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Travel Piece  by Ida Nasatir

Letter from Paris,  by Ida Nasatir, November 3, 1950

November 3, 1950—Ida Nasatir, "A Letter from Paris," Southwestern Jewish Press, page 6, 5:   August 29, 1950: Dear Julia and Mac: How little did I dream as I once quietly read the great works of Balzac in San Diego that I would one day amble about in his home. A visit to this pace was an experience! The door of the Musee Balzac was opened by a thin little woman so typically a housekeeper that I nearly asked if Balzac were at home. Balzac must have had the guileless eyes of a cherub, the brain of a Machiavelli, the indomitable will of a Napoleon—and the softly trusting nature of a child. This combination frequently got him into trouble, as was evidenced by the hidden secret stairway, down which the great writer was accustomed hurriedly to descend when besieged by importuning creditors.  He decorated his living room with a plastic frieze representing characters from his various novels, which gave me an odd impression of being in a room crowded with people I knew! Beyond this was his study. On his work table were four of the largest dictionaries I have ever seen. Opposite these was a cast of Balzac's hand, round and soft in contour, almost effeminate. Not a strong looking or a powerful hand—surely not a hand to look as though it were still knocking at the doors of the world!  In a cabinet stood the magic inkstand large and bronze and shaped like a lock—it was a lock indeed to his mighty brain which served as a key.  Also, there was a row of dolls which the great novelist was accustomed to arrange before him to represent different characters when writing scenes or planning chapters and stories. One glass door led into the garden, a charming well-preserved place of graveled paths, benches, and a wall. From this garden it was easy to look across to the house once lived in by the beautiful Princess de Lamballe, a close friend of Marie Antoinette, whose head, during the Revolution, was placed on a spike and shown to the horrified Queen! It was really more like calling on somebody real than like seeing a museum. The place seemed so alive—I felt as though I had shaken hands with him personally. I was sorry to leave and wanted to tell him so, but could only touch his hand on the study table and think my message. It was the hand which impressed me so much. As I left I thought of the solitary figure which once paced so tirelessly up and down the straight little paths, planning, creating, living in a dream world of his own which, reaching us today, becomes almost a reality. Do you see what I mean when I say that  Paris is a vast rich accumulation of historic memories that have gathered layer on layer for twenty centuries? Time seems to be annihilated here, you jump from century to century, or rather the ages are jumbled together, and jostle each other at every step. It is amazing and fascinating.  Fonly, Ida Nasatir.