"My head seemed bursting with ideas. I could not sleep, and my days were one prolonged irritation, and I became so nervous que j'etais devenu impossible. The slightest interruption sent me into spasms of delire. Do you know what I did?" he asked me.
"I suppose," I answered, "you went on writing, all the same."
"No. You could never guess," he laughed. "I sat in a bath-tub all day. In this way no one could come and disturb me, and I was left alone."
"Tubs," I remarked, "seem to belong to celebrities. Diogenes had one, I remember, where he sat and pondered."
"But it was not a bath-tub. I consider my idea rather original! Do you not think that the Great Sarah is magnificent in 'L'Aiglon'?"
"Magnificent," I said. "You are fortunate to have such an interpreter."
"Am I not?" He was a delightful man.
He sent me a few lines of the Princess Lointaine, with his autograph.
At Mr. Dannat's, the well-known American portrait-painter, I met the celebrated composer Moskowski. One does not expect to find good looks and a pleasing talker and a charmeur in a modern artist. But he combines all of these. He said:
"I shall die a most miserable and unhappy man."