His memoirs
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- MEMOIRS
- December 23rd, 1923
- 24th December.
| JACQUES de CHAZAL---
HIS MEMOIRS. Translator’s acknowledgement: I immediately admit that this is not all my work. I had an assistant: brilliant in some respects and useless in others. It has shown me the way to go, has a great vocabulary, endless patience and does not argue. In a way this is infuriating, it has its faults: its English grammar leaves much to be desired and many times I have had to consider its ideas very carefully. Its name; Microsoft Word Translate! Microsoft Translate has saved me weeks of slog and anguish; the words are translated, but usually in the original order, hence making no sense in English. My French may have coped with the translation but I would not have tackled it at all if I was to do this on my own, Wikipedia has more than once come to my aid; all the footnotes which I have added are usually from this source. Without Tristan’s work in typing the whole French text from the original hand written version this translation would not have been possible. Jacques is the architect, cement mixer, and bricklayer of his text. Microsoft Translate demolished the edifice; I have tried to reassemble each brick in its place and used a little cement to get the structure to stand, I fear it wobbles. Microsoft and I cannot pretend that the poetry, and erudite scholarship of Jacques writing has in any way been replicated, but Jacques’ story will stand on its own. He has led an interesting, varied, emotional but rewarding life. Jacques entreats us to “enjoy the journey”. I can assure you; you will.
August 2015 to December 2015 Jacques de CHAZAL MEMOIRS
An Exhortation:Nine decades, two religions, four names and a hectic life, but a single wife and one son, All this is of little historical interest, but seemed enough to put my natural laziness aside, and make a serious effort to gather together my most significant memories. I would do this primarily for myself, but also possibly for a small number of relatives and friends whose affection will transcend the difficulty of reading about my life. It exists neither as a curriculum vitae for the family, nor an exercise in style, hoping to attract an editor, they are simply notes thrown on paper as reminiscences, generally in a natural chronological sequence, but not necessarily, that is to say, with necessary inserts to complete, to clarify, and try to succeed in conveying my humble thoughts. There: if while reading this, you are tempted to pass judgement I only wish that it be limited to events; perhaps to the quality of the text, but without extending it to the author. I'm not concerned about criticism of my person in general, but I am sensitive of criticism from those few who are important to me. Be patient and understanding. Enjoy the journey. Part I: 1920 – 1950 ______ BARBIZON December 23rd, 1923.Snow mixed with rain, fog, a grey-white landscape, sad and beautiful. On the road to Melun in Barbizon, which would become familiar, we drove, or rather skated, in the old upright Ford, the only taxi available in Chailly owned by Ms. Delorme, the wife of the farrier. Held tight by my mother to warm me, I watched the paved road roll by, fascinated by water-filled potholes seen through the disjointed floor of our conveyance. Daylight was gradually fading on this dark winter afternoon although it was only four o’clock. We arrived in Melun from Paris; Madame Delorme was waiting for us at the station. With the help of a porter she managed to load our luggage; the hand luggage next to her, smaller items in the boot and heavier cases on the roof covered with a tarpaulin. Despite a few groans, the old Ford coped well. We crossed Chailly and joined the little road which leads to Barbizon. To the left was the edge of the magnificent Fontainebleau forest and to the right the plain made famous by the paintings of J. F. Millet, ’l’Angelus’ and ‘The Gleaners’. Barbizon nestled between the plain and forest. We climbed a small hill and on the other side we could just see the first houses of the village about 1km away. We had no time to make out all the features, the car turned left, through open wooden gates onto the drive which encircled a large lawn covered in snow. On the opposite side, facing the road and more gates, was an imposing building which, by its Isle-de-France style with interesting carpentry, fitted perfectly in this rural setting. This vast and beautiful house was called 'The Marmosets’; two old English ladies, twin sisters, were the owners, and had made a comfortable and homely guesthouse. As we arrived the coal-man who had discharged some of his load from his imposing delivery cart was leaving. Alas, the cart wheels were deeply imbedded in mud and the two strong cart-horses failed to move forward despite all their efforts; despite also, the lashes their master inflicted upon them with such unbearable violence. The two ladies proved to be strong characters and roundly castigating the coalman and with the help of two servants, finally helped the two horses free the cart. We were greeted with a lot of kindness and efficiency, in a large room with a window overlooking the forest and another towards the village. I immediately spotted, in a corner of our room, a small hole in the floor ("like Madame Delorme’s car ", I said to mother) through which came a glimmer of light from the main drawing room, but it also conveyed the voices of those beneath. For me it would be a comfort during those evenings when "children go to bed early", We went downstairs again to the drawing room where we had a delicious tea and cake and felt completely at ease. Leaving my mother to agree with our hostesses the conditions and the duration of our stay, I approached the large fireplace where the flames of a superb fire were crackling merrily. Near the hearth two gentlemen with white hair, in their deep armchairs, were lost in their reading. At a small table with little indentations their wives played backgammon. Seeing me, all four addressed a kind word to me in English, in the stupid way adults speak to children, accompanied by big toothy smiles showing their imposing dentures. Why should adults feel always obliged to act like this and also tut-tut young children? At 3½-years old I was able to speak both English and French and thanked them with a few well turned and polished phrases. I think I heard that I was exquisite, which delighted me anyway. Then I ran to the safety of my mother to whom I related the circumstances of my meeting. With her I had sensible conversations. Returning to our room mother set out our things which would be necessary during our stay. I understood this would be for, more or less, one week. She woke me to go down to dinner. Understandably after this hard day I had dozed off on the bed. A wipe over with a flannel and a bit of cologne revived me. Downstairs we found the four we had already met, and a family that had just arrived by car: two girls, one of my age, the other 5 or 6 years old, and their parents. They were Russians. Our two hostesses introduced us. I was very interested in Olga and Natasha the two young Russians, but clearly they wished to ignore me. I did what I could to keep, my dignity. Jacky de Chazal wished all White Russians to disappear from the Earth. I didn’t then know that the younger who was my age, would in a few months, be my first childish love. At table conversation was unbridled but the children were silent, I just listened and I soon came to realise that speaking of Mauritius and Madagascar produced a magical effect. I was thankful to mother who knew how to impress everyone present. * * *
Suzanne was born on January 24th, 1879, one month before the death of her grandfather Antoine Edmond, founder of a large sugar estate called St-Antoine. She would live there with her father Evenor, her mother and her brothers and sisters until 1888. They then moved to Curepipe, second city of the island after the capital Port-Louis, in a beautiful house newly built: "La Sablonnière", the name of a castle in the Loiret belonging to the family. In 1896, as a result of bad business dealings and a few disagreements, Evenor took his entire family to Madagascar, in the region of Fianarantsoa. He started a sugar cane estate and at the same time took a gold prospecting concession; however he died two years later, at the age of 60 years, exhausted by a life of unrelenting hard physical effort. The following year in 1899 Suzanne, my mother, then married an engineer Jean Lecomte, from Lyon, France whom her brother Chamarel had met while traveling in Antananarivo. She remained a British subject but also then acquired French nationality. They settled in Lyon where they had two sons: Maurice born in 1900 and Roger in 1904. The couple divorced in about 1915. It was wartime. Suzanne became a nurse in the French army, and subsequently a senior nurse at the military hospital of Epinal. Mutual friends introduced her to a young gunner Jean Poutet, a lieutenant, with whom she lived in a loving relationship which concluded with my birth on June 7th in 1920 at Toulon in a pretty White House on the slopes of Mont Faron. I was an “accident” that my mother had the courage to go through with on her own. ─ Jean Poutet was left out of it ─ which was not at all clear at this time. The problems to be faced were going to be difficult and painful, starting with being ostracised, and the absence of friends and family. Some of those standing by her, bringing essential moral support were: Aunt Marguerite, sister of Evenor, my grandfather Adrienne (Aunty Ada) and Yvonne, my mother’s sisters Chamarel, her brother Tommy Perron, a cousin who had always loved her The Bart family ; faithful family friends And a few others. Of course there were also financial problems that Suzanne was unprepared for and had not really foreseen until much too late. She had certainly had a reasonable sum of money from her parents as well as from her divorce but this was not inexhaustible. Nevertheless for two years we both had to live off love and fresh water as two grasshoppers that “sing all summer”. We lived at first in Porquerolles ─ a dream island where life is good (which probably influenced me), we then lived in Carquairanne, Cavalaire, Sanary etc. But one must eventually face reality. For a year Suzanne took up employment in an important sanatorium in Ris-Orangis. To keep me away from all risks of infection I was housed (looked after) in a friendly family of a nearby village: Maniville. I hated this separation, so mother made other arrangements and that is how we arrived at Barbizon two days before Christmas 1923. * * *
24th December.It snowed all night and everything was wonderfully white. It was also much colder. Downstairs we found a large fire in the fireplace. In a corner of the large room stood a beautiful fir tree, our two hostesses had already begun decorating it. A wonderful day was being prepared and I would have the undivided attention of my mother. But in my little head a problem remained and worried me. Why were we here? What would happen now? I was both pleased and anxious. Would we be separated again? I dared not speak about it, we were happy as we were. But why do people worry? A ray of sunlight appeared, coming to illuminate and beautify this fairy-tale landscape. Olga and Natasha’s parents decided to visit the unknown village, and we decide to accompany them. The road was relatively clear and we were warmly dressed and this stroll made everyone happy. A few snowballs had broken the coolness between the two small Russian girls and me, and had sealed our friendship. Our parents chatted about things that seemed irrelevant to us; a serious error. We arrived at the crossroads which marked the entrance to the village. To the right was “Farm Road”, actually lined with beautiful and large farms which disappeared into the plain. Before us the road continued towards Macherin, still between plain and forest. On the left was the 'High Street' that ran through the entire length of the village. We took it, and Mother served as a guide, because she had already been here "to see people", she told me. Quite suddenly we saw a succession of beautiful houses, without doubt, large and rich mansions. We passed in front of the ‘Auberge Ganne’ where formally several painters had lived, some of whom were to become famous and form the “Barbizon School”: J. F. Millet, Corot, Dias, Théodore Rousseau, Ch. Jacques etc. A little further on we passed the front of the small church or rather chapel, so often depicted in etchings and paintings. Nearby was the cottage and workshop, in a lovely green setting, that Théadore Rousseau had managed to acquire, which then became Millet’s house and studio, with its park. It was now, with the Auberge Ganne and Rousseau’s workshop, a very popular museum, visited especially by American tourists. All along this street, paved with large uneven and disjointed sandstone slabs, ran the rails of the little train that connected Barbizon-Chailly-Melun twice a day. The line ended at the edge of the forest before a wooden hut serving as the station. A turntable and short length of double track allowed the locomotive to be lined up for the return. We now came to a luxurious hotel the facade of which was embellished with beautiful woodwork. Its clientele of famous artists and well known characters fully justified its reputation for quality and service; it was known as the “Bas Breaux”. Opposite, mother pointed out (presented to us it seemed) a large mansion called "Les Glycines"1. The name seemed to me to be sweet and wonderful music, like the flowers already admired in the garden of Maniville. But I was wide-eyed, because this she said was where we were going to live. I kissed her with fervour “just the two of us?” I asked. No, of course not and mother explained quickly, because the conversation with our Russian friends seemed important and lively, that she would open it as a family guesthouse. What a shock! Like Marmosets? Not quite no doubt, but yes, that's it, as the Marmosets.. The father of my two little friends then turned to them and told them what I had just learnt, and asked them if they would like to live here with us, instead of the Marmosets. Time went by in what seemed an eternity in the possibility of a negative reply. They exchanged looks, then cried with joy in which I joined. What emotion! * * *
The house took shape rapidly. Furniture and decorating materials arrived from Fontainebleau, eight kilometres away, and put in position, supplemented by the arrival of many storage boxes which had been stored by Uncle Cham (Chamarel). I was obviously much more in the way than helpful in this confusion but I tried to join in whenever mother took the risk to entrust me with such or such an object. All of this gave me a joyful excitement until the day when a couple came that mother had been impatiently waiting for; Elise and her husband Victor. These were the two “domestic workers” (as we would call them today) who would constitute the essential core staff, supplemented as needed by a seasonal recruitment.
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