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, Edouard Detaille, Léon Bonnat, Georges Clarin. They
alone are initially given permission to enter into the studio, to
come and see a rose set on 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 princess Mathilde and her pupil
princess 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 begins 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
setting 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, countess
Greffulhe, M. Gaston Calmette, the grand-duchess Vladimir,
countess Adhéaume de Chevigné, the duke and duchess de Luynes,
the count and countess de Lasteyrie, the dowager duchess d'Uzès,
the duke and duchess d'Uzès, the duke and duchess de Brissac, M.
Anatole France, M. Jules Lemaître, count and countess
d'Haussonville, countess 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. Frederic de Madrazzo, countess
Jean de Castellane, countess de Briey, baron de Saint-Joseph, the
marquise de Casa-Fuerte, the duchess Grazioli, count and countess
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. Baroness Gustave de Rothschild, who is used to being
better seated, 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. The count 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 mimicry 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", brave, 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 personality 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 has no time to concern himself
with idle pleasures - 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 before the glorious young master, before
the artist who is acclaimed by modern society just as much as the
old, before the delightful creature who is sought out by
everybody but none can possess, she makes 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 duke de Luynes,
who is a fine and charming gentleman, acting as though nothing
were more natural. But mainly 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"." A pun
which will no doubt be lost on those readers who do not know that
the duke 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 moreover 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 strong language, one could not say the same about
the prince. 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 (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 lilac which you sweetly spread out to exhale their odour up to
the studio window and to the threshold of her door, these
soirées of Mme Lemaire's provide to 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
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
to look me in the eye; I call myself what might have been, what might
have been, and which was not to be."
The grand-duchess Vladimir is sitting in the
front row, between countess Greffulhe and countess 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, pass before her, count Alexandre
de Gabriac, the duke d'Uzès, marquis Vitteleschi and prince
Borghère, displaying 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 grand-duchess,
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. 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 Ambérien cemetery, which was evoked so
unforgettably. Mme Madeleine Lemaire makes to quieten 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 have
excused myself" from one of the 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 gathering from it the
elegance of the passage.
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
Taomagno 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).