PEOPLE IN PARIS
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climbed the narrow stairs to the sixth or seventh floor and hesitated for
several minutes before getting up ·courage to ring the bell. I had strained
my eyes, at my French finishing school, reading Gide by candle light, and
had written a long and amateurish essay on his writings. I was shown
into a hideous apartment, like an oldfashioned dentist's waiting room,
except that the walls were covered with paintings by Sickert. After a few
minutes Andre Gide came in; he was dressed in fawn coloured cloth
trousers with red silk braid down the leg, and a fawn jacket. I had not
expected this
costume d'inlerieure.
He rubbed his hands together
unctuously, and with a smile full of malice he said, "Mademoiselle, what
can I do for you?
Helas!
I cannot speak English." This surprised me
from the translator of Shakespeare, Blake and Conrad. I then ventured
upon the subject of my visit-would he give me something for the review
I was about to publish?
"Malheureusement, je n'ai rien en ce momenl."
Gide seemed to get a sadistic pleasure in being able to say this, like those
hotel managers in France whose delight it is to inform one that there is
not a room left. I never believe them and I did not believe Gide. I made
no gesture of leaving. Then suddenly, after staring piercingly at his
victim, he said,
"attendez un instant, je crois que j'ai quelque chose."
He
left me, and I heard him telephoning to a publisher,
Edition de
la
Tortue.
A
long and angry conversation ensued; the publisher evidently did not
want to give up a manuscript he was going to publish in a few months in
a de luxe edition; but I heard Gide insisting, telling the publisher that he
knew better about these things, that it would be excellent publicity for
the book. La Tortue gave in after such firmness. Few could have resisted.
Gide returned triumphantly, "I have got it for you, my translation of the
first act of Hamlet is yours." He went on to say how difficult it was to
write in good French without changing the original text and getting too
far from Shakespeare. To my mind, the French language has elegance,
conciseness and style, but as soon as you try to get beyond the finite, its
poverty becomes apparent. The reason why Gide's style has such a charm
lies in a trick he has of reversing the order of his adjectives-le
blanc
cheval,
for instance, instead of
le cheval blanc.
It is agony to read any
French translation of Shakespeare, including Gide's
"chair trop massive,
h!
si tu pouvais fondre, t'euaporer, te resoudre en rosee!"
for "oh that
is too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and dissolve itself into a dew."
e feels like crying, but could anyone do it better? We talked about
ickert and agreed that he was the greatest living English painter. Then,
s I left, a curious incident took place. I pushed the lift bell and waited,
ut the elevator did not appear. I turned round and saw Gide who had
en watching me through a narrow opening in the door. He smiled
iabolically and said in perfect English, "You cannot go down in the lift,
does not go down."
The next time I saw Gide was at Marie Louise Bousquet's house. He
as charming on this occasion, all the formality of the business interview
as gone. He said,
"vous voyez comme vous m'avez seduit, je vous ai
anne un de mes meilleurs oeuvres."
The last time I saw him, he was
