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Beatrice Wood       3

he was out when I came. He studied every one remarking, "Bien...cela c'est mauvais, m'a petit [[strikethrough]] ie [[/strikethrough]], cela ne dit riend... ca c'est pas mal... cela c'est tres bien." He usually praised those I liked the least, probably because it came from the unconscious. With the passage of weeks some of his point of view enlarged mine.

Because in those first days I was still "jeune fille" he never made love, though often I wish he had, for he was the most enchanting of men.  If he happened to be home while I was there, he would sit smoking a pipe, hardly talking.  Sometimes he would aske me out to dinner, and perfectly at ease, we sat opposite each other in some Sixth Avenue dump, while E1 trains roared overhead, our moods merging in understood silences.  Sometimes his friend, Henri Pierre Roche would join us, and tease me on account of my naivete. Theri [[Their]] pleasure was to teach me obscene French expressions, which I did not understand , and they would sit complacent like smiling Buddhas, when a party artlessly I would bring forth foul ephitaths [[epitaphs]] to the consternation of distinguished geusts [[guests]].

One night after several weeks, Marcel took me to meet his close friends, Walter and Louise, (Lou) Arensberg, who lived in the same apartment house on West 67th. Street, two floors below him.  He had mentioned them several times, but I was unprepared for their warmth and distinction. Entering their large 
duplex apartment with its two storied sitting room, the Arensberg greeted me warmly. Meeting them was a revelation into a new world. Modern, shrieking paintings hung on walls, Marcel's "Nude DEscending the Stairway" had place of honor, and near it gleamed a brass Brancusi.

A Rousseau with quaint figures hung near a window, and Picassos, Picabias, Braques and Matisses were in abundance where there was space.  Oriental rugs covered floors, and early AMerican furniture, plus a large sofa, and many comfortable chairs comprised the arrangements. The