Amazon, there is no serenity crueler than yours.
I marvel not at your persistent, youthful, biting wit, but at
the serenity which falls upon us from on high.
Just enough love. Just enough scorn for love.
Too bad for those who are not enlightened about friendship, as
you and I are.
You have no idea how shy the word "pensées" has always made
me. I would never have dared express myself in "pensées". I do not think enough. Fine material for a writer, a thought with nothing to clothe it!
To my knowledge only two poetesses gained Colette's approbation: her friend Hélène Picard and, most recently, Lucienne Desnoues, "because she is so fond of trees" and because her poem on the elm disease struck a sensitive cord in Colette. She asked me to send her Le Jardin délivré [The Rescued Garden] by that poetess, a little collection which won my Renée-Vivien prize in 1952.
As for Renée Vivien's poetry, and Renée Vivien herself, were they dear to her? Not according to Ces plaisirs, in which Colette judges her without understanding or consideration.
Certainly, Colette disliked that kind of poetry, although she agreed to mime Le Faune, which Renée Vivien had dedicated to her—in my woodland this time. Poetesses who were closer to nature, like Lucie Delarue-Mardrus, should have pleased her better, and yet the Norman and the Burgundian, despite a pretense at friendship, were not fond of each other. Madame Mardrus complained, quite rightly, that she was "sandwiched between Colette's novels and Anna de Noailles' poetry." It must have been hard for Colette to speak in praise of Anna de Noailles—with simulated emotion—when she replaced her at the Belgian Academy.
Glory has its own tyranny!
As for Germaine de Beaumont, that inexhaustible spring bubbling with poetry, who was and remains her fervent disciple and great friend, I wonder whether Colette appreciated her true worth.
In any case, no one cherished her or served and sang her praises better than that novelist and poet, and that from the first hour to her last.
But let us follow Colette in that period when she was obliged to return to the music-hall. The scenes in which she appeared were less provocative and she was better prepared (by her partner and teacher, Georges Wague). And this time she succeeded in pleasing the public.
During her years of wandering, Colette performed once more at my house, not as a mime but as an actress, as well as at my salon in Paris in the Rue Jacob. Colette, predestined to return to that old garden, describes it as follows in Trois, six, neuf [Three, six, nine]:
Most of the houses which line the Rue Jacob, between the Rue Bonaparte and the Rue de Seine, date from the eighteenth century. The only danger I faced in the Rue Jacob was the lure of the shadows, the brief gusts of fresh air, a few blasts of spring hail shot through the open window, the vague smell of some invisible lilac coming from the garden next-door.
Leaning a long way over the window sill, all I managed to glimpse of that garden was the top of a tree. I did not know that this den of rustling leaves signaled the favorite haunt of Rémy de Gourmont and the garden of his "amazone." Much later I was to go beyond the garden fence and visit the little temple which Adrienne Lecouvreur had built "to friendship." Hidden from the sun, even today that garden will only nurture a graveyard ivy, frail and aged trees and those aqueous plants which grow in wreaths on the inside of wells.
It was in my salon, between the courtyard and the garden that she presented the first performance of her play: La Vagabonde, which was later performed in the theatre with Paul Poiret, achieving the limelight in a single season.
Were Poiret and Colette too creative in their other roles to succeed as actor and actress? I do not know, but Colette did not excel, even when she played Léa in her Chéri.
Who would have the luck to stop Colette, launched like Atalanta, but on the wrong road? Another runner whom she met on the way, in good training, and with many an easy victory under his belt.
Does not Colette relate in her novel, L'Entrave, by what irresistible attraction, the partners in a foursome race found themselves swopped round on the way?
Did Colette realize, good sport that she was, that the high stakes she was playing for would be too taxing for that gallant, who later offered, gallantly, to marry her? It was not without apprehension that I saw Colette married to Henri de Jouvenel, settling down bravely and lovingly in a real marriage with a fine husband, baby, nanny, servants, etc... Despite many shared tastes, including food and bed, despite the interests which united them in their dual employment at Le Matin newspaper, there was nothing to reassure me that this union, which seemed happy enough, was going to last. There must be perfectly happy, united marriages, but why are they never those one knows? Moreover, how could that tall dark-haired man, in the flower of youth, intelligent and vain, beloved of women—and who loved women—be tied down to just one, even if it were Colette—a Colette who, moreover, offered not only all her love, but the originality of her mind and a whole new environment?
It was in her office at Le Matin that I witnessed one of the first marital scenes between that couple in which Colette, despite her instinctive vigilance, had let herself go so far as to blossom with happiness.
That evening, having finished her journalistic work, Colette was still sitting at her table and we were having a tête-à-tête, when "Henry" came in, apparently in great good humor, and after greeting me in a friendly way, turned to Colette in a free and easy tone, full of complacency:
"Please do not wait dinner for me tonight."
"But," said Colette, disconcerted, "you will be home soon afterward?"
Jouvenel, who was standing behind Colette's chair, glanced at me as he replied to this question—for he did not seem put out at having a witness for his first declaration of independence, "No, I am afraid it will be quite late. Do not wait up for me."
The blow struck home and Jouvenel was pleased to have shown how important he was to her. Faced with Colette's distracted silence, he derived pleasure from her suffering, superior as she was to him in every way, especially in love.
What was more natural than that Jouvenel, during this test of his fidelity, should tire in the end of being deprived of a change in his female diet, not only due to his male vanity but also his voracious sensuality? But Colette, who was tenacious and exclusive, did not see it like that and having been similarly deserted on several other occasions, her revenge was not long in coming. Outraged, more from pride than love, Henri de Jouvenel retreated to his mother's, waiting for the divorce to be announced.
Despite her brave swagger, it was awhile before Colette was herself again. She made friends with one of her ex-rivals, the better to loathe the unfaithful husband. This flash of temperament inspired her novel La seconde, which has recently been made into a play.
Her daughter's growing resemblance to the despised husband was probably a trial to Colette's maternal feelings. She brought her daughter up with the greatest care nonetheless just as her mother, Sido, had brought her up, with shrewd rather than close attention. For was it not important to give the child, whom she enjoyed watching grow, the chance to develop in her own way?
Having fulfilled her duty, Colette, like the cat "Nonoche," answered the call of her nature once again.
Meanwhile her daughter "Belgazou," who was only just of age, threw herself away in a marriage whose only possible outcome was a separation followed by divorce.
Freed from this first experiment, the only result of which was to discourage her from marriage altogether, Belgazou, having acquired her own "look" under the Saint Tropez sun, her pretty bronzed skin contrasting with her sun bleached platinum blonde hair, attracted the attention and admiration of the painter, Kisling, who did her portrait.
Imagine my surprise, as I strolled along the pier in Saint Tropez one evening, upon seeing "Belgazou" scarcely recognizable beneath layers of make-up of rabble-pink and bruise-blue, badly applied to her young eyelids and her pretty cheeks with their high ch
eekbones. That make-up made her look more like a call-girl than the rather fierce young woman she was. I learned that this attempt at embellishment came courtesy of Colette's maternal hands—still far from expert at her new trade of aesthetician which she plied in a little beauty salon run by her best friend Maurice Goudeket.
Cécile Sorel, wanting to be helpful, offered herself as a model but as Colette changed method from one eye to another the result was an asymmetry which doubled the great actress's age and discouraged other volunteers.
Colette obstinately continued and, after several further attempts on more innocent victims recruited from her immediate circle, agreed to do a make-up demonstration in one of the big Parisian stores. The results of the demonstration were not encouraging and Colette abandoned the profession, for which she had shown more perseverance than talent, to continue her writing in her villa, La Treille Muscate. It was there that she composed the finest pages of La Naissance du Jour.
Maurice Goudeket, now established in her life, dedicated himself to her entirely, deserving his later title: "the best of her three husbands."
Maurice tirelessly responded to her smallest desire and lavished her with staunch devotion. I became aware of his devoted attention one evening when we were dining with some neighbors, the dog, Tobie, sitting beside us.
Despite her "conviviality," Colette, who was always very attentive to her pets, noticed that her little black ball was beginning to get sick and, by that telepathy which reigns in well-assorted couples, communicated her apprehension to Maurice who immediately went to get a large traveling-rug from the car in which he wrapped the dog and carried her off.
The dog, who was indeed in the state Colette suspected, let herself be taken away but not without gazing at her mistress, over Maurice's shoulder, with the expression of a weeping negress.
Colette had often had less domesticated pets in the past, like her squirrel and her cats, but in the end preferred the dog which displayed total adoration and submission.
Colette began to realize the importance her personality had acquired and the growing influence she had over her circle. So with her joyous sense of authority, she became the leader of a whole group of friends. Her gluttony, well-known and applauded, was apparent wherever she went: I can see Colette now in the back of a shop full of vats of olive oil, lifting off the lid of one, dipping her finger in to taste the oil and check it had ripened to her taste.
I see her again, sunny as always, stopping beside the Mediterranean and exclaiming:
"How solid that blue looks, why you could build on it!"
I see her one night on our terrace at Beauvallon, looking at a new moon whose transparent slenderness we were admiring. One of us, indulging in an exaggerated lyricism, was brought back to earth by Colette:
"Oh really, that moon looks like a nail clipping, pure and simple.”
And, before our rapture at the smell of a gardenia.
"What a fuss! It smells like a mushroom."
She lived contentedly, reconciled with the truth of things, saved from misleading illusions, allowing herself to be naturally and fulsomely happy.
I see her in the summer at Saint Tropez, in her flesh-colored house, with its terraces inviting one to doze all night long in the open air. The house, with its garden running alongside the road to the beach by the great salt marsh, was hidden by so many flowers and vegetables all growing together that one could scarcely see the door; the back of the house overlooked a creek where one could bathe unobserved.
One morning, she invited me to go for a swim with her; I reproached her for treading water without making any progress.
"But where do you want me to go?" she exclaimed.
Her heart and her senses were satisfied by Maurice, and her "Pauline" was already looking after her and taking care of all domestic concerns, so she could throw herself into her work. When she wanted to relax, she was surrounded by kind and adoring neighbors. Her daughter played not far away with friends her own age, while old friends, knowing she had settled there, would visit her when they were passing through, to pay their respects and bring her the little offerings owed to recognized divinities.
Colette enjoyed the freedom of Saint Tropez. After she had cut some superfluous embellishments from Duo, the novel she had just finished, Géraldy suggested that he turn it into a play. He told her that in order for it to work in the theatre she would need to add a third act and bring the third character out of the shadows. She cut him short, "I've done my work. Now you do yours." Which he did, and it took him nearly two years since he had to transpose the setting and the characters... When he returned at last to La Treille Muscate with the finished manuscript, Colette greeted him, "Come here and let me nitpick." Resistant and stubborn to begin with, in the end she approved of the changes.
"I was only unfaithful to it," explained Géraldy doggedly, "to be more faithful in the end."
Having finished reading the play, Colette hugged him and said, "It's fun working with you."
Duo, the result of that collaboration, played in three theaters and twenty years later it is still playing at the Théâtre Français.
When Gigi was published, Géraldy impressed upon Colette how successful the story would be on the stage. Once again, his prophecy held good.
Dear charming Géraldy, most attentive of friends! His eagerness to be of help to his fellows is unequalled, except, taking myself as example, by their abuse of it! He tolerates men's character defects with less indulgence than the more touching faults of women, whom he treats as surprising little divinities who reveal the mysterious instincts of the eternal feminine. This moved me to say, "Géraldy, you are too subtle, too full of nuance for the love of a woman, for that hard struggle."
All this made those years the most beneficial of Colette's life.
The bitter crease in which her smile ended so delicately bore witness to her hard experiences, but afterwards did not Colette at last hold her life in her own strong hands, as well as a very successful vocation which, though it gave her much trouble, brought her admiration, love, friendship, ease and glory.
But fate does not allow bliss to last too long: overconfident, she lost her footing at dusk in a rut hollowed out by the heavy carts of the grape-pickers. It gave her a sprained ankle and put her hip out of joint; little by little arthritis set in and pain with it.
The war of 1939 brought more trials. To that major catastrophe with its procession of perils and restrictions of all kinds, was added the incarceration of Maurice, who was of Jewish descent. She had to pull out all the stops in order to save him, and succeeded thanks to friends in high places both in France and abroad. But the anguish sapped her strength so much that when she caught sight of herself in the mirror she was unable to recognize herself in the distorted face reflected in the glass.
Nothing ages one faster than that kind of anxiety, the ordeal of two wars left us all more or less afflicted.
Here are two letters that Colette wrote to me a little after the end of hostilities:
5th December 1946
Oh foster-mother! Everything you send is useful and pleasant in different ways! I am bothered by one scruple, just one: aren't you depriving someone else for my benefit? This morning you would have recognized in me the old cat, inebriated not only by the contents but also by the container. I decided a long time ago, what's more, to learn English only from the "Instructions for Use" printed on tins. What double joy, I had just read in that morning's paper: 'The American parcels have been suspended."
But come and see me. My door and my arms are always open to you. Your calm face, have I ever loved it more? I am waiting for you. If the zealous Pauline wants to protect my rest (which she disturbs better than anyone), do not listen to her but come on in. I embrace you tenderly.
Maurice sends his warmest regards.
—Colette
18th January 1950
My very dear friend,
Berthe was kind enough to let me choose among three photos of you. I picked t
he tandem, in which you have two little golden tufts on either side of your bowler hat. Two horses for one amazon! What strange customs!
I am glad to know that fine weather follows you. I would also like it if some unexpected chance allowed me to take a holiday in the same area as you for once. In my daily life I am so silent and motionless that you would scarcely notice my presence. As for Maurice, I believe he is the pearl, the jewel of country neighbors. Present or absent just when one wants. I should have adopted that man twenty years earlier... but then we would have caused a scandal—perhaps. Write to me again, if you can. Is Lily still in a turmoil over the same person? Give her, and Romaine, all my love...
—Colette
My reply:
1st February, 1950
Hôtel Bristol
Beaulieu-sur-Mer
My dearest Colette,
Fine weather is with me no longer... Yes, do let's find a sheltered place for our holidays where I can see you in a long, lazy way—in slow-motion! I am relieved that you can preside over the Prix Goncourt, unless like Anderson's little mermaid, each step causes you sharp pain—which does not affect "the diversion of the mind," as you put it with a fortitude it would be vain to wish to see reduced!
Pain did not stop Colette and she went back to her desk and set to work, sitting on the chaise-lounge in her apartment overlooking the Palais-Royal where she wrote, Paris de ma fenêtre.
A Perilous Advantage: The Best of Natalie Clifford Barney Page 15