I said French words which mean, crudely but honestly, “You just came here to fuck.”
Willy was taken aback. But he was ready for it: “No, of course not,” he said. “I came here because I need to have your opinions of Pablo’s latest paintings, but I think we can talk more freely after we have put the nightingale in his cage.”
I was ready for that: “I’d rather listen to the nightingale sing first.”
“He is mute, for now. He wants only his cage. The cage is new, and he has never been there before, but he knows it is made of beautiful, warm red gold.”
Willy stayed for two hours, longer than Coco should have had to wait for him, and when he saw that his finest blandishments would not work, he even tried solicitation of my intellect, a great effort on his part: “Well, if you can’t open your legs, open your mind and tell me what you think of Pablo’s pictures.”
I was game. “I haven’t seen his most recent things, what you call his Scientific Cubism. I did not like the Demoiselles.”
“Hah! Nor did I. What did you find wanting in it, Mademoiselle Monday? The transformation of Negro sculpture? The mislocated physiognomies?”
“I think,” I declared, “that Nature admires geometry but improves upon it in all Her creations. The artist should not return to geometry.”
Willy stared at me, as if he had not been listening but now was ready to. “Would you mind repeating that?”
I then proceeded to elaborate on this idea—quite a firm conviction of mine, at the time and ever since—that geometry should not be emphasized at the expense of actual appearance. This was more than poor, lecherous Willy had bargained for; as he appeared to be dozing off, I produced an example that woke him up a bit: “It’s as if I drew a skeleton of you and called it your portrait. Not that you wouldn’t look better if you were more skeletal.” I laughed teasingly.
But he only replied, petulantly, “You’re saying I’m obese.”
“No, I’m making a point.”
“If I were thin, would you have sex with me?”
“No. You are Coco’s.”
“I am not hers! Nor anybody’s! I’m mine! She doesn’t own me, nor do I own her. We aren’t even married.”
“‘We are wed in all but fact,’ she said you told her,” I said.
He tried another tack. “You’re an American,” he said with contempt. “You Americans are all prudes, and you are probably frigid.”
I had never heard that word in its sexual sense; I interpreted glaciale in the sense of unfeeling, which I was not, or reticent, which I unfortunately was, to my embarrassment. “You French,” I said without reticence, and forgetting that he was not French but Slav, “are all libertines, and you are lecherous.”
“We appreciate sex as we appreciate wine. Life without it is inconceivable.”
“But not at every meal.”
“Why not? You say you are not a virgin, my Viridis, and I believe you, but have you ever indulged to satiety? Have you ever even done it twice in one night? No, I think not. Sex is a thirst, and an appetite. Have you ever been satisfied? Are your orgasmes powerful?”
I had not heard of orgasmes and could not guess that what he was referring to was…what was that expression you used? “Get over the mountain”? Yes, I did not know that he was referring to getting over the mountain. I was not a virgin, no, not by a long shot, but je n’avais jamais joui comme ça, I had never been satisfaite, I had never been made to go over the mountain. Willy seemed to be waiting for an answer—this man who never wanted answers to his self-answering questions. I said nothing.
He took a different slant. “Show me your paintings. Let me look at your art. If I cannot admire the beauty of your unadorned body, let me see your most intimate croquis.”
“All of my pictures,” I told him, “are in my cabinet at the Académie Julian. I have nothing here.”
He sighed, and seemed about to give up, but tried once more, one last ploy. “Are you ovulating and afraid you’ll get pregnant? Very well, let me try ta neuvième porte.”
“My ninth door? What is that?”
“Don’t be naïve. Count your openings. Which is ninth and last?” When I seemed puzzled, he guided me: “Start with your ears, two, your eyes, two, your nostrils, two, your mouth, one, downward.”
“Oh,” I said. “No,” I said.
“Ta douce rose. You are still a virgin there, no? I will be gentle. I will take your rose very slowly and with the most delightful sensations. You will love it. You will become addicted to it, so that whenever I ask again, it will be mine, alone. You will even beg me to have it whenever I am able to stiffen my monument.”
I laughed as an escape from embarrassment. I laughed at those words, faire raidir mon monument, such a conceited conceit. I drew a picture in my mind of his penis as a monument approaching my ninth door, and found it hilarious, and couldn’t stop laughing. Willy’s face began to grow very red, and he gave me a disdainful look and vanished.
I did not tell Coco of the visit, of course. Whenever I saw Willy after that, always in the company of Coco, I couldn’t suppress a short, quiet giggle, like a spontaneous belch, or a short hike partway up the mountain, and he tried very hard to pretend that I did not exist. But I found myself in private, lonely moments imagining what it would be like if I allowed Willy’s monument to enter my ninth door.
I ran out of money. The funds that my father had calculated would last me a year in Chicago did not last a year in Paris. I had put off writing home to ask for more. Now I had to. It was a difficult letter, and an apologetic one. I described the Académie Julian and my teachers there, particularly Monsieur Lévy, who was responsible for my having the rating of No. 3 in the school and who had encouraged me in resisting the temptation to become more fauve. I explained, or tried to explain, what Fauvism is, but then I realized that these pages were not going to make any impression whatsoever on my father, so I brought my letter quickly to its conclusion: that I was fulfilling myself, that I wanted very much to stay another year or so in Paris, that I hoped he would understand, and that I hoped he would send the money as expeditiously as possible.
I mailed the letter but realized that a month or more could pass before it reached him and brought his response back to me, and I could not borrow from my friends, who were no better off than I. I told Monsieur Lévy that I would have to drop out of the Académie Julian because I couldn’t pay the tuition. He suggested that I try to sell some of my paintings, and he arranged with a friend, the director of a small gallery, to give me a showing. I selected, with the help of Coco and the advice of Pablo and Max (Willy abstaining), my best fifteen paintings, including portraits of my friends, views of the Bois de Boulogne, but chiefly interiors of intimate rooms, usually without figures, and Pablo lent me some frames that fit, for the duration of the show. The gallery could give me only one week, and it was not the best season, and I sold only one painting, my portrait of Pablo, to a person who, I suspected, was simply a patron of his.
The profit from that sale lasted scarcely two weeks, and I was not able to help Coco meet the month’s rent on our appartement in Auteuil. The day I took down my show, the gallery had a last-minute visitor, my wealthy friend Marguerite Thompson. Marguerite admired the paintings although she did not want to buy one. The two of us had a Pernod together at a nearby café, and I learned that Marguerite had left the École de la Grande Chaumière, which had been too conservative for her, and was now at the École la Palette, where she was quickly becoming a little Fauve. Marguerite also wrote a weekly column for her hometown newspaper, the Fresno Morning Republican, a sort of “American in Paris” description of her experiences as an art student, and she wanted to use me and my show as the subject of this week’s column, in which she intended to mention my “famous” friends: Willy, Coco, and especially Pablo.
“I didn’t know they were so famous,” I said.
“Close friends are never famous,” Marguerite said, and took out her notebook and began to ask me quest
ions about them.
“Do they pay you for writing the column?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Marguerite. “Ten dollars a throw.”
Without waiting to see if my father was going to answer my letter, I wrote to the editor of the Arkansas Gazette, enclosing a sample of one of Marguerite’s columns and asking if the Gazette might be interested in having me write something similar for them, on a weekly basis, or even daily, if they wanted it.
Waiting for a reply from the Gazette sustained me through a dark period of poverty that culminated in the arrival of this letter from home:
Dear Viridis—
Glad to hear from you at last. Wondered whatever had become of you. Sounds like you are doing okay. Always wanted to see Gay Paree myself but never could. Sounds like there is lots to see there and lots to do. Glad to know the teachers think you are doing okay.
Wish we could say the same but things are not going too hot here. Problems with your sister. The boys are all doing okay, Matthew got married in June, didn’t know where to send you the invite. Your mother stays over to Hot Springs just about all the time. Doctors don’t seem to know what to do, just keep her happy and reasonable sober.
Viridis, I am not dictating this to my secretary but writing it out myself. You should have known that Cyrilla could never match up to you. I don’t know why I let you think that. She just plain could not take it, and I didn’t know what to do. I guess I was desperate and tried too hard, and she couldn’t take it, and tried to do away with herself. You don’t want to hear the details, it would make you feel as awful as I did. I am going broke paying for her fancy treatments now on top of your mother’s.
So if you think I’ve got loads of money laying around loose to keep you in high style in Gay Paree, you got another guess or two coming to you, girl. I think you better just catch the next boat home. I mean this. You do what I tell you, and come right on home. The enclosed draft on Credet Lyonnaize (sp) is to pay for your boat ticket, and your train ticket from NY to LR, and not for anything else, hear me?
Your poor old father really does love you and miss you something terrible and can’t wait to hold you again and tell you many, many sweet things. See you soon.
C.J.M.
The days after that letter came are still a dream, or at least I remember them no better than we remember our dreams. Coco said that I spent many weeks just sitting in my room doing nothing except staring at my useless hands.
What saved me finally, or restored me, was my first real memory of those days: looking down at my useless hands and discovering that they contained a letter, which I vividly recall reading almost as if it were my salvation, a letter from Thomas Fletcher, the features editor of the Arkansas Gazette, who said that, yes, they would be interested in seeing a column I might wish to write, with a view toward regular publication (weekly, at best, not daily). I roused myself out of my fugue or funk, or whatever depression I was in, and wrote a column, which I titled “An Arkansawyer in Paris,” trying to capture for the homefolks the sights and sounds and smells of Paris. My first column was devoted to the life of the streets: the quay along the Seine, with its many bookstalls where you could buy books and prints very cheap; the street musicians; a barrel organ pulled by a donkey; the strong, gray draught horses with their heavy carts; the colorful, picturesque caps the women wore, and the failure of the caps to cover the sadness in their eyes. For weeks after mailing it off to Thomas Fletcher, I feared that my column had captured the melancholy and suffering of Paris but not its gaiety. Yet finally Thomas Fletcher wrote back to say that the Gazette would be happy to use it and subsequent columns on a regular basis—although style or usage required them to change the title to “An Arkansan in Paris,” and Thomas Fletcher was required to blue-pencil my references to Bohemian free love, drinking, and “abstract” art. The Gazette began to run my column weekly, and in Paris in those days it was possible, though difficult, to live on the $8.50 a week that the Gazette paid me.
Marguerite Thompson came into my life again, asking me if I wanted to join the American Women’s Art Association of Paris and to show my work at the annual exhibition of the American Art Students’ Club. I said yes, and took the opportunity to thank her for having suggested what was now my sole means of livelihood, my column for the Gazette. We two columnists exchanged notes and experiences. Marguerite was leaving Paris soon to travel in Bordeaux and perhaps Spain. Would I like to go with her? I couldn’t afford it. Marguerite generously offered to pay my expenses. Why? “Because I like you,” Marguerite said. “I like your work. You need to travel more, broaden your sense of landscape, get into the sunny South. Or are you afraid to leave your famous friends?”
No, I was all too eager to escape my famous friends, especially Willy, who could never take no for an answer and still attempted whenever he could to seduce me and, failing that, to insult me. As for Coco, our friendship was becoming strained, not by her suspicions (she suspected that Willy was unfaithful to her with every woman he knew…except me) but by our artistic differences: Coco’s painting was becoming increasingly charming, sweet, fashionable, and, yes, feminine; she was pleased with its feminine daintiness and sought to capitalize on it; I thought her painting was becoming more superficial and losing substance in both subject and form, and I couldn’t help telling her my reservations. In retaliation for my critical remarks on her feminine style, Coco called me an interior decorator who was all eye and no mind. Actually, her paintings and mine at that particular time were more similar than our arguments would have indicated, but we went our separate ways ideologically and, at last, geographically. I went with Marguerite to Bordeaux.
I never returned to Paris, except when passing through. With Marguerite I traveled to Burgos and Madrid during May and back to southern France for June; in July we traveled through Switzerland and to Germany (Nuremberg, Strasbourg, Heidelberg, and Munich). In August we rented a studio for six weeks in Bruges. Then we went to London for a while. I loved hearing English spoken again, and I decided to change the title of my column to “An Arkansawyer in London”—which became in Tom Fletcher’s hands, of course, “An Arkansan in London.” Tom had a cousin living there, a Little Rock man named John Gould Fletcher, who was becoming a well-known poet, or trying to, and when Marguerite decided to go back to Paris (to study at La Palette, where she would meet her future husband, the artist William Zorach), John Gould Fletcher helped me find a room off St. Martin’s Lane, and Tom Fletcher raised my “salary” to ten dollars per column. I remained in London all that winter.
Before Marguerite returned to the United States and married Zorach, she invited me to rejoin her in the spring and summer of 1911, and we painted together in Avignon, Saint-Rémy, Aries, Les Baux, Martigues, and Marseilles. She and I shared a great love for the work of Vincent van Gogh and wished we had known him, and we tried to find the places he had painted in Arles, and we each painted our own versions of a little café in Arles that van Gogh had loved; neither of us imitated van Gogh, but we were inspired by him and felt a little of his passion. In those days not much was yet known or written about the life of van Gogh, who is very famous now, but I knew that he had been a very religious man who had remained a complete skeptic, and I knew that he had danced on the edge of insanity for a long time. I also knew that he had sold only one painting during his whole life, and although he had received slightly more for it than I had received for the portrait of Pablo, he had lived in wretched neglect and poverty. The painting I am proudest of having done during that period, which now hangs in the offices of the Gazette, is called Olive Trees in Arles, and it shows a quartet of low, twisting trees writhing and chanting in the southern sunshine against a background of mountains more like Cézanne’s than van Gogh’s. I did not use olive green in the picture but several shades of green that give the total effect of being olive: there are patterns of apple green, pea green, sea green, beryl, reseda, Kendal and Dartmouth greens, choiring together. The picture is suffused with a sense of hope, joy, and youth,
although I wept the entire time I was painting it. Marguerite could not understand why I was crying my heart out while painting such a happy picture.
In October, Marguerite and her aunt and another friend prepared to sail on a voyage that would last seven months and take them to San Francisco by way of the Orient. Marguerite invited me to come, and assured me that I could make a good rail connection from Fresno to Little Rock—after, she hoped, serving as a bridesmaid at her wedding. I was homesick, and I said yes. We sailed from Venice, and I began to write for Tom Fletcher articles entitled “An Arkansawyer in Cairo,” “An Arkansawyer in Alexandria,” “An Arkansawyer in Palestine,” “An Arkansawyer in Port Said,” “An Arkansawyer in Calcutta,” “An Arkansawyer in Mandalay,” “An Arkansawyer in Hong Kong,” and “An Arkansawyer in Yokohama.” Needless to add, Tom Fletcher insisted each time on transforming me into an “Arkansan” before the columns saw print, but otherwise he ran most of them as I’d written them. He personally met my train when it arrived in Little Rock, because he alone had been wired from Fresno that I was coming home.
My father did not know, until he looked up from his desk in his private office at the bank one day and said, “Well, lookee who’s here! You sure have gone all the way around the world, haven’t you? Are you home to stay?”
From my purse I took a snub-nosed derringer I had been given by an art dealer in Los Angeles, and I let my father look into the barrel of it, and I said, “I’m home to stay, Daddy, but if you ever try to fuck me again, I’ll kill you.”
On
He did not know what to say. His eyes filled with tears. There was no mistaking the singing of the trees as their green boughs swayed, their limbs danced, their leaves rustled and trembled and quivered in quaver with their voices. A song of life.
The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1 Page 160