DOROTHEA STRAUS
370
the end of the road we came to a tall, fieldstone wall with an iron
grille gate, the entrance to an estate, but the name outside was
unknown. Beyond, there was only virgin woods. Puzzled, we re–
traced our steps, reading each signpost with care. In front of a
small shingled house, no different from its neighbors, with a
stingy square of grass spread before it like a mat, we saw with
disbelief the name:
Petite Plaisance.
Upon entering, the interior was so obscure that I was able to
distinguish our hostess only in silhouette: a massive form mov–
ing with measured dignity to greet us. The voice was calm, deep,
the words faintly accented. She seemed to fill the limited space to
brimming, and like a classical structure rising above an over–
crowded district, she dwarfed the clutter of furniture. Growing
accustomed to the interior twilight, I was not able to discern the
pillared cupboards, the claw-footed chairs and tables, gilt–
trimmed, the heavy, wintry burgundy-red tasseled curtains of a
belle epoque,
urban, bourgeois decor. As in a dream, I groped for
that other place that my imagination had created, more real than
this solid setting in which I found myself. But just as someone
who falls out of love is confounded when he sees, finally, the real
object of his obsession, and relinquishes that other image, I was
forced to forego the aristocratic retreat of my fancy and to accept
this stuffy salon on the main street of a New England village.
Marguerite Yourcenar and my husband were discussing
the publication of a forthcoming book on the Japanese writer,
Mishima. I had leisure to examine her, and her appearance un–
like her setting was not at variance with my expectations. The
creator of
Memoirs of Hadrian
looked more imperial Roman than
French. Nearing eighty, she remained ageless, her ponderous
l:>ody denoting power rather than excess. Her head was large,
sculptural, the white hair brushed back from a spacious brow.
Her features were generous; only the eyes, under heavy brows,
were small, of undetermined color, as if the acute intelligence of
their glance, like some strong acid, had burned away pigment,
leaving only spark and depth. I seem to recall a mole on a cheek–
bone, the only coquettish touch on the imperial countenance, the
sole reminder of my former dreamings of French court life.
A miniature gray poodle bounded into the room, interrupt–
ing the business discussion. I noted a new tone of tenderness in
Marguerite Yourcenar's voice as she said: "This is Trier. He is
