Chapter 12

The Rousseau Banquet, as it came to be known was another night I would never forget. I was now aware of the extent of Picasso's mischieveness. Add Max Jacob, Andre Salmon and the rest of the Picasso mob and anything could happen.

These men were seasoned pranksters. They reveled in poking fun at people and using them as butts of their jokes. Everyone knew that Picasso's primary goal was to pull Rousseau's leg. Everyone, that is, except Rousseau.

Once, Picasso painted fake medicine labels and placed them on a night stand. Then he had Max lay on the bed while, with whitened face, he pretended to be sick and dying. Picasso announced to everyone in the area that his friend was in the final stages of some invented illness. Everyone came to visit the fun loving Max before he expired.

As a tribute to their friendship, as was the custom, they each said farewell and left a few sous to defray the cost of the funeral. When enough money was collected, Max made a miraculous recovery and the inner circle of friends all went out on a drinking spree.

Now Picasso Was Paying for Entertainment

But that was before Picasso started selling paintings. Now, some years later, it was Picasso who was paying for the entertainment. There was rumor that Picasso had recently sold a few paintings to a foreign collector. He and Fernande were planning to move to the rue De Clichy.
Pablo lived, at that time, with Fernande Olivier at 13 rue Ravignan, better known as The Bateau-Lavoire.

His studio home was a small room in this miserably damp, converted piano factory made of wood and painted green. The ugly building housed many artists and poets including Andre Salmon, Van Dongen and Modigliani.

(Place des Vosges (Marais-Paris)

There was one sole toilet for the entire building and the only water source was the small green fountain in the square outside. Picasso's quarters were really too small for a party so the festivities spilled over into the neighboring studios and hallways. There were about thirty guests invited to pay homage to Rousseau.

Gertrude and Alice were there to help. Alice wore a black velvet hat with a yellow feather. Gertrude dressed in brown corduroy. Freddy, from The Lapin Agile, up the street, arrived with a string of donkeys which he tethered to a fence on the square. Some of the guests I had met at the bistros and by the time they arrived, some, including the painter, Marie Laurencin, were drunk. Braque, who was close to Picasso, was there. He was a big man, but very gentle. Picasso introduced us.

"You would do well to love Braque as Braque loves me," Picasso had whispered. "He is the one who has loved me most."

A Tall Stranger Tries to Keep Marie in Tow

A tall stranger tried to keep Marie in tow. She had just painted a portrait of Picasso, herself, Apollinaire and Gertrude which Gertrude had pointed out in her atelier. Marie was pleased about the sale to Gertrude. It was the first painting she ever sold.

The Spanish painter, Pichot, was there with his lovely wife, Germaine. It was rumored that Pablo's friend Carlos Casagemas had killed himself over her. Gertrude informed me that it wasn't that Germaine had rejected the young Spaniard. It was because Carlos had discovered that he was impotent when he was with her.

The studios were stripped of their usual trappings. On the walls were a few African masks and a large map. In the place of honor was Rousseau's portrait of Yadwigha, Rousseau's -polish mistress. Picasso bought it from a junk dealer for a few francs. A festive quality was created by the Chinese lanterns over the make-shift banquet table. Small studios on each side served as cloak-rooms.

By the time I arrived Picasso had started seating people. The room was noisy as everyone seemed to be talking at once. Smoke clouded the room as Fernande and Alice poured table wine from large flasks.
Suddenly, there were three sharp knocks at the weather worn door. The elf-like Rousseau, with large walking stick and soft felt hat entered carrying a violin. He was greeted with a wild ovation and he took his place on a makeshift thrown on a specially built platform.

Rousseau: A Strange, Ambitious Little Man

Rousseau was a strange, ambitious, little man who painted like a six year old. His naive style did impress some, especially Picasso. The recognition made him happy. He reveled in the attention he had rarely received before. Rousseau worked by day as a customs official, hence the name, Douanier.

"Merde," shouted Pablo. There has been a mistake. I ordered the food from Felix Potin, the caterer. But I told him the wrong date. I spoke to him but he will not budge."

Everyone was astonished.

"The man was indignant," said Fernande. "This in not New York," he told me. "This is Paris. There will be no food from Felix Potin tonight."
"But that is not possible," said Max Jacob. "Even I like to mix my drinks with a little food, occasionally."

There was laughter mixed with suggestions. "We must see what we can find," stated Picasso. "I need four or five people. Follow me." Braque, Andre Salmon and two others followed Picasso out the door.
"I have a large rice a la valenciennes" said Fernande. "We can start with that."

But nobody seemed bothered by the lack of food. The wine flowed and the party went on as people laughed, told stories and fussed over Rousseau. Nobody seemed bothered by the lack of food. I examined his mysterious looking painting. At least he had a style, I thought. I was still looking for mine.I had a few seconds with Gertrude who was rarely alone.

"You will be coming to see me this week, with Marevna," she announced.

"Yes, on Wednesday afternoon," I replied.

"But remember," she said, putting her forefinger to her lips. "Mum's the word."

"Yes," I assured her. "Mum."

After a while, Picasso and company began to return with sardines, sausages, tarts and cream buns. There were vegetables, chicken and oranges. One of the team even brought a whole tuna. There would be enough food for all. Now the banquet was legitimate and I'm sure the cheers could be heard all over Montmartre.

Picasso Stands on a Chair

Picasso stood on a chair. "The Banquet for Rousseau is officially started. Food, drink and entertainment. Who will be first?"
Andre Salmon stood on a bench and assumed the job of master of ceremonies. He was joined by Marie, who was so drunk she had to hold on to Andre.

"I have a poem," he announced. Marie pushed herself against him again, almost making him fall.

Andre struck a pose.

"We are gathered to celebrate your fame
And so let us drink the wine Picasso is pouring
To honor you, for it is time to drink it
Crying all in chorus, Long live! Long live Rousseau."

Everyone began to chant, "Long Live Rousseau..."

Andre continued...

"Do you recall, Rousseau, the land of the Aztecs
the forests where mango and pineapple grow ?
Where monkeys spill red blood of the pastecos
and the fair-haired Emperor was harried and slain?
Your painting captures what you saw in Mexico-
Red sun and green banana leaves
Hereafter the brave soldier's uniform, Rousseau's
You changed for the Douanier's upright blue."

Nobody commented that Rousseau had never been to Mexico or that the only soldiering he ever did was in the home battalion at Angers.
Gertrude rose to recite. Everyone listened closely.
"I will recite two of my works. One short one from my book Tender Buttons, called Chicken and then a longer one called Picasso. She cleared her throat.

"Chicken.
A very dirty word. A very dirty third.
A very dirty third. A very dirty bird."

People looked at each other. They didn't know how to react.
Germaine Pichot began to clap. Everyone joined in. Then Gertrude began again.

"Picasso," she started. "If I told him would he like it
would he like it if I told him.
Would he like it if I told him if I told him
would he like it. If I told him would Napoleon would he like it if I told him..."

Picasso Throws His Arms around Gertrude

The repetition went on for about three full minutes. The audience was stunned into silence. Picasso himself was the first to jump up.
"Bravo!" he shouted as he threw his arms around Gertrude.
I watched Alice with head down, smiling proudly.

When the cheering stopped, Andre Salmon climbed on a table and recited his "Ode to Rousseau." Everyone cheered and Rousseau smiled proudly as he looked down from his makeshift throne. He was so caught up in the moment that he didn't notice the wax from a Chinese lantern dripping on his head. The dripping formed a small clown hat on his head. The lantern finally caught fire.

People made speeches which pleased Rousseau. It wasn't difficult after that to persuade the tiny painter to play his violin. Many of us danced as Rousseau played popular songs and original compositions he had played each year at the Palais Royal for the receptions of the Independents.

"It has been said that my heart is too open for my own good but I must say that this has been the happiest day of my life," he announced. "I thank you all, especially Mr. Picasso. You and I are the greatest painters of all. Only our styles are different."

We ate, sang and drank. Later, after more than fifty bottles were consumed, a fight broke out. Salmon was carried off, oblivious to the goings on. He fell asleep on the pile of coats.

I rose to protect Rousseau and his violin from flying objects. Braque protected the sculptures . It was bedlam but the cheering won the day. Slowly the wine found its mark. People were becoming drowsy. They applauded wildly as Picasso put Rousseau into a cab. He drove away with tears in his eyes.

Finally, the party was over. Max, always gallant, found a taxi for Gertrude and Alice. It had been a truly carnival evening. Gertrude invited me to go with them. I was happy to leave. It had been a tiring few days and the stress of the duel was still with me. Besides, it was almost four AM.

As the taxi pulled away, I saw Picasso and Max, with their arms around Fernande, heading up the street towards their nightly haunt, the Lapin Agile. Max had a pistol in his hand and every few moments he would fire it into the air. This, I was told was usual behavior for the poet, even at 2 AM. In the taxi, Alice dozed. Gertrude was still full of energy.

Gertrude Was in Love with the Night

"I love the night," she observed, as we rolled down the steep Montmartre streets." I usually work at night when it's peaceful. Nothing gets in the way. I'm often caught be the dawn. But then, it's time to sleep. Picasso paints at night too, you know."

I hadn't been told that little tidbit of information and shook my head.
"It's the light," she continued. "Daylight changes but a good artificial light remains constant. It makes sense, don't you think?"
Again, I nodded. Sleep was foremost on my mind. She went on talking. I had trouble staying awake.

Before we parted, I asked what time she wanted to see Marevna.
"Come at nine in the evening. Then I can get to work at a decent hour."
I hadn't planned on a late evening, but I agreed. It was difficult at the best of times to argue with her and besides, by the time I thought of anything to say, she was through the archway into her apartment.

I raised my collar and put my hands into my deep pockets. Even a spring night can be cold in this 'City of Light". I don't even remember the walk home. But I do remember the soft mattress and the welcoming pillow.

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