Chapter 2

Alice faced me. "De la part de qui venez-vous?'
She had an unusually long nose and a pleasant voice.
I handed her the card. "My name is Robert Haas. I believe Miss Stein wishes to see me."

Alice examined the card." Please come in," she said softly, "This way." I noticed that she didn't smile.

I followed her slowly down a long corridor that opened onto a large picture gallery. On the walls, right up to the ceilings, were scores of paintings. It is difficult to explain the uneasiness one felt when surrounded by these pictures.

Even as a painter, I was not prepared for this. I turned to Alice, but she was gone. I examined the Picassos and Matisses, the Cézannes, Renoirs and the two Gauguins. There were a few Mauguins and a large nude by Valloton. I also recognized a wonderful Lautrec. Next to it was a portrait of Gertrude that might have been a David, but it was not. There were works by Denis, Daumier, Delacroix and a moderate-sized El Greco. I most liked the huge Picasso from his Harlequin period, the two rows of works by Matisse and a wonderful portrait of a woman by Cézanne.

Left alone in that room, I was elated. I just stared at the paintings in disbelief. Gertrude had come in silently. She must have sensed my confusion. From behind me I heard her laugh gently. I turned. She smiled and extended her hand.

Meeting Gertrude Stein

"I am Gertrude Stein, and you must be the young Robert Haas. I shall call you Bobschen."
She smiled warmly like a maiden aunt.
"Many people find them disturbing. My brother and I often see that look on visitor's faces."

(A pensive Gertrude Stein at her window)

"I've been called Bob and Bobby and Rob and Robbie. The Russian who owns the grocery store calls me Bobitchka. But Bobschen is a first." I examined her closely. She looked like a Buddha or Roman Emperor, but with more warmth. She sat in a high-backed chair, and I sat opposite on a worn, studded ottoman.

Motioning to her collection, she said, "My friend, Picasso, told me that it is not uncommon to find new art forms disturbing. He said that the man who creates something new is bound to create something ugly. Those who follow can make of it a beautiful thing because they know in advance what they're doing. Now isn't that interesting?" She laughed loudly, nervously.

I looked around again. I focused on a huge portrait that Picasso had done of the dealer, Vollard. Gertrude said it was only there on loan. Some rich Russian bought it.

"Now the dealers are searching for cubist works, but in the beginning I alone understood what he was doing because I was expressing the same thing in literature. Perhaps it's because I'm an American and he's a Spaniard. We understand each other."

The painting was a hodgepodge of geometric shapes, all reddish brown. It looked like little triangles arranged in some mysterious order. Yet, it gave the idea of a man. I guessed that was how Vollard looked. I found it exciting.

Explaining the Cubists

I watched Gertrude as she explained, in simple terms, how the cubists constructed or destructed their compositions. She said it all started with Cézanne. As she spoke, I felt myself drawn into her spell. Her voice had a contralto's roundness like two voices, full and velvety, that seemed to come from the coral brooch she wore on her blouse. Her skin was golden, as if burned by the sun, with a hint of gold in her jet black hair. She was heavily built and not tall. Her hair was brushed back and twisted behind like a country woman's.

She had beautiful eyes and a strong Germanic face that reminded me of a Nordic sculpture I once saw. Her hair was crinkly, brushed back, twisted behind a jolly face. She probably wore her hair that way since she was a girl. She had tiny, delicate hands and eyes that were alive in her modeled head. Her eyes seemed to reflect the richness of her inner life. I couldn't help feel I was in the presence of someone special.

"So what do you think? Do you like it?" she asked, turning to the Vollard portrait.

(During their lives, Robert Haas and Gertrude Stein wrote back and forth over 600 times. These are examples of her correspondence, including her signature and salutation, "My Dear Bobschen," which is what she often called him. This particular letter was written a few months before she died in Paris)

(Stein's salutation, "My Dear Bobschen," is seen at the top, left)

"Oh yes!" exclaimed. "It's a 'bully' picture alright."
"Bully?" she laughed. Did you say 'bully'? How marvelous. That's so charmingly British. I haven't heard that expression in years since I lived in London. Oh, yes...we're going to be friends."
I was embarrassed. "I must have picked up that expression in Montreal. I went to a very 'proper' boy's school. Very British."

(And at the bottom can be seen Gertrude Stein's signature)

As I spoke, I began to wonder again why she wanted to meet me.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Twenty-six," I replied." Almost."

"How wonderful! This is the season when everybody is 26." Then, very seriously, she added, "I understand you paint."
"Yes. I try. I'm still studying at..."

"I love painted pictures," she interrupted. "Everybody has to love something. Some people like to eat or drink. Some people like to spend money. That doesn't hold my attention. I never get tired of looking at painted pictures."

Like One of the Best Rooms in the Finest Museum

She continued to talk about her paintings as I studied the surroundings. It was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum, except that there was a big fireplace and soft furniture. It was warm and comfortable.
Alice appeared silently at the door, carrying a tray laden with small sandwiches and a teapot.

"I thought you might like some refreshments," she actually smiled.
"Thank you. That wasn't necessary," I lied.
"Nonsense," said Gertrude, with a nervous laugh. "At 26 you're still a growing boy."

Alice placed the tray on a large oak table.
A white poodle, which, I suspect, had entered with Alice, was sniffing at my shoes.

"Just ignore him," Gertrude said. Then she turned to the dog, clapped her hands and commanded. "Pretend you're fierce, Basket. Come on… fierce. Pretend you're Hemingway."
She laughed loudly as the dog bared his teeth.
Then she turned to me and asked in a serious tone, "Do you know Hemingway?"

"No," I replied. "I've seen him at the Select, but we never met."
I noticed that Alice had taken a seat in a far corner and was quietly working on a small needlepoint. She poured small glasses of eau de vie that was wonderfully warm and soothing. I also enjoyed the lesson I was getting on modern art. I felt somewhat like the dutiful student who was being rewarded for homework well done. But I was still unsure of Gertrude's reason for inviting me in the first place.

Gertrude stood up and walked to a brown-and-red portrait. I had heard people talk about it at the Select. It was of Gertrude.

Picasso's Portrait of Gertrude

"This is the portrait that Picasso did of me. Do you like it?"

I almost said 'bully' again. Gertrude just kept on talking. "When people told Pablo that it doesn't look like me, he said it will."

She laughed nervously. She must have told that story a hundred times. In the dim, fluttering gaslight, I had to shade my eyes and squint to pierce the gloom in which the portrait hung tantalizingly. I examined Picasso's work as best as I could from that distance.

"It must have been expensive." I was sorry I said that.

She just laughed. "Nonsense. Pablo just gave it to me. He was very poor then, but he just gave it to me. That was in 1906. But you must remember his prices were very low. There was hardly a difference between a sale and a gift."

I was fascinated by the golden quality created by the browns and reds, especially the face with its mysterious style. It was though the artist had employed two different styles in the same portrait.

Gertrude continued to explain. "He had just moved into the Bateau Lavoire at that time with Fernande when he painted it. I went there every day, on a horse-drawn omnibus, to the top of Montmartre...over 80 times. His studio was just one tiny, messy room. There were paint tubes everywhere. In a drawer he kept a little white mouse. I didn't care for that. While he painted, we would talk. Sometimes, Fernande would read from the Fables of Lafontaine."

"Maitre corbeau, sur une arbre perchez, tennait a son bec une fromage..." I quoted.

"Well," said Gertrude, with eyes wide open, 'you do have a proper education!"

Then she added, softly, "Those were heady days...good days. I would bring the American comics, and Pablo and Fernande would fight over them. He loved The Katzenjammer Kids. They were so poor. Sometimes Pablo was forced to burn his sketches, just to keep warm. What a waste.

"The building wasn't meant for people. It was an old, green, wooden piano factory. Once it was so cold that the tea left in a cup turned to ice during the night. No. Picasso wasn't always successful. There were about twenty painters and poets in that ragged building, with one sole toilet and a water source outside in the little square. I think that fountain is still there. That was before Cubism. Then Pablo went to Spain. Everything changed there. He and his friend Braque developed a new way of expressing things...a new way of seeing objects. They were like two mountain climbers, roped together."

"So, you know Sylvia Beach?"

We stood in silence, gazing at the portrait. I noticed the brooch in the painting. It was the same one she was wearing now. I was lost in thought when she asked, "So, you know Sylvia Beach?"

Her voice seemed to come from far off and in another direction. She had ensconced herself near the fireplace, her hands gripping the arms as though she was steering it on a steady course. I was about to learn why Gertrude Stein had summoned me to her atelier. There was, for a moment, a deafening silence. Alice worked silently on her 'petit point' and Gertrude stared straight ahead. I thought of the line, "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."

"Sylvia published Joyce," she announced.

"Yes, I think Joyce is very talented."

"No. Joyce is incomprehensible." Her anger showed in the reddening of her face. Alice stopped sewing and looked at me. I had obviously said the wrong thing.

I started to say something about Sylvia's shop. Gertrude looked away. I changed the subject.

"I haven't sold any paintings yet, except for a few sketches. I'm not ready. But your collection is wonderful. Some day I hope to buy paintings."

Gertrude leaned forward. Her facial expression lightened. Her voice was soft again. She had dismissed the 'Joyce' remark.

"You can either buy clothes or you can buy paintings. It's that simple. Unless you're rich, you can't do both. Pay no attention to your clothes and you will have the money to buy pictures. They don't have to be expensive. Buy paintings by people your own age - - your fellow students. You can trade with each other before anyone is discovered. You certainly can't afford Picasso or Cezanne. But there are always many good new painters. You'll meet them around the 'quartier,' maybe even in your classes. You probably know a few already."

I looked around at the paintings again. As strange as I first thought them, they did contain a certain exciting 'specialness' that evoked a beginning...a welcomed breakthrough. It gave me a feeling of excitement. She gestured and talked on, mostly about modern art and the new wave of painters about whom she was more interested as people than as painters. Then she began to talk about writing. She showed me the many little exercise books that contained pieces she had written.

"Writing every night," she said, "makes me happy."

Recognition, I thought, would make her happier.

"Of course, Bobschen, you don't really know English literature, but besides, Shakespeare and me, who else is there?"

My mouth dropped open. I couldn't answer. She sat there on her throne and smiled at me.

"I haven't read very much since I arrived," I confessed. "I've been concentrating on painting. But I have read a little D.H. Lawrence and some Huxley."

Again Gertrude became annoyed. "D.H Lawrence is impossible! He's passé and preposterous! He writes like a sick man. Why do you want to read a sick man?"

I decided not to answer. I really had no idea what she was talking about. I felt a little out of my depth. The dog seemed to sense Gertrude's annoyance. He sat up and bared his teeth. Dogs are certainly like the people who own them, I mused.

Gertrude Is All Smiles Again

Suddenly, Gertrude was all smiles again. "You look peeved. I'm sorry. There are certain things that I feel very strongly about. Oh, hell, listen, I'm fairly well known for saying anything about anyone and anything. Just ignore what I said."

Then, she asked, "Do you know the Russian painter Marevna Vorobiev?"

"Of course, I do. We share the same floor in a flat. She's just down the hall."

"Ah, yes," she said. "What do you think of her work?"
"What work? Her own or what she copies at the Louvre?"
"Whatever," she shrugged.

"She's competent and getting better. She does different things. She makes a living copying the great masters. People pay well for her work. Sometimes she works as an interior decorator. She needs the money. As for her painting, I'm hardly an expert, but she seems to have it right, especially the color."

"I saw her once, at the Louvre," Gertrude remembered. "She is talented. She has a good eye and was copying a huge Raphael or Courbet. She was certainly aware of detail. I assume she had formal training, not that it really matters, if she's as good as they say."

"She was trained in Russia but left to live in Capri for a while.
Here, she was at the Russian colony. Now she paints and does copies at various museums as a last resort, when she really needs money. But the results are amazing. I can hardly tell her paintings from the originals. Sometimes, when she gets it right..."

"Yes, I know," Gertrude interrupted. "I was very impressed. Do you think she'd consider doing a copy for me?"
"Of a Raphael?" I was confused.

"No, no," she laughed. "I want her to do something completely different."
"I really don't know," I replied. "Probably, but you'll have to ask her. It won't be cheap. It takes a long time. If it's not just right..."
"Would you ask her to do it for me?" she interrupted.
"I don't know." I thought for a few seconds. "Why don't you ask Zadkine or Soutine or Pascin? They know her better than I do. Pascin knows her well. He does copies himself. Perhaps he'll do it. He copied a great Van Loo...with a comical odalisque and a wonderful girl by Ingres. I know Pascin well. Perhaps I can ask him."

"No, at this point, "she replied, "I want Marevna."
"But I'm not sure why you have to go through me; just because we live on the same flat. You can ask her yourself. She's easy to find."
"I will ask her, but I want you to introduce us."
"You can come to the place where she studies..."
"No," she interrupted. "You see, Marevna is a Matissite. She studies with Matisse and paints like Matisse."
"Then it's a Matisse you want?"
"No. Not at all. Actually, it's a Picasso. It would never do if Matisse found out. I'd like to ask her, through you, but Matisse must never find out.

"It's a Picasso she's to copy. She'll take to his style more readily. No, it's settled. I want Marevna and you'll ask her."

I thought about it, but something was bothering me. I wasn't sure what it was. I looked around the room. "Which Picasso did you want copied?" I asked. "Surely, it's not one of these?"
"Yes," she smiled. "I want her to copy the portrait he did of me."
"But why?" I was puzzled. "You own the original. Why have a second one?"

"I actually have a number of reasons," Gertrude began. "Foremost, I've rented a house near the Rhone at Bilignin. I go there seasonally. It's a small community, not far from Belley, east of Lyon. When I'm there I miss the portrait. I'm very attached to it. But to take it back and forth is so risky. To take a copy will mean that I can look at it all winter with the original safely in Paris. At least, that's the way I feel. Anyway, the logic doesn't matter. I've decided and that's final."

"Think of the excitement," she continued, "when I return to it each year or when I get to the country and find a reasonable likeness waiting to greet me. Besides, it's what I want, and I'm going to do it. Now, will you speak to your friend Marevna, or not?"

I could tell by her tone that she usually got her way. It was none of my business. It meant an income for a friend. The decision would have to be Marevna's.

"Yes, of course. You're right," I apologized. "Of course I'll ask her. It's long and exacting work, and she'll have to give up other work in the meantime. But she'll have to agree first. The price will come later. That's no concern of mine. If she's interested, perhaps I can bring her here, and you can discuss it together."

"Yes," Gertrude smiled, "that will do. Don't you think so, Alice?"
Alice did not look up from her work. "Yes," she sighed. "I guess so."
Gertrude turned back to me. "Alice thinks it's a waste of money. What do you think?"

"Me? I don't know. If you can afford it and want it done, it's no business of mine."

"Then you will speak to her," she announced." "And we can all become friends."

She was nice in a distant way and certainly not the type or age of my usual friends. But she was a rich lady asking for a favor. Why should I say no?

"Yes, when I see her. She's often away from her flat. She works at La Ruche with the Russians. They paint and argue for hours. She often comes home late and exhausted. It's difficult work, standing all day. But the group is very talented. I met some of them at a party…Soutine and Kikoine...Kremeque... Zadkine...Chagall..."

"Chagall!" she almost screamed. "What's he doing with that rabble?"
"He's Russian. It's comfortable when you can converse with each other, I guess. One has to argue in one's own language."

"But Marevna speaks French and English, doesn't she?"
"Yes. Considering the short time she's been here, she does very well. In any case, the entire decision is hers, and I will ask her in time."

"We leave for the Rhone in a few weeks. I'd like it settled before we go. That way she can work on the copy while we're gone. She'll have a few months without me pressuring her. Do you think that's possible?"
"Sure. If she wants to do it, but if not, there's always Pascin."

"Yes, of course there is. Let's see what happens."
Gertrude slowly rose. Alice followed immediately. It was evident that the interview was over. I followed Gertrude to the door.
"And what about your work?" she asked. "Is it going well?"

"Yes, I suppose so. But it's not easy. Before I came to Paris, I thought
I would learn how to paint and how not to paint quickly, but I have a
long way to go just to become mediocre. There's so much talent
in this city. It frightens and overwhelms me sometimes. I work hard, but..."

"Nonsense", she interrupted. "Everyone goes through a learning stage. Don't be intimidated. You have to develop a style. That is all there is to it. I did that very early in my career. Repeating is what I am loving. For me, repeating sounds like a dog lapping water. Yes, style and repetition, but not just for the sake of repeating. No, no, it's hardly for that."

"Well, to be honest, I haven't read your work. But your reputation precedes you. Sylvia says she'll loan me something you wrote. She suggested...something tender, something..."

"That's Tender Buttons," she replied. "A good way to start is at the beginning. Alice get Bobschen a copy of Tender Buttons. That will give you an idea, a feel for my style."

Alice returned with a very small book in a blue cover. She handed it to Gertrude, who wrote something inside and handed it to me. "This was put out by Plain Edition. Alice is the publisher. I am the only author." She laughed nervously. "Just me and Alice. Now, isn't that interesting?"
I couldn't quite help notice their smug self-assurance. "It's very interesting," I said feebly.

"Good," she chuckled, slapping me on the back. Read it. You'll no doubt enjoy it. And when Marevna has agreed to copy the portrait, you will bring her to me. It is settled."
"But..." I started.

"No buts. Just say yes and get her to say yes and please be coming to see me. Settled!"

She reached out and shook my hand. I stood alone, quite startled and bewildered. I stared at the closed door.

What an unusual twosome the two older ladies made. Gertrude reminded me of an uncle. Alice, on the other hand, up conjured up images of a maiden aunt. So, too, was the meeting itself unusual, if one could call it a meeting. Actually, it was a very warm, friendly atmosphere. Quite seriously, I had the feeling that she could be very nice if she wanted to be, but if not…

For the first time I understood why some of the visiting locals or expatriates referred to her as the 'Sybil of Montparnasse.' But I did actually enjoy their company. Alice was a bit frightening. She reminded one of a gypsy or a Spanish dancer. Yet where else could one see such an odd array of modern or contemporary paintings? That vision of the new art would stay with me forever. I opened the blue cover and read

"For Bobschen
"WHEN THIS YOU SEE REMEMBER ME..."

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