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DU MÊME AUTEUR
AU X É D I T I O N S H É L O Ï S E D ’ O R M E S S O N
Vue sur mère, 2019. Le Livre de Poche, 2021.
AU X É D I T I O N S F L A M M A R I O N
Churchill m’a menti, 2014. Le Livre de Poche, 2016.
AU X É D I T I O N S C A L M A N N - L É V Y
Moi, Olympe de Gouges, 2009.
A U X É D I T I O N S BL A N C H E
La Nuit Caroline, 1999.
À travers la voix de Bella, l’amour légendaire de Chagall, sa muse, la
femme icône, restée à ses côtés pendant trente-cinq ans, plongez dans
l’univers incomparable de l’artiste de génie, qui jamais ne cessa de
croire en ses rêves et érigea la beauté, la couleur et l’art en rempart
contre les échecs, les persécutions et les terribles drames du
e
X X siècle.
Page de titre
L’auteur
Le livre
Dédicace
Épilogue
Remerciements
Bibliographie
Copyright
Prologue
7 juillet 2014
Après la visite au Salon, la tension entre vous deux est à son comble.
Victor te reproche de ne pas l’avoir attendu, d’être passé devant un
maximum de toiles sans leur faire l’aumône d’un regard. C’est vrai, tu
as visé le cœur de l’exposition sans t’attarder. Cela correspond chez
toi à un choix précis et assumé : seule l’avant-garde en peinture
t’intéresse. Et puis Victor n’a cessé de se plaindre, de se déprécier
devant le génie des autres, en essayant de t’embarquer dans son
entreprise d’auto-flagellation, cela t’est insupportable.
« Pauvres de nous, qu’allons-nous faire ici ? Tout a été dit et si
bien dit ! Il nous faut prendre un billet et rentrer… »
À ce moment précis, tu le méprises de tout ton être, tu lui en
veux. Toi, tu demeureras à Paris et fidèle à toi-même. Les doutes et
les rêves qui te torturaient déjà petit dans ta ville natale ne te laissent
aucun répit maintenant. Tu ne te figures pas l’art comme une
profession ou un métier, les tableaux ne te paraissent pas destinés
exclusivement à des buts décoratifs, domestiques. L’art, pour toi
comme pour Tolstoï, comme pour tous les grands créateurs, relève
d’une mission. Et tu ne crains pas ce mot si désuet aux oreilles de ton
ami. Le soir même, tu prends ta valise et pars dormir ailleurs.
Un mois plus tard, Victor dira adieu à la peinture, à son
appartement de la place de l’Odéon, à la vie de bohème, et
retournera en Russie s’occuper du négoce familial.
1. Taleth ou talit, talith. Dans la religion juive, châle rituel (en laine ou en soie)
que revêtent les pratiquants lors de la prière. Chaque coin du voile est assorti
de franges, nommées « tsitsit ». (www.linternaute.fr/dictionnaire)
2. Ma vie, de Marc Chagall, 1931, Stock, 1993.
3. Théa fut la première amoureuse du jeune Marc Chagall. C’est elle qui lui
présenta Bella Rosenfeld, son amie. Elle est citée dans Chagall de Jackie
Wüllschlager, NRF, Gallimard, 2012, p. 92-93.
II
Naissance
1
Tu déambules, ivre de beauté, tu « chagalles » Chagall, te promènes
à grands pas dans la ville. Les toits, les jardins, les affiches sur les
murs, les commerçants du marché, les concierges, les paysans, les
ouvriers dans leur salopette bleue enseignent à ton regard mieux
qu’une académie ou un professeur, tout t’inspire. Autour de toi plane
cette étonnante lumière-liberté que tu n’as jamais vue ailleurs. Tout
manifeste la mesure, la clarté, et un sens précis de la forme. Tu es
grisé par le raffinement de la vie à la française. Tu comprends vite en
dévorant les passants du regard qu’à Paris l’élégance est une
obligation et, toi qui en faisais si peu cas, tu vas t’acheter une chemise
blanche et quelques nouveaux vêtements. Puis tu t’en retournes
flâner sur les bords de Seine, admirer les berges. Dire que le fleuve
est sorti de son lit cet hiver, causant des dommages considérables
dont on a parlé jusqu’à Saint-Pétersbourg, et qu’il n’y paraît plus rien.
Ce pays décidément t’épate ! Aux terrasses des cafés, des jeunes
couples d’amoureux s’enlacent et s’embrassent sans être inquiétés.
Dans la prude Russie tsariste, Bella et toi étiez obligés de ruser et de
vous cacher pour vous retrouver.
Tu ne manges pas à ta faim, les plaisirs gastronomiques de Paris te
sont encore interdits, et pourtant tout te paraît léger, enjoué, comme
si la ville entière était montée sur une scène de théâtre. La présence
du Louvre te rend si joyeux. Elle met fin à tes dernières hésitations
quant à un éventuel retour en Russie. Tu fais plusieurs fois le tour des
salles : la salle ronde des Véronèse, ce maître incontournable de la
e
peinture du X V I siècle, les salles des Rembrandt, Delacroix, Courbet,
Manet, Millet, Chardin et tant d’autres. Les murs sont recouverts
d’une abondance de tableaux qui grimpent en rangs serrés jusqu’aux
plinthes. Enfin tu les vois de tes propres yeux, et ce cadeau est
inestimable.
Il y a aussi les vitrines opulentes de la rue Laffitte, en plein dans
la Nouvelle-Athènes, ce quartier où se succèdent les galeries des
nouveaux empereurs que sont les marchands d’art enrichis par les
succès de l’impressionnisme et du post-impressionnisme. Dans leurs
luxueuses boutiques s’entassent les lourds cadres dorés dont ils ont
paré les œuvres pour attirer leur clientèle. Chez Durand-Ruel, tu peux
admirer des Renoir, Pissarro et Monet, par centaines. Chez Bernheim,
plus loin, place de la Madeleine, tu vas voir les Van Gogh, Gauguin,
Matisse. Là aussi, les vitrines sont éclairées comme pour une noce et
invitent à la fête. Toutefois, tu préfères celles, sombres et
poussiéreuses, du marchand d’art Ambroise Vollard, plus à l’avant-
garde. Il se tient seul dans sa boutique, l’air maussade. Il a la
réputation de ne pas être commode, alors tu n’oses pas franchir le
seuil. Tu te presses contre la vitre, cherchant les Cézanne. Ô
merveille ! Ils sont là, simplement posés sur le mur du fond, sans
cadres, sans fioritures, dans le respect de la peinture.
Le soleil de l’art brille plus fort à Paris, et tu prends conscience
qu’il n’y a pas de plus grande révolution de l’œil. Le cœur du monde
moderne, ce nouveau monde auquel tu aspires, bat ici. Tu ressens
pleinement le foisonnement et l’effervescence qui distinguent la vie
artistique française de celle des autres pays.
Tu te sens moins russe, ton âme d’oriental te fait mal. Pourtant, ce
n’est pas la disposition d’un peuple, c’est le sens d’une époque que tu
captes, des forces organiques, psychologiques, cosmiques qui
prédisposent cette partie du monde à une aventure picturale inédite.
Comme si les dieux se tenaient devant toi.
Il n’y a plus qu’à prier, c’est-à-dire à travailler.
La Chambre jaune
Tu n’es pas surpris. Tu t’en doutais. Les Ballets russes ont selon toi le
même défaut que les expositions de peinture encensées par le journal
russe Le Monde de l’art. Et pour cause, ils ont le même fondateur :
Diaghilev. Toute innovation artistique y est polie, lissée, pour parvenir
à un ensemble consensuel, un style joli, piquant, efféminé. Ida
Rubinstein, la princesse juive, tient le premier rôle féminin. Tous
s’accordent à se pâmer devant « la puissance instinctive de son jeu »,
ce qui veut dire qu’elle n’a aucune technique de danseuse mais se
meut avec grâce. De toute façon les dés sont pipés, tu le sais, puisque
c’est elle qui finance les ballets.
Tu repars du théâtre déçu, toi qui aimes tant la scène, la danse
surtout, tu es horripilé par leur talent dédié au superficiel et à la
frivolité, par leur puissance due à l’argent. Par ce système qui porte
aux nues les moins exigeants d’entre vous. Cela te donne envie de
rugir, de souiller leurs parquets trop brillants.
L’été qui suit te trouve dans les rues de Paris, en flâneur inspiré, les
mains dans les poches, le nez en l’air. La démarche sautillante, tu
avances le ventre vide, affamé de beauté. À Paris, les mauvais
cubistes, à la remorque de Picasso et de Braque, sont obsédés par
leurs recherches techniques et esclaves de la géométrie. Prisonniers
de leur logique qui réclame la déformation obligatoire de toute
représentation d’objets, tu comprends qu’ils laissent la porte grande
ouverte à ta fantaisie. En réponse, tes toiles deviennent fantasques,
déconcertantes, incongrues.
Il T’A INVITÉ À DÉJEUNER CHEZ BAT Y , l’un des restaurants les plus
en vue de Montparnasse. Lui, l’inspirateur et le chantre du cubisme.
Tu n’oses pas l’emmener dans ton atelier pour lui montrer d’autres
toiles, et surtout l’autoportrait que tu viens d’achever. Pourtant,
depuis le salon où il t’a découvert, Apollinaire se fait un devoir de
rendre compte de ta peinture. Ses formules sont toujours les mêmes,
il qualifie ton travail de visionnaire et fantaisiste, admire que tu ne
t’embarrasses d’aucun système, te qualifie de grand coloriste plein
d’imagination. Tu le préviens que tu cherches autre chose. « Ah oui,
quoi ? » La viande claque entre ses dents, son appétit est
gargantuesque, les verres de vin s’enchaînent. Comment définir ce
que tu ressens au plus profond de toi ?
Whilst the market was going on, Taburet used to prescribe for
many natives who came to consult him. But carelessness and
ignorance work terrible havoc among the negroes everywhere.
There would be plenty for a doctor to do who cared to study
diseases now become rare in civilized countries. From amongst the
patients who came to Taburet, a grand or rather terrible list of
miraculous cures might have been drawn up. These patients
included men and women suffering from tubercular and syphilitic
diseases, which had been allowed to run their dread course
unchecked by any remedies whatever; many too were blind or
afflicted with goitre and elephantiasis, whilst there were numerous
lepers. Few, however, were troubled with nervous complaints. It was
indeed difficult to prescribe for such cases as came before the good
doctor; indeed it would often have been quite impossible for his
instructions to be carried out. Many poor cripples came from a long
distance to consult the white doctor, expecting to be made whole
immediately, when they were really incurable. Where, however,
would have been the good of prescribing cleanliness, when one of
their most used remedies is to smear any wound with mud and cow-
dung mixed together, the eyes of ophthalmic patients even being
treated with the horrible stuff? Where would be the good of ordering
them nourishing food such as gravy beef, when they are too poor to
get it? Good wine? Even if we could have supplied them with it, they
would have flung it away with horror, for they are Mussulmans.
Quinine then? Its bitterness would have made them suspect poison.
They all came expecting miracles, and all that could be done for
them was to paint their sore places with iodine, and to give them
various lotions and antiseptic dressings, or a solution of iodide of
potassium, and so on, from the use of which they would, most of
them, obtain no benefit at all.
Taburet was consulted about all sorts of things. For instance, a
pretty Fulah woman from Saga with a pale complexion and engaging
manners had got into trouble. She had overstepped the bounds of
reserve prescribed in her tribe to young girls, and was soon to
become a mother. Well, she came timidly to the doctor to ask for
medicines for her case, and when it was explained to her that that
case was incurable, for the French law forbids the destruction of life,
she went away, only to return the next day with her mother. The latter
explained that if she and her daughter returned to their village as
things were, they would both be stoned to death, or at least, if their
judges were merciful, be put in irons for the rest of their lives. The
young girl was pretty, many men in her village had asked her in
marriage, but she had refused them all. All her people were now
eager to revenge themselves on her, and to apply in all their terrible
rigour, the “just Mussulman laws.” She had neither father, brother,
nor any one to defend her. Her seducer had deserted her, and it is
not customary amongst the Fulahs to make inquiries as to the father
of illegitimate children.
The people of Say had recommended the mother in mockery to
take her girl to the Christians, she was good for nothing else now,
they said. If we could not cure her, there was nothing left for them to
do but to hide themselves in the fetich-worshipping village of Gurma,
where they would lead a miserable life, unnoticed and unknown.
The two poor women with tears in their eyes knelt to the doctor
imploring his help, and crying Safarikoy! Safarikoy! and I asked
myself, what would be the duty of a doctor in this bigoted land if he
had had the necessary instruments for meeting the unfortunate girl’s
wishes. Perhaps it was as well that in this case nothing could be
done.
All the same this domestic drama was very heart-rending. I tried
for a long time to console our visitors. The old woman stuck to her
request for medicine, and promised to reward us with everything she
could think of likely to please us. She even offered us her daughter,
saying that she might remain with us, and could follow us wherever
we went.
I told Digui to get rid of them as gently as possible, and gave them
a good present to enable them to reach some heathen village where
the people would have pity on them. They departed at last, the
mother’s tears soaking her tattered garments, the daughter following
her, her little feet swollen with walking, and her head drooping in her
despair.
À propos of this episode, Suleyman the interpreter held forth in
the following strain—“From the earliest times prophets, marabouts,
and the negro chiefs who founded the religious dynasty of the
country, have been terribly severe on any lapse from morality
amongst their women, but it is all humbug, for most of the marabouts
are the fathers of illegitimate children.
“Amongst Amadu’s people the man and woman who have sinned
are deprived of all their property, but Abdul Bubakar goes still further,
for he sacks the entire village to which a frail woman belongs, a
capital way of getting slaves and everything else. In other districts
the woman is put in irons, but the man goes free; but if the seducer
comes forward and owns his crime, he can obtain remission of the
punishment by payment of a large sum to the chief of the village;
generally, however, the unfortunate girl dies in her chains.
“Such are the manners and customs of the Mussulmans, and God
alone knows what their women are really like.
“Samory used to kill both the guilty parties, but Tieba, his enemy
and neighbour, professed an amiable kind of philosophy on the
subject of the weaker sex and the ways of women. When Samory
was conquered by Tieba, the chief auxiliaries of the latter were the
nomad Diulas who were strangers in the land. These Diulas had
come to the district by way of Sikasso, where they had met with
women of free and easy manners, and had been driven by the force
of circumstances to remain amongst them, adopting their ways. Now
it generally happens amongst the negroes, that those who have
travelled much and seen something of the world are not only brave
but sensible and free from bigotry.
WOMEN OF SAY.
FORT ARCHINARD.
I cannot too often insist on the fact that it was, thanks to the daily
dose of quinine regularly administered by order to every member of
the expedition, that we owe our safe return in good health, and with
appetites unimpaired.
We owe to it, too, the fact that in spite of many fevers in past
days, we actually had gained, on our return to Paris, not only in
weight, but in our power of enjoying a joke.
Last January, after my return to France, I had been giving an
account at a public meeting of the results of my expedition, and my
companions and I were going down the staircase of the Sorbonne,
attended by a considerable crowd, when two gentlemen, radiant with
health, evidently from the French colonies, and geographers, else
why were they there? exchanged their impressions as they passed
us. “Pooh,” said one of them, shrugging his shoulders, “they have
not even got dirty heads!”
After lunch we all went to take a little siesta, or at least to rest
during the great heat of the day. The siesta, though so much in use
in the tropics, is really a very bad habit, and many ailments of the
stomach are caused by it. It is really better only to indulge in a
noonday nap after exceptional fatigue; but of course it is a very
different matter just to avoid active exercise immediately after a
meal, and to read quietly without going to sleep. To wind up all this
advice to future travellers in the Sudan, let me just add this one more
word, “Do as I say rather than as I did.”
Many of the coolies did not go to sleep in the resting hour, but
chatted together about the news of the day, or gave each other a
little elementary instruction, for negroes, even when grown up, are
very fond of teaching and of being taught. Their ambition, however,
is generally limited to learning to write a letter to their friends or
family. They take great delight in corresponding with the absent, and
I have known young fellows in the Sudan who spend nearly all their
salaries in sending telegraphic despatches to their friends. I knew
others, amongst whom was Baudry’s servant, who gave up most of
their free time at Say to writing letters which never reached their
destination, for a very good reason. They were all much in the style
of the one quoted below—
“Dear Mr. Fili Kanté,—I write to inform you that the Niger
Hydrographical Expedition has arrived at Fort Archinard, and that,
thanks to God, all are well. When you write to me, send me news of
my father and mother, and my friends at Diamu (the writer’s native
village). I shall be very pleased, too, if you will send the twelve
samba (sembé) (coverlets), four horses, ten sheep, etc.
“With my best greetings, dear Mr. Fili Kanté.
“(Signed) Mussa Diakhite
(in the service of Mr. Baudry.)”
Might you not fancy this letter, with all its decorative strokes, to be
one from the soldier Dumanet to his parents? Nothing is wanted to
complete the resemblance, not even the attempt to fleece his
correspondent.
Besides these lovers of correspondence, there were others who
were mad about arithmetic. Samba Demba, Suzanne’s groom,
already often mentioned, wanted to know enough arithmetic to
matriculate. All through the hour of the siesta, and often also when
he was at work, he was muttering the most absurd numbers over to
himself; absurd for him, at least, for the negroes who do not live
where the cowry serves as currency, cannot conceive the idea of any
number beyond a thousand. Samba Demba would read what he
called his “matricula” of nine figures and more, to Father Hacquart,
with the greatest complacency, whilst Ahmady-Mody, who had
patched up the Aube, strove in vain to learn b-a ba, b-e be, or twice
two are four, twice three are six, with his head bent over a big card.
The marabout Tierno Abdulaye actually composed and sung Arabic
verses. In the midst of it all the voice of Dr. Taburet would be heard
from his tent hard by complaining that he could not sleep.
All these good fellows, with their eagerness to learn, had a child-
like side to their characters. There is no doubt that they would very
quickly learn to read, write, and cipher, as the advertisements of
elementary schools express it—read without understanding too
much, write without knowing what, and calculate without ever being
able to apply their arithmetic. Anyhow, however, even this little
knowledge will wean them from the pernicious influence of the
marabouts.
After sunset the heat
became more bearable,
and the time for our
evening bath arrived. At
the northern extremity of
our island were a number
of pools amongst the
rocks, varying in depth
according to the tide. Here
and there were regular
cascades, and we could
stand on the sand bottom
and get a natural shower-
OUR COOLIES AT THEIR TOILETTE. bath. Some of us became
perfectly enamoured of
this style of bathing. Opinions differ in Africa as to the healthiness of
it, however. For my part, I know that bathing in the tepid water,
warmed as it was by the heat of the sun, was very refreshing, and of
course the cleaner we kept ourselves the better the pores of our skin
acted. It may be that stopping long in the water every day was
weakening, and some fevers may have been caused by it when it
happened to be colder than usual. There are two opinions on this as
on every subject, but where is the good of discussing them?—the
best plan is to do what you like yourself.
In the river near Fort Archinard there were lots of common fish,
which used to shoot down the cascades of an evening for the sake
of the greater freshness and coolness of the water below. These fish
would actually strike us now and then on the shoulders, making us
start by the suddenness of the unexpected blows. It was still more
unpleasant to know that other denizens of the river, the terrible
crocodiles, though further off, were still there.
Oh, what numbers of the horrible great grey creatures we used to
see floating down with the stream or lying about the banks! Some of
them had taken up their abode quite near to us, along the side of our
island, just where we used to do our fishing with the gun-cotton, but
their being close to us did not prevent either the coolies, or for the
matter of that the whites, from going into the river.
With sunset came the hour of supper or dinner, and what grand
sky effects we used to see whilst we were at that meal in these
winter quarters of ours! Our walls were flecked with every colour of
the rainbow, whilst in the east, above the sombre wooded banks,
would often rise red masses of curious-looking clouds, precursors of
the approaching tornado. Sometimes the sun had not quite set
before the lightning would begin to flash, and the thunder to roll
incessantly, sounding like the roar of artillery in battle. As we sat at
table we would discuss the situation: what would the tornado do this
time? Would our huts be able to bear up against it? Would much
water come in? “Make haste, Fili, bring us that nougat before it
rains!” said Bluzet. And were the barges securely moored? Had the
sentry got his cloak? and so on.
A WOMAN OF SAY.
Our men were in great despair. The charm which would have
brought luck to our camp was broken; but the parent birds, in spite of
the loss of their little ones, evidently determined to act as our
talisman to the end of our stay, for they continued to fly round and
round our tamarind, and to talk together of an evening, though sadly.
It was not until a few days before we left that they flew away towards
the north. Thanks to them, perhaps, we had a run of good luck to the
last.
The tornado freshened the atmosphere very considerably, and the
sudden change could only be fully realized by consulting the
thermometer. In five minutes the glass would sometimes fall from
forty-five to thirty degrees. A corresponding and sympathetic change
would take place in the state of our nerves; we could sleep a little if
only the mosquitoes would let us, but, alas! their droning never
ceased. Oh, that horrible music, which went on for ever without
mercy, causing us more anguish even than the bites, and against
which no curtain could protect.
The frogs, too, added to the droning of the mosquitoes what we
may call their peculiar Plain Songs or Gregorian chants. They were
very tame, showing no fear of us, but took up their abode here,
there, and everywhere: out in the open air, or in the huts, in our
books, under our tins, and in our water-vessels, and their ceaseless
singing in full solemn tones, echoed that of the distant choirs of their
wilder brethren chattering together amongst the grass by the river-
side. Although not composed on the spot, I cannot refrain from
quoting the following sonnet, produced by a member of our
expedition, and which forms a kind of sequel to the others I have
transcribed above—
LOVE-SONG.
In every country in the world fine weather comes after rain, and
the tornado was succeeded on the Niger by a star-light night of a
clearness and limpidity such as is never seen anywhere out of the
tropics. The soft murmur of the Niger was borne to us upon the
gentle night breeze, reminding us of the Fulah proverb—
“Ulululu ko tiaygueul, so mayo héwi, déguiet,” which may be
translated—
“Ulululu cries the brook, the big river is silent.”
A true description indeed of what really often seemed to happen
during our long imprisonment on our island, for we could hear the
gurgling of the rapid further down-stream, but the voice of the river
was hushed.
Our nights passed quietly enough, watch being always kept by
one white man, one black subordinate officer, and two coolies. From
Timbuktu to Lokodja, that is to say, from January 21 to October 21,
we five Europeans had taken the night-watch in turn. It must be
admitted that at Fort Archinard it was sometimes rather difficult to
remain awake, and to keep ourselves from yielding to our exhausting
fatigue. We had to resort to various manœuvres, such as pinching
ourselves, bathing our feet, wrists, or head, and walking rapidly up
and down. Sometimes, as one or another of us sat in Father
Hacquart’s folding-chair, looking out upon the moon-lit scene, there
was something very charming about the silence and repose, and as
we have already given several quotations of poetical effusions, I
think I must add just one more on the night-watch, also composed by
one of our party.
NIGHT-WATCH.
Our one safe road, the river, was blocked above and below the
camp, for we had a rapid up-stream and a rapid down-stream, so
that even quite small canoes could not pass.
There has been much talk of winter in the Arctic regions, and of
course such a winter is always very severe, but the one we passed
at Say was simply miserable. I really do think that the fact of all five
of us Europeans having survived it, is a proof that we were endowed
with a great amount of energy and vitality.
The temperature had much to do with our sufferings. It increased
steadily until June, and then remained pretty stationary. The