LETTER FROM PARIS #20 - an epic castle and apologies.

Somehow the expression “: neat but not gaudy” sticks in my mind as I look at Chateau Chantilly. (I seem to remember Mrs. Feitelbaum in “Dunt Esk”* a book by New York sports writer Milt Gross saying it.) It describes perfectly the quality of this pile of somber stone. When the sun is exactly right, “magic hour” for cinematographers, it takes on a golden quality, its Gothic/Romanesque (is that possible) towers casting long shadow.

If Versailles is Paris and Louis XIV by Disney, then Chantilly is strength and character, by A Renaissance warrior. I don’t know if the comparison works. You’d have to see it for yourself. But referring back to Mrs. Feitelbaum’s description, Versailles has a kind of opulent and obvious gaudiness to it, sometimes to me, bordering on tacky. And yes, the Hall of mirrors is a spectacle not to be missed. Notwithstanding that caveat, there is a real fairy-tale castle look that Chantilly has that Versailles does not. You can see grandeur and pomp, but not so "in your face” as Versailles.

The biggest prize is to wander the galleries, especially when you wander them with a hawk-eyed Henri, who is intolerant of bad art and worshipful of the good. And the good and the great are there at Chantilly, masterpieces from Poisson, Ingres, Van Dyke,Raphael, Delacroix and many more. To my taste, and to Henri’s, they are displayed as art used to be displayed before the 20th century and it’s side-by-side no crowding gallery we have today. The paintings are hung from floor almost to ceiling which is how it always used to be.(and what it is at our apartment) What sets each piece of art apart is its inherent quality and not the gallery’s attempt to isolate it from everything else. We have become accustomed to galleries where almost nothing appears above or below a piece and there is more room than enough between them laterally, so that you walk farther and get tired sooner.

Chantilly is not The Louvre, and there are times I think when the Louvre wishes it were not The Louvre. I say that despite my own personal delight with the one great room housing only huge Rubens works – and not crowded floor to ceiling.

The gardens are very French – all beautiful lawns and exquisite topiary reflected in lake-size pools that glitter in the sunshine. Promenade-like pathways run straight and long. A special place. Even the visitors seemed nicer, or am I getting used to them?

It was above all, for us, a day in the sun (which had not shone in two weeks) with Michele and Henri, two of the most obliging people I have ever known. Henri continues to spew opinions and ideas in rapid French, in spite of my efforts to get him to slow down to my meager comprehension speed. He challenges because he will discuss anything and everything. He is a very skilled and successful industrial designer and his paintings, which I say tend to be representational, although somewhat abstract. He insists they are not that at all but are full of symbolism.

Because he can do tricks with computer-enhancement he made one frameable shot of me bending over a flower at Giverny. I was trying to get a close-up of a flower. Henri processed the picture but added two women, one (originally painted lying down like an Odalisque) he stood up. The other, peeking behind the scene, a young woman by Munch. The result is a picture of me in a reverent position praying to an image that could be Mary Magdalene. The Odalisque tilted so she is standing up with hands together in a kind of beneficent pose. It does not look rigged.

His home (I wish I could figure out “attachments” to this letter), is all interior designed by Henri. Vivid enameled (or maybe acrylic) stripes are scattered about, His own designed lamps, large glass globes fastened inside metal tube circles, nesting tables of steel and glass, and a wonderful tom cat that never comes in the house but wanders stealthily around the property looking for prey and stopping only to meow for food and recognition.

Best are our conversations which are mandatory if you are a Frenchman and you believe in confrontation and controversy. We did politics all the way back to Maurice Thorez and Jacques Duclos, the French communists and their co-existence with the Nazis, until those untrustworthy devils flouted the non-aggression treaty and invaded the Soviet Union so the French Reds had to do a quick and embarrassing about face. We even went back to Leon Blum’s non-intervention Pact which allowed Hitler and Mussolini free rein in their support of Franco’s overthrow of Spanish democracy.

Arguments too about what the Americans call “entitlements’ and Henri’s apparent agreement with Sarkozy that the French have been pampered and must learn to work harder. We even argued about Henry of Navarre (Henry IV) and his greatness and tolerance as king and the failure of his son Louis XIII to emulate his father. Henri didn’t think the inept Louis was Henri’s son. With this kind of elevated controversy, how could I possibly hold my own in a language that still has me stumbling in frustration? I switch to English insisting to Henri that I can handle it better. He allows it but in a few seconds he has returned to his machine-gun French.

But what a day. Every visitor should have a host who is caring, knowledgeable, creative, and challenging. It’s the best way to see a country. Not to mention a delightful al fresco lunch prepared by Michele, with an appetizer of white asparagus and a Bearnaise sauce, followed by roast shoulder of lamb in a scrumptious sauce, with roast tomatoes on the side and an accompaniment of saffron rice. (Real saffron, not tumeric.) Followed by a variety of cheese with crusty baguette, then a dessert of clafouti made with bright tart cherries.The accompaniment was a Chablis to begin and a chateau bottled Bordeaux with our “plat.”

Now the apology. Here goes: in news there has always been a slogan which says (I don’t remember the exact words) “Get it fast. Get it first. Get it right!” In this era of scattergun journalism and sometimes not even the illusion of truth, the most important thing is to get it first. It used to be called a scoop. Do you wonder why every newspaper has a section called “corrections?” The only media member I know that never apologizes for getting it wrong - deliberately – is Fox News. It used to be that the Wall Street Journal editorial page played it fast and loose with fact to make a political point. The editor was a kind of Henry Luce, the fabled owner of Time who brazenly had stories re-written to conform to his political opinions

Here comes my correction and the apology. Oh yes, Henri presented me with a printed and bound copy of all my recent blogs, including Letters from Paris. He asked me to autograph them. I told him about my comment on street unrest and how the police in Paris handled it, compared to the police in Montreal. Having seen two emergency vehicles parked less than 50 metres from where some Korean steel workers were staging a quiet demonstration, and having seen so many shuttered stores, I leaped confidently to the conclusion that everyone was expecting a riot. Henri grinned. “They were closed to take a long weekend. Friday was Ascension.” Pouf. The wind came out of me.

To add to my journalistic misery, two emails (and many more silent protesters I believe) told me that I was wrong about the police behaviour during the street vandalism following the Canadiens beating the Penguins. In fact they did arrest many people. I got my “information” from first and early reports, probably by someone who wanted a headline and wanted to be first. Our own dear Rachel was in Montreal and saw only the joy of hockey fans celebrating their beloved Habitants’ victory.

My foray into reporting was neither neat, not gaudy. Sorry.

*I have searched fruitlesly for a copy of the book. I think a boyhood friend of mine “borrowed” it. I hope he’s happy.