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I was twenty-one, and I felt already that painting was my whole life. With her and the actor Alain Cuny, I went to have dinner one Wednesday at a small restaurant then much frequented by painters and writers. When we got there that evening and were seated, I saw Picasso for the first time. One of the women I knew to be Marie-Laure, Vicomtesse de Noailles, the owner of an important collection of paintings, who is now something of a painter herself.
At that time, though, she had not yet taken up painting — at least publicly — but she had written a poetic little book called The Tower of Babel. She had a beautiful oval face but a heavy jaw, which is a characteristic trait of almost all the portraits Picasso has made of her. Her hair was black and pulled back in a severe, starkly dramatic coiffure.
I noticed her intense bronze-green eyes, and her slender hands with their long, tapering fingers. The most remarkable thing about her was her extraordinary immobility. She talked little, made no gestures at all, and there was something in her bearing that was more than dignity — a certain rigidity.
There is a French expression that is very apt: she carried herself like the holy sacrament. When I saw him now, with his hair graying to white, and with an absent look — either distracted or bored — he had a withdrawn, oriental appearance that reminded me of the statue of the Egyptian scribe in the Louvre.
