On the branch; from the French of Pierre de Coulevain

Front matter

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Cornell universiiy uonry PQ 2611.A966S9 1909

Contents

PAGE

I. Paris

II. Cannes ^"

II Cannes, Hotel Riche

If ever any creature had a belief in liberty it is certainly I. This belief has always made me curiously sensitive to the suggestion of movement. It often happens that I sit down to dinner without having the slightest idea of going out afterwards. If there should be any one in the dining-room ready equipped for the theatre I immediately feel inchned to go too, and I accordingly do so. When I see a friend packing her trunks I have all the diiBculty in the world to restrain myself from imitating her. No one could realise all the fluttering about of a woman " on the branch."

As a result of hearing all around me the words " I am going to Nice, to Cannes, to Monte Carlo," a longing to see the south of France again came to me. The ideas which influence our life come to us from outside, and I had received my orders to advance. It was like a little holiday accorded to me after the completion of my novel. Cannes was the only place in the Riviera that I did not know. A sort of fate had always barred the road to it for me hitherto. It attracted me now for that very reason.

To arrive at night in an unknown town, to open my window the following morning on a new horizon and to go out alone in strange streets is an exquisite pleasure to me. The presence of anyone, no matter whom, would entirely spoil this pleasure for me. It is, as it were, a communion with the soul of the country, that soul created by the race of its inhabitants, the architecture of its houses, the climate, a crowd of things visible and invisible. I always feel it very distinctly. It makes a deep impression on me, and causes me either sadness or joy. The first impression is never effaced, and the remembrance of it alone suffices to reproduce it. After the pleasure of exploring the place to which I have been brought, there is that of making acquaintance with my hotel. The general effect is about the same everywhere. Corridors with doors on each side, like those of a convent or a prison, a dining-room with square or round tables covered with white cloths with their stiff creases, a reading-room with newspapers, hideous books of advertisements, heavy, uncomfortable armchairs, drawing-rooms that are often very magnificent, but which do not look any more private than the street. In spite of all that is hopelessly commonplace, every hotel has a special atmosphere. This atmosphere is antipathetic or congenial, gloomy or gay, according to the disposition of the proprietors, according to the people who frequent it, the general tone of the servants, the arrangements of the rooms. The atmosphere of the immense caravanseras run by companies is icy-cold.

It would be impossible for me to endure it for a long time. The Hotel Riche, where I am staying, is about ten minutes from the town, in the midst of a park. I like its general aspect. I have a nice room on the fourth floor, and the view from my balcony is very fine. With flowers, my books, a few photographs, my pens, inkstand and my papers, I can make any place where I am staying seem like home. The arrival in any hotel where I am going to stay for some time always amuses me. The strangers with whom I am about to enter into contact resuscitate my life, vary it, turn it, perhaps, in another direction, and I, myself, have some kind of influence on them. This excites my curiosity intensely. As soon as one is in a fresh centre one feels the play of those fluids to which are due the continuance of the human being. Your presence aff'ects this person disagreeably, that one agreeably and leaves the others indifferent. Aflinities of education, of sentiment, of mind make you find your level quickly. The Hotel Riche is rather behind the times. It still has a table d'hote as well as private tables. This is less chic, but it develops sociability. My first dinner has left me with a good impression. Flowers, men and women in evening dress, gave an elegant look to the room. The conversation seemed to me gay and animated. I saw a few faces that I liked and that were even interesting. The English and American element predominates. I am glad of that, as it means more cleanliness and more propriety. There are enough French, Russians and Spaniards to give a warm colouring to this human group. Well, I do not think I shall be bored here, at any rate.

Cannes.

Travelling and the change of surroundings always cause a kind of bewilderment to the mind, a brusque cessation of its work. According to the place in which it finds itself transplanted, it requires more or less time for taking up again the thread of its thoughts. It feels the ground, moves roimd on the same spot and finally recovers its activity. I am now installed and acclimatized. The new track on which my life has been placed is rather agreeable than otherwise. At seven o'clock my tea is brought to me. I have it in front of my open window, and, while drinking it slowly, I write, with my book on my lap. The pure morning air is wonderfully refreshing. At times I gaze out at the mountains and the sea . . . my pen stops and a curious intoxication takes possession of me. It is as though I enter into all this beauty of light, as though I am absorbed by something very great. I am no longer here — but over yonder — up there — far away from my body, and I am divinely happy. This sensation is comparatively new to me. It is of brief duration, unfortunately, and I am only too quickly brought back to my scribbling, to my breakfast, to all that I have to do. As soon as I am dressed I go out into the town. The place itself, with its agglomeration of houses, of people, and its shop windows, exercise a certain fascination which no one escapes. The old town of Cannes charms and attracts me always. I stop at the flower-market, I go into the book-shop, I stroll along on the Croisette. After lunch and the little chat during coff'ee, I go back to my room. I lie down on the sofa, read the papers and sleep for a few minutes. After this daily siesta I always get up feeling fresh and rested. In the afternoon, either alone or with someone, I go for a long walk or drive which invariably ends with a cup of tea at Rumpelmayer's. On returning to the hotel I write until dinner time. During the evening I play cards, billiards, dominoes or roulette. All games amuse and absorb me. When I am at the whisttable, for instance, nothing exists for me except the card combinations. These unexpected combinations, which vary ad mfinitv/m cause me a surprise of which I never weary. This is a good example of atavism, as my father and grandfather were great gamblers. This distraction, in which there is no question of interest, refreshes my brain. Whilst at the green table, the characters in novels and comedies, all philosophical thoughts and troublesome questions vanish. As soon as I go back to my room they all come to life again and I am sometimes obliged to work until a very late hour. I have not a moment for ruminating over the past, nor for thinking of the horrors of the old age which is approaching. Hotel life compels me to pay more attention to my person, to my dress, to be amiable, eventempered, not to think of my weariness or slight ailments ; in short it prevents me from getting lax, physically and morally.

Cannes, When, in the evening, I see all these people of various races in the hotel rooms, I cannot believe that it is just due to chance or to their own will that they are here. Some of them come from very far away, from Chili, from San Francisco. Is it just to gossip, talk and play games that they have been gathered together under the same roof.'' No, it certainly is not. There must be under all this some very interesting weaving, some commencement of things, an exchange of life necessary to the progress of all. They all appear to belong to the same society, to the same civilization, and yet they represent diiferent degrees of moral elevation. Three circles are constituted and reconstituted invariably: the English circle, the American circle, the French circle. In the English circle the women knit long, ribbed stockings of the kind so dear to sportsmen, or gloves for the Newfoundland fishermen. They talk in a monotonous voice; their faces are grave and cold, but their eyes are soft. They play cards with a concentrated passion that is perfectly disciplined. In the French circle there is more light and vivacity. The women manufacture pretty little things in bright colours. They talk, not perhaps about very elevated subjects, but the conversation is kept up without flagging. The game, whatever it may be, is played gaily, with an accompaniment of droll remarks. In the American circle there is more beauty, more elegance and youth. The women, most of them with large hats which are apparently riveted to their heads, and purses with gold meshes hanging round their wrists, chatter unceasingly.

They play poker with an ardour that brings patches of colour to their cheeks. Some charming exotic women come and go among these groups. What fine races they represent ! The setting of their eyes always amazes me. On their small-featured faces one sees the reflection of a kindly, childlike soul. The Russian and Polish women stand out in extraordinary relief. One feels their immense capabilities. In these modem surroundings, with their intense-looking expression, their enthusiasm, they seem to me curiously out-of-date. I always come back to the American women with pleasure and interest. When they talk French all their fine selfassurance vanishes. Their expression, their very voices soften, a something naive is evolved from them, a something very young, which is, perhaps, the real basis of their soul. I owe much to them. Their activity has often stimulated my idleness. Through them I have, as it were, felt the ebullition of the life of their country. In the class which I call " Young America " I notice a growing nervosity, an extreme lassitude, a disgust of money even. One of them, after passing the winter at Naples, said to me : " How refreshing it is to meet people who are well-bom and poor ! " These extremely worldly women have a vacillating look in their eyes, the expression of hunted creatures. They come to rest themselves in the slower movement of our life, and then they start again, hurled afresh into the wild saraband, where they will end by falling down victims to nervous prostration.

When I observe them I am not surprised at the increasing number of divorces, at the social dislocation, proofs of which are given us in the newspapers. All this, however, only happens on the surface, and over a very limited extent. There is in the United States an admirable stratum of resistance, a class which we scarcely know, and of which we have no equivalent. The rigid principles, the indomitable faith that the emigrants from England and HoUand took into the New World with their family Bible were like a kind of cement. It is thanks to this cement that their work of founders resisted the assaults of adventurers, and that it still resists the thrusts of the multitude greedy for money. This Puritan soul of the Pilgrim Fathers is not confined to the clan of their direct descendants, the famous Four Hundred. It is, perhaps, enfeebled there but it has penetrated the whole country — north, east, and west. It is predominant in Boston and in Philadelphia. It has created a kind of moral humus, thanks to which we have serious, high-minded men and women. When such men and women are three generations old they are what the Yankees call " our best people," and I always describe them as " Old America." In " Old America " divorces are rare and families very united. The women do not willingly leave their homes. They only come to Europe, as a rule, in order to learn, and most of them are highly cultured. The Puritan spirit causes their mentality to be somewhat limited and very bourgeois in its severity. It manifests itself still with them by an absence of taste, a contempt for dress. They are wanting in charm and in brilliancy, but they give an agreeable impression of sincerity and of purity. The question is whether Nature cannot give brilliancy to worthy people or whether she does not wish to do so. I delight in bringing French and American women into contact with each other. In the most simple conversation their difference of character is evident. The other day I introduced a woman belonging to " Old America " to a provincial woman of Paris.

" Have you any children? " asked the French woman.

The face of the American woman lighted up prettily.

" Four," she replied, " and twelve grandchildren."

" Four children and twelve grandchildren and you are in Europe.? "

" Oh, they don't need me."

" No, perhaps not ; but if I were in your place I should need them."

"What for.?"

This " what for " caused Madame de B a visible

shock.

" I write to my children every night," continued Mrs. Wilson. " I tell them what I have done and what I have seen. My letter leaves every Wednesday. Each mail brings me news from one or the other of them. We are, therefore, in constant communication. God has given me excellent health and I ought to take advantage . of it. There are so many things still to see ! "

"What things.?"

" Sweden, Norway — I am going there this summer. I went to Japan at the time of the chrysanthemums, and I must go there again when the cherry-trees are in blossom."

Oh, the expression of Madame de B , of the left

bank of the River Seine, on hearing this woman of fifty-five years of age, a woman with twelve grandchildren, talk of going back to Japan to see the cherry-trees in blossom. It amuses me whenever I think of it. Much she cared for Sweden, Norway and Japan. The French woman, like the Latin woman generally, is still entirely absorbed by man and maternity. When love is over she sees nothing else here on earth. When her children marry she clings to them, endeavours to get back her son or her daughter, and is always in the way in the new home. Most of these women try to find consolation in the exercise of puerile religious devotions, or in some regular charitable work. All of them grow old very quickly.

The American woman prides herself in having found out the secret of not growing old. Her advice is never to lose interest in life, but, on the contrary, to draw from its best forces, to keep up with it, to learn all the time and not even to keep count of the years. She is scientifically right. The real fountain of youth is in our brain. If we keep up the activity of its cells this will accelerate the circulation of the blood, of the vital fluids, give brilliancy to the eyes, preserve the suppleness of the body, keep off illness and old age and even death. God grant that there may be some day in France grandmothers capable of going, like courageous bees, to seek afar beautiful sights and impressions — in a word, to get honey for their grandchildren.

Cannes.

I have never liked what is known by the pretentious name of the Cote d' Azur, and this fresh experience does not reconcile me with it. Unnatural heat and blinding light, a breath of trdstrdl in the atmosphere, which sweeps away all mists, intensifies the blue of the sky and sea to a sombre indigo, and gives a disagreeable hardness to all lines. Verdure and flowers, it is true, but the silence of winter without the songs of the birds. The peasants kill the birds through ignorance and avarice. The sunsets are wonderful, but treacherous. One would like to stay out in order not to miss one single effect of the changing light, of that golden violet which no human palette can render, but one is driven indoors. A peculiar humidity causes a deathly chill to run down one's back. The air is laden with visible and invisible enemies and in this pernicious air the mosquitoes, winged poison as they are, intoxicated with their love, dance their wild dance and take in, perhaps, a fresh provision of venom. I must own frankly that I prefer the sunsets of Paris. Though I do not like the South of France, I like the cosmopolitans one meets there. Beside the society people and the gay set, there are always a number of individuals who come there in search of oblivion or health, in search of a little physical or moral warmth. Something has been, or is now, going on within their soul.

About a week ago, an Englishman, who at once aroused my interest, arrived at the Hotel Riche. He is about fifty-five or sixty years of age. His tall, upright figure gives him a robust appearance, but the leaden pallor of his face, his features which are being chiselled, as it were, from within, and his liquid eyes betray the work of destruction that is being accomplished within his finelooking body. I had seen from the visitors' list that his name was Sir William Randolph. He was accompanied by his wife and, although he seemed to wish to keep aloof, I was sure that we should make each other's acquaintance. In the evening, when I was playing bridge, I met his gaze several times fixed on me with an expression of astonishment, and I noticed on his lips that irritating, humorous smile peculiar to Englishmen. This morning, as I was resting under the verandah after my walk in town, I saw him coming along from the far end of the Park. My sympathy went out involuntarily towards him and reached him in some inyisjble manner, for he came direct to my arm-chair.

" I do not know whether it is the correct thing to speak without an introduction to an authoress in order to thank her for the pleasure she has given me? "

" It may not be the correct thing, but it is very nice of you," I answered, amused at this general way of entering into conversation. I pointed to a chair and added: "You like novels, then?"

" When they are good, yes, just as I like a good cigar. I am not allowed to smoke, so I make up for that by reading novels. Don't you think it strange that a man should require stories and the theatre when he has life to look at? "

" No, for his faculties do not allow him to grasp things suflSciently. The novel and the theatre are not the mirror of hfe, they are life in the mirror. It is only there that he can see it, and, besides, he finds there the complete action which satisfies his innate desire to know the end of things."

Sir William Randolph looked at me in surprise.

" I think you have hit it," he said. " Your explanation seems to me very plausible."

"How did you come across my stories?" I asked curiously.

" As chance would have it, your publisher is my bookseller, and he sent me your two works to Algeria. I opened them with misgiving."

" Because they were by a French author, I suppose? "

"Precisely. French novehsts have a great deal of talent, but they too often treat disagreeable subjects. This is a matter of regret not only to the ' hypocritical English,' " said Sir William Randolph, mischievously, " but to refined people in all countries."

" People do not write the novels they would like to write, that is very certain," I said. " My dream was to publish stories about the humble classes, about animals, about a strong and simple kind of life. You have seen what I have written."

" I am not sorry, though. Your books contain so many thoughts, and a study of characters which has interested me keenly, although I have not very much sympathy with our American cousins."

" I should have been surprised if it had been otherwise," I said smiling.

" I have no prejudice against them, believe me. Their faults shock me, and my education prevents me from appreciating their extremely modem qualities. Judge for yourself. They are the only women in the world who willingly leave their husband and children, enjoy themselves, and are quite happy away from them."

" That is true, but have you ever thought that, if the conjugal bond were as close in their country as in ours, it would interfere with the action of the men and hinder their work? Do you not think that these women are the necessary agents of exchange between the New and the Old World, the unconscious vehicles of ideas and of impressions? "

" No ; I have not a novelist's imagination."

" There is no imagination in that ; it is scientifically true. The invisible cargo of an Atlantic liner is considerably more important than that which pays duty, but in quite another way."

Sir William looked at me an instant.

" You amaze me more and more. When my wife came and told me that you were Jean Noel, I did not think it possible."

" Because you thought I was too old to be a new author? »

" No, I could not believe that the person who had stirred up ideas such as those which had struck me, could shuffle cards with such animation and be so absorbed in that abominable bridge."

" But the person is not the same," I exclaimed, in all good faith. " This one is Madame de Myeres, a very frivolous woman, who would willingly finish her life playing bezique. Jean Noel was only bom five years ago. He remained long enough in limbo, you see."

" That is why he is so vigorous. I am glad of it, for I intend waging war with him on many points."

" You are not a Francophobe, I hope? "

" No ; I even have an instinctive liking for the French, but I do not always understand them. I do not luiderstand them when they exclaim, after every check : ' We have been betrayed ! ' I do not understand them in defeat, when, instead of rallying round their government, instead of standing shoulder to shoulder, they quarrel and kill each other. With us, Napoleon might have avenged Waterloo. It was you who sent him to St. Helena."

" You are quite right."

" I did not understand the French in their way of treating Ferry, in the Boulanger afi^air, and still less in the Dreyfus affair. Their attitude at the time of our war with the Boers pained me, and had the same effect on other people. We had been attacked, and we were defeated at Majuba Hill, and we could not stop at that. All great nations have sins of conquest on their conscience, if, indeed, these be sins. Are you not keeping a certain little Malgache queen in exile.'' "

" Your country and mine are both accomplishing the work that is imposed upon us, that is all. But would you like me to give you the key to our character? "

" Ah, I should be delighted if you would."

" Well, then, the Saxon and Teutonic races, and their various branches, are masculine. The Latin, Slavonic, and Celtic races are feminine. The feminine element predominates in the French soul. Study our history and our literature, and you will find it there constantly, with all its defects and all its good qualities."

The face of Sir William lighted up.

" Upon my word," he exclaimed, " it must be that ! "

" I have often visited England," I said, " and I regret that we should remain so obstinately foreign to each other."

" And yet, in your books, you have carefully excluded the Englishman from the field of your observations, I have noticed that."

" Well, you will not lose anything by waiting. I have a volume on your country in preparation."

"Oh, I shall enjoy that!"

" I have hesitated a hundred times, with pen in hand, before expressing an opinion. I have made it a point of honour to be fair, as I do not want to be found guilty of injustice or of partiality. At the same time I have tried to give you a clearer and truer idea of our character. I am sure that you have never crossed the threshold of a French house."

" Yes, I have. Three years ago Lady Randolph and I met the Lussons at the Hotel Riche. They are charming people, with a daughter of eighteen. We were very soon on friendly terms with them, and one day, during the conversation, my wife, who is Irish, happened to mention that one of her cousins on her mother's side had married a Frenchman, named La Reynie. To our mutual amazement, we discovered that the said cousin was the grandmother of Madame de Lusson."

" Life has pleasant surprises for us sometimes."

" And cruel ones still more often. However that may be, this discovery brought about a very delightful friendship between us and our new acquaintances. They came and stayed with us for a month at Simley Hall, Staffordshire. We paid them a visit later on in Touraine. I really came into touch then with France, and saw more of your good qualities than I had yet seen. The Lussons' estate, the Commanderie de Rouziers, is about seven miles from Tours."

" The Commanderie de Rouziers ! " I exclaimed, "Why, I know it!"

"Really?"

" An adorable house in Louis XIII style? "

" Exactly."

" The last ten years I have spent the month of October at Vouvray with some friends there. They pointed out the house to me on one of our excursions."

" How curious that is ! " said Sir William Randolph. " We shall find yet that we have mutual ties."

" I should not be surprised, meetings in this world are often prepared from afar — "

At this moment the luncheon-bell rang and we rose. I held out my hand to my companion and said " Au revoir."

" If you will allow me, I should like to introduce my wife this afternoon."

"With pleasure," I answered; "but to whom shall you introduce her — to Madame de Myeres or to Jean Noel?"

Sir WiUiam looked at me, hesitated, and then, with a mocking smile, replied

" I will introduce her to Madame de Myeres, for she plays whist and dominoes. I will keep Jean Noel for myself, if you will allow me to do so."

" Very well," I answered, and upon this we separated and I went upstairs to my room rather agitated, with that sensation which always warn me, now that something has happened or is about to happen. Was it in order to come into contact with this mind that I had been sent to Cannes?

Cannes.

Well, we are friends now, the Randolphs and I! Friends! What a delightful phenomenon it is, this friendship of human creatures! For a long time they walk along different paths, then they cross suddenly towards the same point and meet each other. A hundred circumstances bring them together with significant persistance. A photographic transmission of images and impressions takes place between their brains. Each of them puts a little of his substance into the soul of the other, enough to produce mutual vibrations, more or less profound, of course. The Randolphs, of whose very existence I was unaware a fortnight ago, now know my mother, that luminous figure, the memory of which brightens my life. They know my father, too, and my friends, dead and living. I have talked to them of my childhood, of my youth and, incidentally, of my marriage. With that intuition of refined natures, they felt that this chapter contained something painful, and they did not want me to dwell on it. I feel really that from henceforth anything that may happen to me, either for good or for evil, would not be indifferent to them. This is to me both pleasant and embarrassing, for I have a jealous love of my solitude and my independence. They, on their side, have told me about their life. They have spoken of their eldest son, who died in India, of their married daughter, of their three grand-children, of their son Claude, and of Simley Hall, their old family home. I even know the names of all their dogs. Sir

William is at the head of an important colliery company, and owns coal mines in Staffordshire. Few men have given me such an impression of will-power. It seems as though strength emanates from his person. When I walk with him I have a distinct sensation of protection. He must have been very authoritative, a veritable lord and master for his wife and for all those connected with him. The horrible affection of the heart, which is killing him, has evidently softened and transformed his character. At times the sudden inflation of his nostrils, the instantaneous rigidity of his lips, betray the old man in him. He reminds me of a dying lion. There is in him that manly spirituality which is created in the Englishman by the Bible. It is viery different from the keen and sensual spirituality which drives certain Frenchmen into the cloister or to religious devotion. Sir William loves Nature, flowers and animals passionately. Astronomy is his favourite study. He has had an observatory built on his estate. In the evening when we are strolling about under the verandah, his gaze is always exploring the sky. Unless I am mistaken, there was something particularly sad about the death of his eldest son. It weighs on his mind in a way that is unusual.