The Lilac Courtyard and the
Studio of Roses
The Salon of Mme Madeleine Lemaire
Had Balzac been living today he may have begun one of
his novels in this way:
"Those who, in order to proceed from the avenue de Messine to the rue de
Courcelles or the boulevard Haussmann, take the street called Monceau,
named after one of the greatest noblemen from the ancien régime
whose private parks have become our public gardens, and of whom our modern
times would certainly have much to be envious if the custom of denigrating
the past without making any attempt to understand it had not become an
incurable mania of the so-called great minds of today, those people, as I
say, who take the rue Monceau to the point at which it crosses the avenue
Messine, in order to make their way towards the avenue Friedland, cannot
fail to be struck by one of the archaic peculiarities, a survival, to use
the language of physiologists, which inspires joy in artists and despair
in engineers. At the point where the rue Monceau approaches the rue de
Courcelles, the eye is agreeably tickled, and the passage of traffic
becomes rather difficult on account of a sort of small mansion, of not
very lofty dimensions, which, in contempt of all the highway laws, juts
out a foot and a half onto the pavement so that there is hardly enough
space to protect oneself from the many vehicles which pass through the
area, and with an almost coquettish insolence stands out from the neat
alignment, that ideal of pen pushers and the bourgeoisie, so justly
loathed by connoisseurs and artists. Despite the small dimensions of the
mansion which comprises a two storey building looking directly out onto
the street, and a large glazed entrance hall, situated in the midst of
arborescent lilacs the scent of which, around the month of April, causes
passers by to stop before them, one senses straight away that the owner of
this mansion must be one of those strangely powerful persons before whose
whims and habits all the authorities must bow, for whom the regulations of
the police headquarters and the decisions of the city council remain mere
dead words", etc.
But this style of writing, in addition to not being
appropriate to us, would have the great drawback, were we to adopt it for
the entire length of this article, of making it the length of a book,
which would preclude it from ever appearing in Le Figaro. So let
us state briefly that this mansion on the street is the abode, and this
entrance hall in a garden the studio, of a person who is indeed strangely
powerful, as famous overseas as in Paris, whose name signed at the bottom
of a watercolour, or printed on an invitation card, makes the watercolour
more sought after than one by any other painter, and the invitation more
precious than one from any other hostess: I speak of Madeleine Lemaire.
There is no need for me to talk here about the great artist about whom a
writer, I am not certain which, has said that she has "created more roses
than anyone except God". No less has she created landscapes, churches,
people, because her extraordinary talent extends to all styles. I should
like very quickly to retrace the history, describe the appearance, to
evoke the charm of this salon in its unique style.
And to begin with it is not a salon. It is in her studio
that Mme Madeleine Lemaire begins by reuniting a few of her brotherhood
and her friends: Jean Béraud, Puvis de Chavannes, Édouard Detaille, Léon
Bonnat, Georges Clairin. They alone are initially given permission to
enter into the studio, to come and see a rose set upon a canvas, little by
little - and so swiftly - in its pale or purple shades, from life. And
when the Princess of Wales, the Empress of Germany, the King of Sweden,
the Queen of the Belgians came to Paris, they requested permission to
visit the studio and Mme Lemaire could not dare to refuse them entry. Her
friend Princesse Mathilde and her pupil Princesse d'Arenberg also come
from time to time. But little by little we learn that some small reunions
have taken place in the studio where, with no prior preparation, with no
pretensions of a "soirée", each of the invitees, "working at his trade",
and giving of his talent, the small intimate entertainment had included
attractions that the most brilliant "galas" could never hope to assemble
together. Because Réjane, who happened to be there by chance at the same
time as Coquelin and Bartet, had a desire to perform a sketch with them,
Massenet and Saint-Saëns were brought to the piano and Mauri even had
danced.
All Paris wanted to gain admittance to the studio but
never succeeded in gaining entry at the first attempt. But as soon as a
soirée is about to take place, each friend of the mistress of the house
coming as an ambassador in order to secure an invitation for one of her
friends, as Mme Lemaire held them every Tuesday in May, the movement of
traffic becomes virtually impossible in rue Monceau, rue Rembrandt, rue de
Courcelles and a certain number of those invited inevitably stay in the
garden, under the flowering lilacs, it being impossible for them all to be
contained in the studio however vast it is, in which the soirée has just
begun. The soirée has just started in the midst of the interrupted work of
the watercolourist, work which will be taken up again early the next
morning, the lovely and simple arrangement of which remains there to be
seen, huge bunches of living roses still "posing" in their vases full of
water, standing before painted roses, just as alive, their copies and yet
already their rivals. Beside them stands a newly begun portrait, already
magnificent in its pretty likeness, of Mme Kinen, and another of Mme de La
Chevrelière née Séguier's son which Mme Lemaire is painting at the request
of Mme d'Haussonville, attracting the admiring gaze of everybody present.
The evening has scarcely begun and already Mme Lemaire casts an anxious
glance at her daughter seeing that there are no more chairs free! And yet
for anyone else this would be the moment to bring out the armchairs; here
are the guests as they successively arrive: M. Paul Deschanel, the old
president, and M. Léon Bourgeois, the current president of the Chamber of
Deputies, the Italian, German and Russian ambassadors, Comtesse Greffulhe,
M. Gaston Calmette, the Grande-Duchesse Vladimir, Comtesse Adhéaume de
Chevigné, Duc and Duchesse de Luynes, Comte and Comtesse de Lasteyrie, the
dowager Duchesse d'Uzès, Duc and Duchesse d'Uzès, Duc and Duchesse de
Brissac, M. Anatole France, M. Jules Lemaître, Comte and Comtesse
d'Haussonville, Comtesse Edmond de Pourtalès, M. Forain, M. Lavedan, MM.
Robert de Flers and Gaston de Caillavet, brilliant authors of the
triumphal Vergy, with their lovely wives; M. Vandal, M. Henri
Rochefort, M. Frédéric de Madrazzo, Comtesse Jean de Castellane, Comtess
de Briey, Baron de Saint-Joseph, Marquise de Casa-Fuerte, Duchesse
Grazioli, Comte and Comtess Boni de Castellane. It does not stop for a
minute, and already the latest arrivals, despairing of finding a place
take a tour of the garden and take up position on the stairs to the
dining-room or perch themselves bolt upright on the chairs in the
antechamber. Baronne Gustave de Rothschild, who is used to being better
seated for a performance, despairingly perches herself on a stool which
she has had to climb up on to catch sight of Reynaldo Hahn who is sitting
at the piano. Comte de Castellane, another millionaire who is used to
greater comforts, is sitting erect on a very uncomfortable sofa. It is as
if Mme Lemaire had taken as her motto - as in the Gospels: "Here the first
shall be last", where on the whole the last are the last to arrive, be
they academicians or duchesses. But by a sign language which her beautiful
eyes and lovely smile make wholly expressive, Mme Lemaire makes it
understood to M. de Castellane, from the other side of the room, how much
she regrets to see him so badly placed. Because just like everybody else
she has a great fondness for him. "Young, charming, drawing all hearts
after him", honest, good, ostentatious without being arrogant, refined
without being pretentious, he delights his supporters and disarms his
adversaries (by which we mean his political adversaries because his
personal character knows only friends). Full of consideration for his
young wife, he is anxious that she is not feeling the effects of the cold
draughts from the garden door, which Mme Lemaire has left partly open so
that her visitors can come in without making a noise. M. Grosclaude, who
is in conversation with him, expresses his surprise at the way - which is
very honourable in a man who is in a position to concern himself only with
pleasure - in which he takes on the study of practical matters which
concern his own arrondissement. Mme Lemaire appears to be very worried to
see that General Brugère has had to stand, because she has always had a
great liking for the army. But that becomes nothing more than a mild
vexation when she notices that Jean Béraud is not even able to get into
the hall; but this time she can put up with it no longer, moves off the
people who are blocking the way in, and for the glorious young master, for
the artist who is acclaimed by modern society just as much as the old, for
the delightful creature who is sought out by everybody but none can
possess, she creates a sensational entrance. But as Jean Béraud is also
one of the wittiest of men, everybody stops him on his way through to
exchange a few words with him and Mme Lemaire, realizing that she cannot
tear him away from his many admirers who are preventing him from taking up
the place that she has reserved for him, she gives up with a comical
gesture of exasperation and returns to her place beside the piano where
Reynaldo Hahn is waiting for the tumult to die down before starting to
sing. Close by the piano a man of letters, still young and a great snob,
chats familiarly with the Duc de Luynes. If he was enchanted to be
chatting with the Duc de Luynes, who is a fine and charming gentleman,
nothing could be more natural. But more than anything he appears to be
delighted to be seen chatting with a duke. So much so that I could not
resist saying to my neighbour: "Out of those two he's the one with the air
of being the one to be "honoured" [honoré]." A pun whose savour
will no doubt be lost on those readers who do not know that the Duc de
Luynes "answers", as a doorman might say, to the Christian name of Honoré.
But with the advances in education and the spreading of knowledge one
could be forgiven for thinking that those readers, if it is the case that
any still exist, are no more than a tiny and in any case uninteresting
minority.
M. Paul Deschanel questions the secretary to the
Romanian legation, Prince Antoine Bibesco, on the Macedonian question. All
those who address this young diplomat with such a bright future as
"prince", create for themselves an impression of being like characters
from Racine, for with his mythological appearance he makes us think of
Achilles or Theseus. M. Mézières, who is speaking to him now, has the air
of a high-priest who is about to consult Apollo. But if, as is claimed by
that purist Plutarch, the oracles of the gods at Delphi were written in
very bad language, one could not say the same about the prince's replies.
His words, like the bees native to Hymettus, have swift wings and distil a
delicious honey but even so they do not lack a certain sting in the tail.
Every year, resumed at the same season of the year (in which
painters' salons are opened, the mistress of the house having less work to
do), appearing to follow or bring back with them a universal springtime,
the intoxicating efflorescence of the lilacs that sweetly spread out their
scent to be inhaled at the studio window and as though to the very
threshold of her door, these soirées of Mme Lemaire's take on from the
seasons whose return they initiate, the same every year, the charm of
things which pass, which pass and which return without being able to yield
up to us along with them all that we have loved of their vanished sisters,
the charm, and along with the charm also their sadness. For we who for so
many years already have seen so many pass from Mme Lemaire's parties, from
those parties on Tuesdays in May - those mild and perfumed months of May
which are for ever frozen today - we think of those soirées in her studio
as we think of our fragrant springtimes now vanished. Just as life mixes
its charms, we often rush to those studio soirées, not simply, perhaps,
for the pictures we will see there or the music we will hear. We rush out
in the stifling stillness of the evening dew and sometimes beneath the
fleeting, cool summer rainstorms in which petals of blossom are mixed with
the falling drops of rain. It is in this memory-filled studio that
initially delights us with such charm that little by little time has
dissipated, by disclosing false illusion and unreality. It is there that
during the course of these parties that perhaps the first bonds are forged
of an affection which brings us nothing in their wake but repeated
betrayals leading to ultimate enmity. Now, remembered within ourselves
from one season to another, we are able to count our wounds and bury our
dead. So each time that, in order to evoke it, I look back at one of those
parties deep within my trembling and deadened memory, now melancholy after
having once been delicious with possibilities and for ever unrealized, I
seem to hear it telling me as the poet said: "Look at my face, try if you
can to look me in the eye; I call myself what might have been, what might
have been, and which was not to be."
The Grande-Duchesse Vladimir is sitting in the front
row, between Comtesse Greffulhe and Comtesse Chevigné. She is only
separated by a narrow gap from the little stage that has been set up at
the back of the studio, and all the gentlemen, be they coming one after
another to pay her their respects, or be they returning to their places,
come and pass before her, Comte Alexandre de Gabriac, Duke d'Uzès, Marquis
Vitteleschi and Prince Borghèse, displaying both their good manners and
their agility as they skirt around the benches facing Her Highness, and
draw back towards the stage in order to bow to her lower, without casting
the slightest glance behind them to check how much room they have
available. In spite of that none of them makes a faux pas, slips, falls to
the floor or treads on the toes of the Grande-Duchesse, all blunders which
would create, it must be admitted, a most unfortunate impression. Mlle
Lemaire, the exquisite mistress of the house, to whom all eyes are turned
in admiration at her elegance, forgets to listen whilst laughing at the
charming Grosclaude. But just at the very moment I was about to sketch a
portrait of the famous humorist and explorer, Reynaldo Hahn begins to play
the opening notes of Cimetière and I am forced to save my
portrait of the author of the "Pleasantries of the Week" who has since,
with such great success, evangelized Madagascar, for one of my later
"salon pieces".
At the first notes of Cimetière the most
frivolous public, the most rebellious audience, is completely subdued.
Never, since Schumann, has there been a music that portrays sadness,
tenderness, assuagement before nature with such genuine humanity and
absolute beauty. Every note is a word - or a cry! With his head slightly
thrown back, his melancholy mouth, slightly disdainful, letting escape the
rhythmical waves of the most beautiful, the saddest, the most passionate
voice that ever existed, this "instrument of musical genius" who is
Reynaldo Hahn grips every heart, moistens every eye, in the thrill of
admiration which he propagates from afar and which makes us tremble, as we
bow our heads one after another like a silent and solemn undulation of
wheat in the wind. Next M. Harold Bauer plays some Brahms dances with
gusto. Then Mounet-Sully recites verse, followed by M. de Soria who sings.
But more than one person is still thinking about the "roses in the grass"
in the Ambérieu cemetery, which was evoked so unforgettably. Mme Madeleine
Lemaire hushes Francis de Croisset who is chattering rather too loudly to
a lady, who appears not to relish the prohibition that has just been
decreed in such a way to her interlocutor. Marquise de Saint-Paul promises
Mme Gabrielle Krauss a fan painted by herself and extracts in return a
promise that she will sing: "I bear no grudge" at one of her Thursdays at
rue Nitot. Little by little the less intimate guests depart. Those who are
on closer terms with Mme Lemaire prolong the soirée for a little longer as
it is now more delightful by being less diffused, and in the half-empty
hallway, closer to the piano one can now, with closer attention and
concentration, listen to Reynaldo Hahn as he repeats a melody for Georges
de Porto-Riche who has arrived late. "In your music there is something
delicate" (slight gesture of the hand which seems to detach the adjective)
"and mournful" (a new gesture of the hand which seems to detach the other
adjective) "which gives me infinite pleasure", the author of Passé
tells him, isolating each epithet as if he were perceiving its fleeting
grace.
He says this in a voice which seems to be pleased to say
such words, adding to their beauty with a smile, emitting them from the
corner of his mouth with voluptuous nonchalance, like the ardent and
vaporous smoke of a beloved cigarette, whilst his right hand, fingers
drawn together, seems to be in the act of holding one. "After that all is
extinguished, candles and music", and Mme Lemaire says to her friends: "Be
sure to come early next Tuesday, I'll have Tamagno and Reszké." She can
rest easy. We shall come early.
Dominique.
Article appeared in Le Figaro, 11 May 1903 and reprinted in Chroniques (Libraire Gallimard, 1927).