mer
(July) with those sails (I really said this) like little bursts of laughter. And the harmony of the pastels in
Plage de Sainte-Adresse
, the 1921 one, I thought, (August) didn’t it make herthink of a little symphony? Madame agreed. However, I said preemptorily, I thought
Jardins publiques à Hyères
(September) was unsurpassable. I found it “
definitive
.” For me, after that picture, Dufy did not exist any longer. (And this was the absolute truth.)
The calendar had a certain effect, on Madame, who was not sparing of her compliments to me. And then—oh, well—I said with all the ease that the act seemed to merit that in order to study the
fauves
I had gone “on purpose” to Paris. Naturally, I refrained from saying that I knew Paris well, because all my knowledge resulted from a school field trip with the nuns when Papa was working in the mine at Charleroi. It had been a four-day bus trip, with brief stops for bread and bathroom, then on board again and another round of
En passant par la Lorraine
under the inflexible joy of Sister Marianne who, fearing long conversations and long silences, both messengers of mischief, resolved the dilemma with the jollity of a healthy song. Of Paris I retained the dreadful memory of the Musée de I’Histoire de France, of the Pantheon, of my feet swollen like hot water bottles, and of my first menstrual period, which had started after a memorable walk the second night of our stay. The last day Sister Marianne had piloted us to the Louvre for a fifteen-minute visit, just long enough to put our noses in front of Corot and Millet, and at the booth at the exit each one of us had had to chip in to buy a reproduction of
The Angelus
, which during the trip home Sister Marianne had then stuck up on the rear window of the bus. I was thirteen years old, I felt ugly, unhappy, and misunderstood, and for the entire trip I dreamed of a cruel vendetta: One day I would become a great painter with a grand studio in the Latin Quarter. Sister Marianne would come to beg me on bended knee to go and fresco the refectory of the school in Charleroi where the great artist had done her first work. But I would answer haughtily that it was just, not possible, I had to prepare for my triumphal exhibition at the Grand Palais, Parisrendered me homage, the whole world claimed my paintings, and even the President of the Republic would be present.
—And Ikebana?—said Madame.—Do you like Ikebana?—I answered that “
decidedly
” I did not know him. (I felt stuck, and chose to be dry and definitive.)
—A pity,—said Madame,—but it’s not important. I’m sure you will learn to love it. Please put the bottle of gin nearer to me and call to Constance to bring me another tonic water.—
While she waited for the tonic water, Madame asked me absent-mindedly about my hobbies, if by chance I had a passion for oenology. Ah, yes? Splendid. She did not, she preferred cocktails. But the engineer, yes, her husband, had a passion for wines as a good Italian—an adoptive Italian, but Italian nevertheless—oh, for rare wines, of course. She would have liked to learn something more about them, too, but she certainly couldn’t insist that the engineer give her lessons, he was always traveling, always so consumed by his business, poor dear. But, by the way, my French was excellent.
I answered that yes, it was indeed true, my poor papa had taken my education very much to heart, in spite of not ever having a free minute in his life—he was in mining. The governess had required French, obviously, old, dear, austere Francine (I was slightly moved by her memory) who had been practically a mother to me. She was a Walloon. This unequivocal Belgian acccent that once I detested and that today I found delightful I owed to her. Oh, no, no, my mother didn’t leave me an orphan. It was only that Mama was so fragile, so delicate, and then her piano gave her no rest.
Madame pushed the cart with the aperitifs toward my
(July) with those sails (I really said this) like little bursts of laughter. And the harmony of the pastels in
Plage de Sainte-Adresse
, the 1921 one, I thought, (August) didn’t it make herthink of a little symphony? Madame agreed. However, I said preemptorily, I thought
Jardins publiques à Hyères
(September) was unsurpassable. I found it “
definitive
.” For me, after that picture, Dufy did not exist any longer. (And this was the absolute truth.)
The calendar had a certain effect, on Madame, who was not sparing of her compliments to me. And then—oh, well—I said with all the ease that the act seemed to merit that in order to study the
fauves
I had gone “on purpose” to Paris. Naturally, I refrained from saying that I knew Paris well, because all my knowledge resulted from a school field trip with the nuns when Papa was working in the mine at Charleroi. It had been a four-day bus trip, with brief stops for bread and bathroom, then on board again and another round of
En passant par la Lorraine
under the inflexible joy of Sister Marianne who, fearing long conversations and long silences, both messengers of mischief, resolved the dilemma with the jollity of a healthy song. Of Paris I retained the dreadful memory of the Musée de I’Histoire de France, of the Pantheon, of my feet swollen like hot water bottles, and of my first menstrual period, which had started after a memorable walk the second night of our stay. The last day Sister Marianne had piloted us to the Louvre for a fifteen-minute visit, just long enough to put our noses in front of Corot and Millet, and at the booth at the exit each one of us had had to chip in to buy a reproduction of
The Angelus
, which during the trip home Sister Marianne had then stuck up on the rear window of the bus. I was thirteen years old, I felt ugly, unhappy, and misunderstood, and for the entire trip I dreamed of a cruel vendetta: One day I would become a great painter with a grand studio in the Latin Quarter. Sister Marianne would come to beg me on bended knee to go and fresco the refectory of the school in Charleroi where the great artist had done her first work. But I would answer haughtily that it was just, not possible, I had to prepare for my triumphal exhibition at the Grand Palais, Parisrendered me homage, the whole world claimed my paintings, and even the President of the Republic would be present.
—And Ikebana?—said Madame.—Do you like Ikebana?—I answered that “
decidedly
” I did not know him. (I felt stuck, and chose to be dry and definitive.)
—A pity,—said Madame,—but it’s not important. I’m sure you will learn to love it. Please put the bottle of gin nearer to me and call to Constance to bring me another tonic water.—
While she waited for the tonic water, Madame asked me absent-mindedly about my hobbies, if by chance I had a passion for oenology. Ah, yes? Splendid. She did not, she preferred cocktails. But the engineer, yes, her husband, had a passion for wines as a good Italian—an adoptive Italian, but Italian nevertheless—oh, for rare wines, of course. She would have liked to learn something more about them, too, but she certainly couldn’t insist that the engineer give her lessons, he was always traveling, always so consumed by his business, poor dear. But, by the way, my French was excellent.
I answered that yes, it was indeed true, my poor papa had taken my education very much to heart, in spite of not ever having a free minute in his life—he was in mining. The governess had required French, obviously, old, dear, austere Francine (I was slightly moved by her memory) who had been practically a mother to me. She was a Walloon. This unequivocal Belgian acccent that once I detested and that today I found delightful I owed to her. Oh, no, no, my mother didn’t leave me an orphan. It was only that Mama was so fragile, so delicate, and then her piano gave her no rest.
Madame pushed the cart with the aperitifs toward my
Similar Books
