Several years passed and I became interested, as I have explained, in a little Japanese artist, Hanako. I remembered how Sada Yacco had pleased the Clareties, and I asked them to come and see my new Japanese star. After the performance they came to the dressing-room of the dearest little actress in the world, and I had the pleasure of receiving them there.
Some days later I received an invitation to lunch with M. and Mme. Claretie. It was extended to little Hanako and myself. The day arrived, and we set forth. Hanako appeared to be quite unaware that she was going to lunch with a celebrated writer, and experienced no excitement at the idea of paying a visit to the director of the world’s first theatre. I had lived in Paris long enough to be able to group people according to their standing, and I was, for my part, somewhat confused. Hanako was curious only as regards the things she was going to see, since all intercourse with others was barred from the fact that she spoke only Japanese. Indeed, it was because she knew it would please me, and because I had expressly begged her to do so, was she willing to come to this lunch. She was charming, with her odd little wooden sandals, which she called her shoes, and her robes worn one over the other. She gave an impression of nothing lacking. Hanako is so exquisite that it is difficult to draw her likeness. Her stature is so slight that she barely reaches a tall man’s waist.
Mme. Claretie received us so cordially that we were at once glad we came. Then M. Claretie came in, very refined and very simple. He was accompanied by M. Prudhon, an impressive person, who did not utter a word. He was presented to me as the director’s right-hand man. I wondered how it was possible to carry on business without saying anything. From noon until three o’clock, as a matter of fact, I did not hear a single word escape his lips. At the table I asked Mme. Claretie, in an undertone in English:
“Is he dumb?”
She began to laugh in her friendly and reassuring way and replied:
“Oh, no, but he never has much to say.”
Then, thinking the ice broken, I looked at M. Prudhon smiling. He did not smile at all, and I said to him vivaciously:
“If you continue to contradict me in that way I won’t say another word to you.”
M. Prudhon, still serious, bowed and had nothing to say.
This quip, which did not even make him smile, was not an original one with me, I make haste to say. I had heard it said by a young girl who was my private secretary, and who wanted to stir up a gentleman who was unpleasantly silent. M. Prudhon reminded me of that man, and I wanted to see what effect the remark would have on him. It had no effect.