A Perilous Advantage: The Best of Natalie Clifford Barney

by Natalie Clifford Barney

  Unable to live either with or without her, I do not know what I found more painful: our endangered meetings, our separations or our attempts at fidelity.

  Like so many other lovers, we had not finished with those "bitter farewells which do not last" and those exhilarating but short-lived reconciliations.

  Separated from each other, then irresistibly drawn towards one another, losing ourselves once again, our abiding love went through all the phases of a mortal attachment. Perhaps death was the only thing which would end it.

  I loved Renée always, but with a defeated love, subject to the circumstances she had allowed to dominate us:

  Your clear-eyed glance embarrasses and disturbs me...

  Yes I know, I was wrong many, many times,

  And I blush before you, piteously,

  But everywhere I went I was hounded by grief.

  Do not blame me then! Rather comfort me

  For having lived so badly my wretched life.

  Thanks to this "wretched life" and the joy which eluded her, she became what she always wanted to be: a great poet.

  As I read la Vénus des Aveugles [The Venus of the Blind] and Aux heures des mains jointes [Hand in Hand], I noticed how much stronger her poems had become. There were no more "perfumed pallors" and other insipidities trailing along. They were no longer languorous but heavy with images from her life, reflecting the cruelty of her existence against which she had at first rebelled, then borne with resignation and grandeur.

  …

  My poetry has not reached the point of calm excellence,

  I realize that, and no one will ever read it...

  I am left with the moon and encroaching silence,

  and lilies, and above all, the woman I loved...

  …

  On my hands remains the scent of her beautiful hair.

  May I be buried with my memories, just as

  Queens were buried with all their finery...

  I will take with me all my joy and care...

  Isis, I have prepared the funeral bark

  To be filled with flowers, spices and nard,

  The sails fluttering with the folds of a shroud…

  The ritual rowers are ready... It is growing late…

  …

  Renée, whose work was becoming more and more popular in many different milieux, was prevailed upon to invite a gathering of friends and admirers and we went to some very strange parties where I met up with Colette, Moreno, the Ernest Charles, the Ledrains, and our old Professor, conscientious and rejuvenated—without our governess who had long since been thanked for her various services. I was accompanied to these events by a golden-eyed actress with auburn hair and a difficult temperament. Her presence allayed any suspicion Renée's friend might have had; she never appeared at these parties but was informed of everything that went on. This is how Colette describes one of those evenings in which she danced with Moreno and recited some poetry:

  Her sumptuous, sombre ever-changing apartment has been only sketchily described. Apart from some Buddhas and antique musical instruments, all the furniture at Renée Vivien's moved in mysterious ways. A collection of gold Persian coins gave place to some jade, to lacquer work, driven out in their turn by a glass case of insects and exotic butterflies. Renée wandered about draped in a veil rather than a gown, of black and violet, amongst these shifting wonders, in the dark of a dwelling made sombre by curtains, stained glass and heavy incense. Three candles wept their brown wax tears in a dining room, above a Chinese table laden with raw fish rolled around glass rods, pâté de foie gras, shrimp, sweet and savory salads, fruit served in jade bowls and Hispano-Moorish dishes, the whole washed down with a good champagne and exceptionally stiff cocktails. Suffocated by the dimness, my appetite cut by the three candles, I remember I once brought an unacceptable, insulting oil lamp and placed it in front of my plate. Renée cried like a little girl and then laughed...

  ...She gave away everything, all the time; the rare curio someone admired would be lifted off the shelf, the bracelet clasp would be opened, the scarf and necklace would be slipped off her victim neck... She seemed to be peeling off leaves. The only unexpected thing about her was her extraordinary politeness, a rather distracted courtesy and the patience, the gentleness of creatures who hope for nothing save, perhaps, for their lives to end.

  I had occasion to ride rough-shod over this gentleness. Gripped by the same neurosis which is currently causing devastation upon the beauty of women, Renée Vivien wanted no flesh to weigh upon the bowed framework of her body. She lived on a piece of fruit, a spoonful of rice, and a glass of champagne, a gulp of alcohol when she was faint from starvation. Whether I was severe with her or ironic, Renée would not eat. When she inadvertently put on four kilos, she lost them again in ten days and nearly died of it.

  I was lucky enough to meet Lucie Delarue-Mardrus, whom I had known before I moved into the Rue Chalgrin, which she called the Rue Chagrin, (Sorrow), at another of these soirées. She had returned from a distant voyage and no longer seemed angry with me for having tried to use the strong feelings she had for me, to get her to bring Renée back. She had refused point blank and gone off on her high horse, accompanied by her husband, to North Africa and the Unknown.

  We shook hands despite all our disappointments and extravagant gestures, to consolidate our friendship upon the ruins of a passion which, under different circumstances, might have succeeded in uniting us. Of what we had, which could not have been happier, I am left with a moving collection of her poems.

  One day when I was at Renée's, she told me her friend, who was no longer anxious about the two of us, wanted to meet me and would be coming to dine with us. I made as if to flee, but Renée begged me to stay. Her friend would take my refusal badly. She was coming specially, wearing an evening gown she had ordered from Laferrière, which I was expected to admire, what's more. Since the meeting would make Renée's life easier, I had to resign myself to it.

  While I was waiting to see my rival—who Princess H. had irreverently dubbed "la brioche”—I asked Renée why she attached such importance to matters of dress when it came to her friend, since she gave it scant attention when it came to herself?

  "I prefer to leave that burden to others and decorate only my apartment..." she told me, adding, "What's more, I hate the fittings, lacking the necessary personality to carry them off. I did however try to get used to it, and ordered a dress from one of the foremost couturiers. I arrived before the hour appointed for my fitting and went and sat in a corner of the great salon until someone came to tell me it was my turn. Having brought a good book to keep me company, I read it paying no more attention to what was going on around me. But when evening forced me to raise my head toward the chandelier which had just been lit, I got up to go. My fittings assistant, beside herself, tried to stop me. Despite her excuses, only too glad to have such an excellent pretext, I replied that such oversights only happened to the best, most patient customers ... I walked resolutely out the door, assuring her with a smile that I would never return..."

  When the affluent personage made her entrance, her hand held out to me, I remarked how much her blue dress covered in little islands cut from a sheet of silver surrounded by diamonds, seemed to evoke the isles of the Aegean Sea; an allusion which provoked three entirely different smiles from each of us. After dinner the Chinese butler brought Renée a tisane, instead of drinking it she hurled saucer, cup and spoon into the fire burning before us. Despite myself, I thought of her prayer:

  "Who will bring me hemlock in their own hands?"

  Did she throw down the cup because it contained hemlock, or because it did not? Or because she considered the remedy pitifully inadequate for her pain?

  Momentarily interrupted by the violent irritability of this gesture, we went on with our conversation about horses, in which her friend and I had found a common ground. She explained that a neighbor had asked to buy a dappled grey horse, of a race found only in her stables. It would go very well
with the one the woman already owned. Should she accept the offer? She hesitated because it pained her as much to sell one of her horses as it flattered her to be asked. On this note, it being time for me to go, she offered to drive me back. Renée silently begged for me to accept.

  We set off together through the Bois to my house. She wanted to come in with me, but I made my excuses, saying I had a terrible headache (an ill I have never suffered in my life). She left with a reproachful look.

  Some time after this evening—during which she had in vain tried to teach me to smoke—the lady sent me a little enamel cigarette case full of tiny cigarettes. She had had: "Right to the bitter end, as always, Mademoiselle?" engraved inside the lid. Since I had done nothing to encourage her to send me this useless gift—unless it was my ironic admiration of her dress—I decided she was looking for an adventure. I learned soon afterwards that the neighbor who had offered to buy her horse had made a bet—in front of several people, including the woman who told me the story—“to possess not only the horse, but the owner too." I immediately informed Renée, who after making enquiries, had to admit that the neighbor in question had won her bet. Since she seemed more outraged than hurt by the affair, I tried to reason with her:

  "Really, Renée, do you have the right to be so indignant?"

  "It is as though I had agreed to marry a horse dealer and after sacrificing myself to someone so vile, the horse dealer were to cheat on me. I will not tolerate this insult."

  Worried by her excessive reaction to this affair, which I found fairly harmless after years of exceptional fidelity on the part of her friend, I asked our professor about it—he was still devoted to Renée. He told me that she had decided to "end this hypocritical, trivial way of life." She put her plan into action: packing up her favorite curio, a jade Buddha, then closing her bank account and taking all her money out. Looking for her ticket to show the inspector on the train taking her to Marseilles, she let drop a whole bundle of bank notes in front of the other passengers. Afraid of being followed and robbed, she let herself be picked up by her friend's secretary on the platform of the shipping line. Afterwards her friend sent me a card, on which was written a single word: "Judas!"

  After this defeat and humiliation, I do not know what excesses Renée had to put up with, but she did not abandon her plan to travel. She ran off again, having prepared her departure better this time, leaving with relatives for a round the world trip. I received a note from her first port of call, telling me she had sailed away, far from everything she had loved, in order to reflect on how she would continue her "miserable existence." She had been wounded on all sides and had already had her books withdrawn from circulation because of some malicious reviews.

  This back-biting and other attacks magnified by her imagination, were the inspiration for three of her finest poems: Sur la place publique [In the Town Square], Le pilori [The Pillory] and Vaincue [Beaten].

  Given the results, I could not criticize her for being over-sensitive and over-susceptible. By precipitating her separation from her friend, I might have administered the fatal last drop of bitterness. I feared for her health, which was already so weakened and could not withstand the slightest shock or reproach. As for me, I had been facing disgrace for years: I considered it the best way of getting rid of nuisances. Nothing frees one from the whole breed like a good scandal. Withdrawn from high society—before it could withdraw from me—I ended up seeing only people of my choosing, and of an inexhaustible variety: ranging from a great courtesan, to a virgin poetess, from an eccentric Englishman to an exacting actress, from an elderly diplomat to an incorruptible writer, and from a great lady to painters, sculptors and musicians, whom I served as best I could. Without counting the joyous welcome given to friends old and new in Paris and in Washington. Among them, I was fondest of J.L. for, instead of following his father into politics, he chose the arts. His great devotion remains dear to me, as well as the poems he wrote me, entitled: Alcée a Sapho. [Alcaeus to Sappho]. Each time I went to America I would take refuge in his office at the Art Gallery of which he had become director, and talk to him for hours. I have most pleasant memories of those times. "Happy to forget the ones who are excluded," I took their censure lightly, more lightly than Lucie Delarue-Mardrus who wrote:

  In you, so small and frail, I see the ransom

  Of the cowardly turn-coat world

  Which judges and hides

  All instincts and thrill.

  Your vice, your egotism, I esteem!

  Generous and crazy you are

  What you are

  Without posing, sham or shame.

  I had hoped to get Renée to adopt this attitude and, under our influence, she wrote her Dédain de Sapho [Sappho s Disdain].

  You who judge are nothing to me,

  I have looked too long upon the infinite shadows,

  I take no pride in your flowers, have no fear

  Of your calumny.

  Nothing can soil the dazzling foreheads

  Which touch my breath and my broken songs.

  Like a statue in a bustling crowd

  My soul is serene.

  It was during this calm phase that she wrote me her mea culpa:

  I did not understand you very well, and I was not good at loving you. I could not conquer my jealous soul. I could nor overcome the resentment, mistrust and hatred which magnified and corrupted my wretched passion. I was the bitterest, most basely suspicious creature which ever made itself odious to its own self. I harassed you as I tortured myself with a thousand refined torments. I was the hangman of my soul. For everything which was unworthy of you, unworthy of me, I beg your forgiveness kneeling infinitely before you.

  Then her torments started again. Having broken off all contact with her publishers, she sent her new poems to our professor and to me. I received the following confession:

  I have ruined my heart, devastated my soul,

  And today I go begging for love.

  By the harsh light of day, the memories gnaw at me

  Like the mouths of unspeakable vermin.

  I have ruined my heart, devastated my soul,

  And like a coward I come, imploring destiny

  For the glint of caprice exquisite in your eyes.

  I have searched for your look in strangers' eyes,

  I have searched for your kiss on fleeting lips:

  The vine which reddens in the orchard sun

  Poured out the Bacchantes' laughter as it flowed...

  Uncertain sweetness plucked from the fates,

  So prodigally, so abundantly loved,

  I have lost your smile's exquisite caprice;

  Today you have made me go begging for love

  Laid out in the harsh light of day

  The beautiless suffering of unspeakable pain...

  I have ruined my heart, devastated my soul.

  I could neither recognize nor console her in this distress. Moving from despair to despair, interspersed with rare intervals of happiness, her life was nothing but a long suicide from which I tried in vain to save her, but was she not predestined for it, since everything turned to dust and ashes in her hands?

  If she could not succeed in her own life, she did, according to the laws of compensation, succeed in assuring her survival.

  Our professor, for his part, showed me poems which were as direct as a cry of pain:

  A victim of existence, this vicious pain,

  I address my sad appeal to infinity.

  …

  Weary of these endless days which get no better

  Let me go away at last, anywhere, but elsewhere.

  …

  No longer to torture myself, no more become enflamed

  To love no longer, ye gods, no more to love.

  …

  Oh but the road is long and the evening far away.

  Since my memories grow unfaithful

  Let me flee at last on borrowed wings.3

  Then she addressed me,

  For her
whose name caresses and astounds me

  She who was love for me, when I was young.

  These last verses:

  The universe seems to me like a bad dream...

  Who will tell me upon what dark road I walk?

  Who will tell me why my heavy heart is breaking

  From cold horror of Things Misunderstood?

  The rainbow of Hope has dropped from my eyes.

  Who will tell me why I tremble towards evening?

  As I listen to the wretched earth groaning

  I feel, toward evening, the full horror of being born.

  I know... A hard law, perhaps. But it is the law.

  But you, in all this dreadful dream? And I?

  Visiting her once, probably just before she left for the Orient, Marcelle Tinayre described her thus:

  She came in like a ghost. Already very ill, she wanted to see me again... Her body, even frailer than of old, reveals nothing of her figure under her very simple black muslin dress. Alas how much she has changed! The young woman of 1899, whom I still recognized instantly! And what grace! What distinction! What simplicity there is about her, none of the odious aesthete or the literary monster! She has created a decor, not for others, through artistic vanity, but for herself as the embodiment of her dream.

  I will always see her, a shadow among shadows, speaking not of her life, but of her soul. She talked of the other world... And suddenly she said, "When I am so sad, so lonely, so ill, I think I would like to die a Catholic. It is the only religion in which there is beauty and poetry..." And she added, with a smile…" But no priest would let me keep my little buddhas…"