Esteemed Sir,
Permit me, if you will, to recall our recent discourse at Paillard’s, where your gracious interest in the humble collection of treasures at my residence, namely, the venerable Hôtel de Chamarande, conferred upon me the greatest honor. Should it please you, and if no more pressing engagement beckons, may I entreat you to grace my abode upon the Quai d’Orléans this coming Friday, between the hours of five and six o’clock? It would afford me the highest pleasure to serve you tea, while inviting your discerning eye to examine our shared antiquarian treasures, which, I dare say, are best revealed by the flickering glow of wax candles as evening shadows descend.
Amongst these marvels that await you are the bed of the King’s esteemed brother, as well as the commode of Madame de Maintenon, both of which I count myself fortunate to possess. Since our recent luncheon, two rare objects, coveted until now, have come into my hands; it would be my privilege to submit them for your careful consideration. These are curiosities of such singularity that any museum might envy their acquisition.
At the appointed hour, several esteemed acquaintances will honor me with their presence, and I assure you they await with much anticipation the prospect of your acquaintance. Mr. Hector Meyran, whom I shall apprise, will be able to furnish you with particulars regarding these gentlemen and their virtues; their names I shall forward to him posthaste. Moreover, I venture to promise, for your enjoyment, a repast including guava preserves and delicate oyster-laden rolls, delicacies not to be lightly dismissed.
Might I, with the utmost humility, declare my hope that you will indulge me with your presence? Your acceptance would bestow a favor beyond measure upon your most faithful and appreciative servant.
And the letter was signed: Edward Ytter.
In a postscript appeared these simple words:
The Duchess of Iddleton will serve the tea.
That letter left me feeling pretty confused; some writing styles are just hard to figure out. It was Meyran who first introduced me to this Ytter guy. I hopped in a cab and hurried over to Meyran’s place.
“I know why you’re here,” he said as soon as I arrived: “You got a message from young Sir Ytter. Me too.”
“His writing is kind of over the top…”
“Just like his pearls; but, his style has its own charm. He’s got a thing for Saint-Simon and President de Hainaut. [Saint Simon was an 18th century memoirist; de Hainault was an historian from the same period.] The weird part is, his letters are dated 1904. It’s off by two centuries. If they’d been written in 1704, they’d be absolutely perfect. There’s no need for you to show me your letter; mine says it all. You’re coming, right? We’re both going.”
“But…”
“Come on, you know you’re going! You really owe it to yourself to experience something like this at least once. Plus, you want to find out more about those ‘little friends.’ Believe me, they’re actually fascinating. That alone makes it worth it!”
“Meyran, you’re just teasing me.”
“Just wait until we get to laugh at their jokes. At Sir Edward Ytter’s place, you’ll meet young men from the best circles, all with great taste. Listen, I’ve got the guest list: first up, Maxence Damora, Edward Ytter’s closest friend. I invited him to lunch the other day so you could get comfortable with this unusual crowd.”
“The young guy with the green orchid?”
“Exactly, the one with the lophophore chamber.
“And the mandarin décor!”
“Let me introduce you to a few of the regulars. Pierre Yvanis, his mother is the legendary Madame Yvanis. Then there’s Lord Eginard Chapmann, an Irishman with a colorful history; he’s a true character and has circled the globe five times. Evariste Bouchetal enjoys writing, and Grégory Popescu has his sights set on becoming an actor.’
“Popescu? Did I hear that right?”
“Yes, it’s pronounced ‘Popeskyoo,’ he’s Romanian. Grégory comes from Bucharest, just like Monsieur de Max.”
“Is he from the Conservatory?”
“Exactly. That rounds out the group, no more characters, but I think that’s plenty to keep things interesting.”
“So, what’s so fascinating about these gentlemen?”
“Each has a truly unique obsession, what they used to call an ‘affectation’ [the word originally had the meaning “aspiration” during the English Restoration Period. For example, young Yvanis, an accomplished translator of Greek poets who’s even written a clever pastiche of Theocritus’s idylls, claims to be happily married to a wax mannequin.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Absolutely. In his bachelor pad, or if you like, in that ‘trembling state of mind’ of his, Pierre Yvanis has a life-sized doll. An actual work of art. She’s dressed in elaborate Japanese robes and sleeps on a ceremonial bed, right beside his own. He treats her like a goddess, reciting poetry and sonnets to her, showering her with flowers.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“No, I promise. It’s all for show and honestly, a bit of self-promotion. In certain circles, Yvanis is known as ‘the Man with the Wax Doll.’ This Friday, you’ll hear the gentlemen asking him for an update on his ‘mistress’ with a straight face.”
“And he actually doesn’t have a real mistress?”
“You’d have to ask his friends. Now, Chapmann? He’s a collector too, but of prayer beads, Muslim ones, specifically. He’s passionate about Islam, has been to Mecca twice, and spends every winter in Algeria. He’s close with Claudius Ethal, the painter Monsieur de Phocas hires.”
“Oh, right. I remember now.”
“As for Evariste Bouchetal, he’s obsessed with literature; sort of a disciple of Pierre Loti. He writes exclusively about the sea. He actually published a book on Toulon that did surprisingly well, even though it’s a bit out there. Oh, and he’s a serious opium fan, always has a pipe handy, and he keeps a pet grass snake with him everywhere he goes.”
“Wait—what? A snake?”
“Yeah. She’s tame—her name’s Sacountala. He never goes anywhere without her.”
“But that’s the stuff of nightmares! Is he really planning to bring her on Friday?”
“It’s not likely. Reptiles don’t handle the cold well, even those kept indoors. Sacountala tends to move pretty slowly anyway. I wish you could see her, though. She’s incredibly sensitive to music, and she actually dances like an Egyptian performer.”
“That’s so strange! I mean, really—how odd!”
“Gregory Popescu’s doing something just as wild; he’s bottle-feeding a baby panther. He wants to give it to Madame Sarah Bernhardt as a gift; he worships our country’s great tragedienne.”
“He’s bottle-feeding a panther?”
“Her name’s Féredgé, and she’s absolutely adorable. Sadly, we won’t see her at Sir Edward Ytter’s this Friday, which is a shame; she’s golden like sunlight and wears a platinum collar with gorgeous emeralds. Popescu’s pretty wealthy, too. He claims he’s the Queen’s godson, and he loves to brag. Evariste Bouchetal, on the other hand, actually grew up around the Empress herself.
“All of them were raised like royalty. If you give Popescu the slightest hint you’re curious, he’ll invite you to see his panther. He’s proud of his home, especially his bathroom. It’s covered in Persian mosaics, green and blue glazed tiles, with stucco roses from Isfahan on the walls. The bathroom was even featured in Paris-Parisien, right between the Pavillon des Muses and the Groult Gallery.”
“So, are all of them Debussy fans?” He interjected abruptly.
“Absolutely! They each have a signed, dedicated copy of Pelléas et Mélisande. Ytter even keeps his displayed on his Érard piano, front and center.”
“This is pretty wild. Are you absolutely sure the police aren’t going to show up?”
“Oh, I almost forgot. There’s going to be a woman joining us.”
“The Duchess of Iddleton?”
“Well, her presence doesn’t guarantee anything. Things can still happen, even with the Duchess around.”
“You’re starting to freak me out. Who exactly is this Iddleton woman?”
“Oh, she’s something else. The Duchess, real title and all, has outlived three husbands, switched over to Protestantism, and rakes in two hundred thousand francs every year. Everybody in Paris knows her, but she doesn’t get invited everywhere. Her love life is legendary. She’s sixty-five now, but she’s still Sir Edward Ytter’s official patron. She has a thing for much younger men. Sir Edward and his pals aren’t exactly wild, but Iddleton wishes they’d loosen up a bit. Not that there’s a line of young guys wanting to spend time with older women, so she takes what she can get. She backs Bouchetal’s writing, loves Yvanis’s Greek-inspired art, orders snuffboxes from Ytter, and always has Popescu around at her parties. She brings the group a ton of attention. She’s more than a mother to them: she’s their muse, straight out of another century. Being surrounded by youth keeps her feeling alive. And I bet we’ll see Princess Outchareska at Ytter’s place too.”
“Wait, is she young?”
“What kind of question is that? I already told you this place is a world unto itself. Women with wild histories, young men with big dreams. The flirting here, it’s almost taboo. But, ‘flirting’ might be too strong a word. Maybe ‘stealing glances’ is closer. Even then, it’s tough to capture the strange relationships between these older women and the men they hang around with.”
“So, what are these ladies like in person?”
“In person? You’ll see for yourself soon enough. I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Besides, you’re about to meet Beppino.”
“Beppino?”
“Yeah, Beppino. He’s a big deal in Sir Edward Ytter’s world, the ‘éminence grise,’ the guy behind the scenes. He’s got a unique kind of influence, almost a spectacle himself, a true household curiosity. He’s like Popescu’s pet panther or Bouchetal’s grass snake. Picture this: a Tuscan farmhand turned coachman, who reads d’Annunzio for fun and can recite Petrarch and Dante’s Inferno by heart. Sir Edward brought him back from Florence…”
I just listened quietly as he finished.
“…because of his deep, rich voice. It’s warm, but serious. You’ll see. I’m not giving away everything.”
______________________________________________________
After some hesitation, I decided to accept the young painter’s invitation and call upon him the following Friday. Meyran accompanied me.
The heavy double doors of the Hôtel de Chamarande swung wide open to admit us. A tall, gilded-bronze Louis XIV lantern cast a dim light upon the immense stairwell. Rain had been pounding Paris all morning, making the old quays of Saint-Louis-en-l’Île seem even gloomier. The wind made the lantern’s flame dance. And as we ascended the broad, worn steps, flanked by an exquisite wrought-iron balustrade of the period, I felt a vague sense of oppression at the solemnity of the place, almost a consciousness of having stepped back two centuries in time.
A liveried attendant with powdered hair wearing red velvet breeches led us into an antechamber lined with tall walnut paneling. In the room, a bust of the “Grand Roi” was displayed on a green marble pedestal, and the polished parquet floors gleamed.
“That’s one of Madame Ytter’s footmen,” Meyran whispered to me. “The mother has lent her staff to her son.”
A young black boy, dressed in the Turkish style, someone we hadn’t noticed when we entered, stood on his tiptoes to reach the marble console table. He picked up two gardenias from a large silver tray and handed them to us. We slipped them into our buttonholes.
Meyran smirked, “Madame du Barry’s servant. Only Ytter could pull off something like this.”
We heard soft laughter and the energetic voices of young people coming from behind a door. The footman opened it, and suddenly, we were face-to-face with the master of the house.
Five young people, including Sir Edward himself, were engaged in lively conversation, casually seated or lounging across the chairs, encircling an older gentleman who stood with his elbows propped on the mantelpiece, basking in the warmth of a roaring wood fire. The young Englishman rose and stepped forward to greet us. “Welcome, gentlemen. Your visit is most generous, and I am truly grateful for your presence!”
I stood there, shocked and silent, unable to move forward.
Sir Edward Ytter wore a red satin doublet, cinched at the waist with a gray leather belt, reminiscent of the fitted jackets seen on the bold shepherds in Molière’s ballets. He paired it with black satin pants and matching silk stockings, while his long, pointed gray deerskin shoes made his ankles look even more slender.
Dressed like this, Sir Edward Ytter possessed the ambiguous charm of a transvestite.
He shook our hands and said, “I see Zamore has decorated you with flowers. Oh, and I happen to have the King’s personal chamber pot and the Superintendent’s urinal! You’ll get a chance to see both. Here is Monsieur Yvanis, Monsieur Bouchetal, Lord Chapmann, and Monsieur Popescu.
“The Duchess hasn’t arrived yet. Have you met Monsieur Damora?”
The four young men rose to their feet, while the middle-aged man standing by the fireplace, wearing a long, Quaker-style frock coat that made him look as rigid as an English umbrella, smoothed the tails of his coat with a gesture that amusingly suggested an opossum.
Except for Evariste Bouchetal, whose strikingly unattractive appearance made him stand out, the rest of the group looked sharp and well-dressed in what seemed like brand new outfits. They gave off a pleasant fragrance, spoke smoothly, had charming manners, and though easy on the eyes, there was something about them that left you feeling just a bit uneasy.
“Yes, the Duchess said she’d come, but the Princess isn’t well. She caught a cold at the last Schola Cantorum concert. They played nothing but Orlando di Lasso, it was wonderful!”
“And some Palestrina, too,” added young Bouchetal, his falsetto voice standing out. “Can you believe it? Sacountala is most sensitive to Palestrina; she absolutely loves sacred music, especially from the Sistine Chapel. That little creature is incredibly smart. The other day, I made the mistake of playing some Reynaldo Hahn [insert note from below] for her and she jumped right out of her basket and bit my hand.”
“Reynaldo Hahn![1] What kind of music is that?”
“And what carelessness!” chimed in young Damora.
“Yes, she bit me pretty hard, but I don’t regret it,” said the man with the grass snake. “At least today I know for sure that Sacountala loves music.”
“She’s just like Féredgé,” the Romanian actor remarked. “Whenever I want to see her sprawled out, kneading my silk cushions and purring, all I need to do is recite some Verlaine and she immediately slips into a trance. Henry Bataille gets her attention too, but she really comes alive, her green eyes shining, when I recite Baudelaire.”
“Animals are better than people: civilization hasn’t really changed them, so their instincts still let them appreciate beauty. I even heard that Madame des Gobelins has a pet monkey.”
“The Countess des Gobelins!” Sir Edward Ytter interrupted Yvanis’s story. “The Duchess said she’d stop by, and I’m expecting her any moment. She and the Countess are supposed to arrive together, and she’s bringing her little pet with her.”
[1] Reynaldo Hahn (1874–1947) was a Venezuelan-born French composer and a central figure in Parisian salons who was the primary love of Marcel Proust’s early 20s. Meeting in 1894, they formed a deep bond based on shared artistic interests, influencing each other’s work and maintaining a close, lifelong friendship until Proust’s death in 1922. Lorrain implies that Reynaldo Hahn’s music is so irritating, thin, or sugary (as it was often viewed by critics of the Symbolist generation) that it is physically agonizing to a creature of refined taste, leading to the snake biting the owner. There also might be another hidden meaning. We know that Lorrain had a duel with Marcel Proust (over the latter’s sexuality) and he may be using Hahn to satirize Proust’s taste in music.