countrymen as "old and ga-ga," by
which they meant to convey that his powers had deserted him and that the second state of infancy had
arrived. In view of his eighty-two years this seemed probable, but as I sat on a divan busily preparing my
copper and tools for the sitting that I expected would immediately follow, he entered briskly and greeted me
with a vigorous hand-clasp, a broad smile, and a cheery sentence in excellent English. I was astonished. No
one could appear more fit or fuller of energy than he. Of medium height and massive frame, few people can
boast a better physical equipment at any age. He spoke rapidly, and with a marked English accent:

"I see you are preparing your materials. You expected to begin work this morning?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. President," I replied. "I am leaving for London at four o'clock this afternoon."

"What! Do you mean to tell me that you can produce a portrait as quickly as that?"

"I have often produced my best work quickly when limited time has made it necessary."
Maréchal Joffre
"But, I am sorry, it was not made clear to me that you intended to work to-day. I thought this was merely
to be a preliminary interview. My morning has been filled entirely with important conferences. If I had known
you were leaving to-day, I would have reserved my entire time for you."

"I am greatly disappointed," I replied. "Is there no way to arrange it?"

"No, devil take it! it cannot be done. Hello!" catching a glimpse of my open portfolio, and picking up my
portrait of Mr. Lloyd George, "here's an old friend of mine, and very like him, too. And Lord Balfour!
Excellent!" Secretary Hughes and Lord Beatty he recognized as well, and his interest in the production of a
portrait of himself seemed to be greatly increased.

"When do you return to Paris? Around Christmas? Well, ring me up when you arrive, and it will give me
pleasure to sit to you as much as you require. There will be no hurry about it then."

My next visit, however, found him recovering not only from a serious automobile accident in which he
suffered numerous cuts from flying glass, but from an attack of influenza as well, so that, to date, our
portrait has not been born. I hope to achieve it later, however, as a more interesting problem could hardly be
imagined.

§4
The lovable Marshal Joffre I had met before, at the time of his second visit to America. It was in
Washington, when I was having my first portrait exhibition there, several months after the arms
conference. His host, Mr. Hill, arranged a sitting for me on the day of their departure, and I was just able to
get a sketch well started that was destined to be finished two years later in Paris. What a splendid figure he
was, with his beautiful, massive head, his clear, blue eyes and full, white hair, which grew with vigorous
volition from his broad, low brow in thick waves that any woman well might envy! With like vigor his
handsome mustaches seemed to spring from his lip, and his bushy eyebrows shot forward with a long
upward curve that provided a necessary balance for his other hirsute protuberances. And the leisurely calm
of the man! It was like a healing lotion as I hurriedly endeavored to make that first sitting count for as much
as possible. He looked at my portraits of his fellow-Frenchmen, and slowly and distinctly in his native tongue,
as he has no English, praised them with the utmost generosity. As I turned to assemble my materials, he
plucked at my coat, and in his calm, quiet voice repeated his speech all over again, for fear I had not
comprehended.
 Mme. la Marichale is a gay and capable woman, attractive, and possessed of very good English. Two years
later, in Paris, she seemed to welcome my visit as the occasion for a review of her pleasant experiences in the
United States.

"I love America, you know. I have never had a better time anywhere than I had there. And my husband,
you will not know him! He is no longer a Frenchman at all! He is an American out and out. He says so
himself!"

Some visitors arrived for madame, and I was shown into the study of M. le Maréchal. As he rose to greet
me, I was amazed. Madame was right; I hardly knew him. I was utterly at a loss to discover the change at
first; then it dawned upon me. The fine mass of hair was cut short, and the eyebrows and mustaches
trimmed as well!

"Monsieur!" I could not restrain myself. "I see quite a difference in you. Your hair, your mustaches— why
have you changed them?" With an amused twinkle in his eyes he leaned toward me and replied in a voice
even softer than usual:

"It is madame. She prefers them this way. She thinks it makes me look younger," and the twinkle
developed into a somewhat sheepish smile.

Madame's head was thrust into the door for an instant.

"Don't you think he looks much better, much younger?" I temporized, not being able to overcome my
disappointment immediately; nor did I alter my portrait in accordance with these tonsorial innovations. I am
quite sure that madame would have been better pleased had I done so. But to me the clipping of this kindly
old lion seemed almost a sacrilege, at once humorous and outrageous. What power women possess! Since
Samson have men suffered thus, and in other ways since Adam. Possibly if Washington were alive to-day,
he would be forced to maintain his dignity in spite of a Jack Dempsey hair-cut and a Charlie Chaplin
mustache.

During the several visits that I enjoyed with Maréchal Joffre our conversation was carried on under
conditions similar to those with M. Forain. With unfailing gentleness and utmost patience this splendid old
gentleman would cause me to understand whenever my limited knowledge of French presented difficulties.
He had much to say in praise of America and the manner in which he was received there, and enthusiastic
words of approval for his generous and thoughtful host, Mr. Hill. On the completion of the plate he
autographed a number of impressions for me, including the one reproduced herewith. As I parted with him
for the last time, I felt quite loath to have the pleasant contacts terminated.

§5
The kindly interest of my new Parisian friends was evinced most pleasantly on an occasion that, in advance,
bore a sentimental threat of being a lugubrious one. Not only was a superfluous birthday anniversary
approaching, but one that marked the turning of a decade. My readers will doubtless recall that on an
occasion like this one becomes, mentally, ten years older in a single day, and "all our piety and wit cannot
escape a single year of it," if I may be permitted the inaccurate paraphrase. So I awoke on this fateful day
thoroughly resolved to make the worst of it and indulge in an orgy of self-pitying gloom.

A Renoir of the first importance, both in size and quality, of a transitional

period combining a purity of linear design and color the counterpart of which
I had never seen in the works of this artist; two large Manets of great
power; and examples of Degas, Sisley, Pissaro, Jongkind, Sir Thomas
Lawrence, and numerous other masters converted his abode into a
museum.
Before I had risen from my bed, where I lay fortifying myself for the catastrophe with coffee, I was
summoned to the telephone. A feminine voice extended cordial congratulations and good wishes, and would
I accept as a souvenir of my anniversary a little drawing by Forain that she would like so much for me to
possess? Also, I was advised to bestir myself and get to the gallery where my pictures were on view, it being
the closing day of my exhibition, as my informant knew of a number of people who planned to call there to
extend appropriate felicitations and to see my portraits.

M. Blanche
I arrived at the gallery at a reasonably early hour in view of other congratulatory telephone calls that
retarded the process of dressing, but several visitors had been there before me, one of them having
purchased three pictures. Each left a message of congratulation on my birthday, and these were no sooner
communicated to me than other visitors began to arrive. One brought a car to take me riding, a pleasure
that I was unable to accept, and several more insisted on purchasing pictures, which proved to be doubly
embarrassing in view of the fact that most of my callers were new friends, and but few of the pictures were
for sale because of the ruinous rate of exchange. My anticipated day of sadness proved to be anything but
sad, one of the gayest that Paris held for me, in fact, with its splendid climax of a superb birthday dinner at
the Crillon, this being the contribution of a generous American friend, however. At its conclusion it did not
matter in the least to me if I were double or half my age.

Another interesting contact was with the well known painter, Jacques-Emile Blanche. At a reception in his
house in the rue Docteur Blanche, named for his father, who was a celebrated surgeon, his immense studios
were filled with the flower of the aristocracy of Paris, as well as leading figures in the official and artistic world
of the gay capital. The presence of numerous dignitaries connected with the Ministry of Beaux Arts seemed
to indicate a fine handling of the politics of his profession by this successful portrait-painter. On several
subsequent occasions he asked me to his house, and showed me a great number of his canvases, covering
the entire period of his endeavor. They presented immense variety and a considerable succession of
influences, from that of Manet in several of the earliest, through Degas and Renoir into a brief, but
charming, Venetian phase, settling down later into his best known manner in which a marked indebtedness
to Sargent, with a dash of Boldini, strikes the dominant note. Some sixty of his works were assembled in
preparation for a retrospective exhibition soon to be held. He had examples also of his work in dry-point and
lithograph, and besides his efforts in the graphic arts, he has been prolific as a writer as well. He speaks
English with a perfection that could easily deceive one as to his nationality, and his charming wife, with whom
I had a good opportunity for conversation at luncheon, is almost equally proficient in this respect. Most
fortunate, indeed, is this man in his spacious and beautiful living- and working-quarters and generous
garden in the heart of Passy. These I thought could easily be a paradise for any artist, but still more did I
envy him certain canvases that adorned his walls. A Renoir of the first importance, both in size and quality,
of a transitional period combining a purity of linear design and color the counterpart of which I had never
seen in the works of this artist; two large Manets of great power; and examples of Degas, Sisley, Pissaro,
Jongkind, Sir Thomas Lawrence, and numerous other masters converted his abode into a museum.
 "It was not surprising that my marriage caused a considerable stir. It
was the first in which an American heiress of great wealth married a
titled European, and this naturally concentrated the limelight upon it.
What was your own opinion of me before we met? I dare say you
thought me a very different person from the one you find."
Another pleasant afternoon at the house of Mme. Carolus-Duran yielded additional attractive personalities
to explore. Among them was Princess Kelemachi, a Rumanian, who, like the true Slav that she is, seemed
to have all languages at the tip of her tongue and enough of interesting things to say to find them all useful.
The Marquis de Castellane was there again, and this second contact resulted in several invitations to his
house before my departure from Paris. He has a spacious and exceedingly attractive apartment in the
Avenue Victor Emmanuel, just off the Champs-Elysees. The furnishing of his domicile begins before the
threshold is passed, the vestibule outside his entrance door being adorned with bas-reliefs and sculptures in
the round. Entering, the eye is most pleasantly greeted by luxurious furnishings, for the most part in the
style of Louis Quinze, many of these excellent pieces being heirlooms. Numerous ancestral portraits by the
leading artists of the periods to which they belong adorn the walls, among them splendid examples of
Rigaud, Lebrun, Mignard, and Gounod, fils. The subjects of these portraits bore the titles of nearly all of
the ducal families of France. Equally important among his lares and penates is a superb library, mellow with
age and of largely uniform binding of brown leather with gold tooling, exquisite examples of the bookbinder's
craft, and full of thrilling surprises in the rarity and antiquity of their contents. In his study was a large
portrait in oils of himself as a young man, very slim and very blond, aristocratic and gallant in its pose and
lineaments, a veritable Prince Charming from a fairy-tale.

In a comer of the library I found a painting of a gorgeous fete, such as one would associate with the most
glorious days of Versailles; in the foreground a lagoon, covered with fairy craft filled with revelers in gay
costumes, reflected a gorgeous pavilion beyond. A host of people disported themselves before the pavilion
and on the hanks of the lagoon, and, the time being night, sky and water alike were ablaze with a display of
fireworks such as one would rarely see except at a great exposition of some sort. It was a subject for
Watteau, or at least for Gaston la Touche. A friend of M. de Castellane enlightened me as to the origin of
the picture.

"This was a party given by M. le Marquis in the days of his opulence. The single evening cost him half a
million francs,"

How different was my host, as he appeared to greet me, from the impression that one would naturally have
as a result of the mass of accounts of him that have appeared over a long period of years in the public
prints! His welcome had a warm and convincing sincerity, combined with a graceful courtliness that coupled
him pleasingly with the peruked portraits on the walls. There was not the slightest forced note about it; it
left in a simple way the feeling that he was genuinely glad to have me under his roof. On the occasions when
I observed him with guests in his house there was always the feeling that, without effort, he was constantly
alert to anticipate anything that would contribute comfort to those about him.

At luncheon he told me that the impression of him current in America because of his marital difficulties had
long been a source of sorrow to him. He assured me that this opinion did him a great injustice, and that his
side of the case had never been fairly presented.
Marquis de Castellane
"I love America, and have there many good friends. I would like that nation to know me as I am, instead of
thinking me the unscrupulous wastrel that I have been pictured. Recently I wrote a volume of memoirs, the
principal purpose of which was to dispel the erroneous estimate of me that is current in America. I cannot
express my indignation at the newspaper that printed it. It is true that they took no liberties with the actual
text, but in their sensational captions and shocking illustrations they succeeded in putting me in a worse
position than before. The lurid way in which my story was advertised and presented made me writhe in
agony. I am preparing a second volume of reminiscences that will recount my experiences from the time of
my divorce to the present date. I will be most careful in the selection of my publisher this time. The thing
must be presented in a dignified manner, and I hope then that America will know me as I am."

He presented me with a type-written synopsis of the new work; these notes gave promise of a very
interesting story indeed.

"It was not surprising that my marriage caused a considerable stir. It was the first in which an American
heiress of great wealth married a titled European, and this naturally concentrated the limelight upon it. What
was your own opinion of me before we met? I dare say you thought me a very different person from the one
you find."

The butler entered to call him to the telephone. Before leaving, he asked my permission, and apologized for
the interruption on his return. A mirror that he confronted as he resumed his seat reflected a gray smudge
on his forehead about which I had been wondering.

"You may have suspected that I forgot my bath this morning," he said smilingly, "but such is not the case.
The priest sprinkled me with ashes at mass. This is Ash Wednesday, you know. I have always been a most
devout Catholic, and my religion means much to me. I have never thought of marrying again because my
divorce, as yet, is only a civil one, and to obtain the sanction of the church is most difficult. I could not bring
myself to go against the church. Several times I have made pilgrimages to Rome, as a special dispensation
from the pope only can dissolve my marriage. A civil divorce is not sufficient for me."

He told me about his sons with great pride, about extremes of poverty that he had known, and the various
activities that he had pursued to recuperate his waning fortunes. On another visit I made the accompanying
sketch of him, and on still another I had the pleasure of meeting his aged mother and a number of
distinguished guests. My short acquaintance with him yielded a most pleasant and interesting addition to
the generous sum total of hospitality that Paris, loveliest of cities, granted to me.