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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.