Loti, the naval officer, and Loti, the author of "Pêcheurs d'Islande," was carried away, and turning to me, he said: "Isn't my friend wonderful! As you listen to him, you can see the swelling ocean, you can feel the sea-breeze in your face...."
"Yes, and you can even taste the brine, smell the musty fish and... feel sea-sick!" I added, for some of the details in the song really gave one qualms.
Loti was not pleased, and to make amends I spoke about those books of his which I preferred, the "Roman d'un Spahi," "Mon Frère Yves," and "Propos d'Exil." And, as we talked, we travelled together to the Far East, and landed on an island in the South Seas, whereupon, using that gift that perhaps he alone among living men possesses, he began to describe the music and colour and even the fragrance of tropical nature with such magical power and subtlety that my senses were dazzled and bewitched....
CHAPTER V
MY SALON (continued)
AMONGST the "faithful," I must not forget to mention Henner, "the great painter of the flesh," as he called himself in one of his rare poetical moments.
Henner was dumpy, coarse-featured, and almost bald; had a shaggy grey beard, and ever-begrimed hands, and wore the shabbiest and greasiest of clothes. And it came as a shock to hear this old man, unspeakably unkempt and slovenly, talk with the worst Alsatian accent about the Beauty of the Nude, and the splendour of woman, which he did in a very matter-of-fact and unpoetical manner. But besides being a great artist, he was kind, honest and simple-hearted, like his old friend Bonnat.
The painter of "Chaste Susanna," "The Magdalene," and "The Levite of the Tribe of Ephraïm," enjoyed nothing better than a good dinner and old Burgundy.
I was a little apprehensive when he called, for the spoilt old child could not help speaking his mind bluntly. I was once begged by an acquaintance to use my influence to make the painter accept an invitation which had been extended to him several times. The aged bachelor, who disliked all functions save good dinners in congenial and familiar surroundings, accepted, after a great deal of coaxing. He arrived late, as usual, and unkempt, as usual. He had broken his stud, after having fidgeted with it for a long time, for there were very evident marks of a struggle in the centre of his shirt front. He saw me at once and instead of going straight to the hostess he rushed up to me and exclaimed: "Why didn't you tell me you were coming too; I should never have hesitated to accept?" Then, turning to the host, he said: "Well, well, and so you are the famous M. H.... who made your fortune years ago by selling shirts. I suppose if I made a sketch of you, you'd pay me with a dozen collars. I am told you own a fine art gallery here. I daresay you got all those modern pictures in exchange for shirts and hosiery, eh?" And he burst out laughing.
The tactless surmise happened to be correct. As a matter of fact, M. H. had once called on my husband and abruptly proposed to supply him for life with shirts and collars in exchange for a certain painting which he fancied. I tried not to be angry. "My husband," I said, "wears only the very best shirts...."
"I quite understand that."