---

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Our readers will remember the article by our friend Basil D. KINGSTONE (Professor at the University of Windsor, Ontario, Canada), which was published in the BAAG no 25 (January 1975 [gd] ), and in which he presented the results of the extensive research conducted by his colleague at Queen's University (Kingston, Ontario), Professor Douglas O. SPETTIGUE. [i ] The mysterious "F.P.G." had two lives, one under the name of Felix Paul Greve (1879-1948), the other as Frederick Philip Grove... This astounding character, with whom Gide had a memorable encounter in June 1904, in Paris, and who was his German translator, continues to fascinate several scholars, like Dr. Desmond Pacey [ii] at the University of New Brunswick in Fredericton (Canada), who has been working for several years on an edition of F.P.G.'s correspondence.

We are in a position today to add a new piece of information to this case. It concerns a text by Gide about his "Meeting with Felix Paul Greve" on June 2nd, 1904, in Paris. This account, if it hadn't been so long, might have found a place in Gide's Journal. Fifteen years later, Gide published it in revised and much shortened form under the title "Conversation With a German Some Years Before the War", ^[iii] in which version the most salient points were suppressed or camouflaged so that an identification of the "German" in question was impossible. [gd]

Gide had kept two manuscripts of this document, the second of which (15 leaves, 21.5 x 17 cm, paper "filigrane Polleri") being obviously a corrected copy of the first which showed numerous corrections (12 leaves of various sizes, with many additions). Strangely, it is this oldest version that was used for the 1919 publication, [iv] so that the second manuscript, which we are about to publish below, ironically represents both the original and most authentic version of the "Encounter" prior to the corrections of 1919, and a more accomplished one than the first draft Gide chose for its publication...

We shall present major variants of the newly edited manuscript in comparison with the version published in Incidences in footnotes. Most of these are simply a matter of style. But three discrepancies in particular are of greater importance: they concern major omissions Gide made in the beginning and at the end (see notes 9 and 96), as well as another passage (see note 91).

It will become evident that Gide had originally planned to add one of Greve's letters in its entirety at the end of his account. To this document we shall add a second letter by Greve which was sent several months later and which Gide had carefully kept. Both of these letters throw some light on their author, and may help to bring out "this little sparkle," as André Breton once told Gide, "which you only made appear a couple of times, namely, in the eyes of Lafcadio and of a German" v ...

Claude Martin

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(BAAG no 32, October 1976, 25-26, with 1-9)

Thursday, June 2, 1904

Encounter with Felix Paul Greve

To help my memory, I'm jotting down here what happened during a brief stay at Paris where I had gone to have a look at the blueprints for my future house with Theo [1] and Bonnier. [2] The first day, after working with Theo until midnight, I had not been able to sleep in an abominable room at the Terminus, plagued by mosquitoes. I had left Cuverville tired, even though I had been alright when I got up that morning. Shopping, and then lunch at Theo's. Towards the end of the day, I hastily go over my press clippings at the office of the Mercure; [3] from there I depart overwhelmed to rush to the Charles Gides where I stay for supper. Right after dinner my uncle leaves for a meeting. I drop off a few parcels at the Terminus, and, hoping to earn a good night's sleep, I decide to go for a walk until 11 o'clock. I have an appointment with Bonnier at 8:30 in the morning. On a poster I see that tonight is the last performance of Amoureuse [4] . I just read the play. I don't like it. But it interests me enough to endure a couple of acts in spite of my fatigue. I would like to know what Brandès and Guitry make of it. I therefore walk towards the Renaissance theatre on rainy and depressing streets. The theatre is nearly sold out; there is such a heat in there that I immediately turn around to leave. But it is impossible to return my ticket. I'm suffocating for two long acts. The play picks up in pace what it lacks in flexibility, subtlety, and hypocrisy. If I weren't writing it down here, I would forget all about it within three days. That is Porto-Riche's fault. There certainly isn't that "wonderful blurring of the boundaries" Nietzsche describes [5] . Too bad.

Back in my room, I try to fall asleep in vain. However, I don't regret having turned in right away, like a good boy... Around 1 o'clock, there is a knock on my door. I get up, all prepared to welcome no matter what adventure... It is Ghéon. By coincidence, he is passing through Paris, dines at Ducoté's, [6] goes to wake up the Van Rysselberghes, hears from them that I am in Paris, and comes over here immediately to wake me up, too. His train leaves at 5:30. [7] I get dressed, we go downstairs; we are having a great time talking. At 3 o'clock, when we leave the Grande Taverne where René de Brueil [8] has taken us, the day is dawning. All is gray and cold; on the boulevards, a fine mist comes down and transcends everything. At 5 o'clock, Ghéon leaves me. I try to sleep until 7. At Bonnier's, I find Theo already there, and all three of us go to see the Sickert exhibition. Afterwards, I return to my hotel where Felix Paul Greve is no doubt awaiting me. [9]

The Encounter with Felix Paul Greve / by André Gide

(BAAG no 32, October 1976, 26-37, with footnotes 10-96)

In the lobby of the hotel, where I arrive on time, Greve has been waiting already for half-an-hour. He is sitting opposite the entrance, holding the envelope of my message telling him when and where to meet ostensibly in his hand, so I might recognize him. I advance hesitantly across the lobby. I see his smooth face, as if bleached with chlorine, his body too long for fitting in no matter what seat, and I hope ardently that this is Greve; it is. [10]

Thinking that it would be easiest to have lunch right away, I take him to the hotel's restaurant. At the start of our meal, we talk about his two essays devoted to Wilde, and I tell him some anecdotes on this subject he hadn't heard before. [11] The conversation turns livelier little by little. However, he is speaking extremely slowly, looking for suitable words, or even ideas, but nevertheless, he speaks correctly, and without an accent. [12] He just got out of prison. I know it, but he believes that I don't know anything about it. He admirably conceals a slight apprehension when he learns that Vollmoeller [13] has told me about him. He will return to Bonn tonight; so, he has come to Paris with the sole purpose to meet me. All my self-sufficiency cannot prevent that I admire and marvel. [14]

"Why have you wanted to make my acquaintance?"

"All of a sudden," he replies, "when I read your Immoraliste, and I came to the passage where Moktir steals a pair of scissors, and where Michel, who has watched him, smiles."

Prolonged silence; then, very slowly:

"Monsieur Gide... do you know that I was just released from prison?"

Lowering my voice and placing my hand on his:

"Yes; I know."

At the contact of my hand, [15] he seems to perk up a little. In a slightly less monotonous voice:

"But do you know that I only got out four days ago?... and that I had been interned for fourteen months..."

"I thought only for three months."

"I haven't slept for the last four days."

"You do look extremely tired."

"Those last days in prison, I could hardly eat... due to nervous contractions; here, you see, my chin... and when I came out, my wife was waiting for me; for half-an-hour I just stood there, unable to speak to her, tense, and unable to utter a single word."

(The exhaustion and the tension of his features are almost painful to watch, and so is the twitching [16] of his muscles.)

"But now, I must talk all the time. In Germany, there is nobody I can talk to. Talking to my wife, that's not the same. When I told her about my plan to go and meet you, she agreed with me. Without hesitating, she said that I should leave. I would have come even earlier, but before I left, I wanted to try speaking with... to explain to my friend who... the one who, well..."

"The one who had you convicted?"

"Yes, right. I knew well that, had I only asked him for that sum, he would have given it to me immediately. But... he didn't understand why I behaved that way... I wanted to explain it to him... oh! not why I... but that he shouldn't have insisted on that conviction... because, within five years, I know that I will be able [17] to pay all my debts. But on condition that I'm left with something to live on in the meantime."

"And what was his reply?"

"He rang for the butler to throw me out."

Another silence; he continues, slightly more animated:

" [18] I am forced now to have my books published under the name of my wife, or else using pen-names: they have seized everything that could provide me with an income... Yes, in five years, I know that I could pay the entire sum, just with my translations and my books. I am a formidable worker. In prison, [19] I translated forty volumes: Flaubert's entire correspondence, Bouvard et Pécuchet, all of Wells, four volumes by Meredith, three by Quincey, your two, finally [20] ..."

"What! You have already translated them?"

"Completely. My wife, who doesn't speak French [21] , is reading them at present... I have always had an enormous capacity for work. At sixteen, I lost my father. He was a very affluent industrialist in Mecklembourg who, in the year of his death, had completely ruined himself. My mother and my three sisters had no other income to live on than what I earned by giving lessons. You see, at sixteen I already looked exactly as I look now (this is not surprising, for today, at twenty-six, he barely looks like twenty-two). My students' parents did not know it, they didn't even suspect my age. I taught Greek, Latin, French, Italian, [22] English; I gave up to eighty lessons a week. Add to this that I didn't know any Latin or Greek. Latin and Greek, I had to learn myself while giving my lessons. [23] I am, when it comes to Latin and Greek, a... how do you say?... an autodidact, right?"

"You have three sisters?"

"I had nine sisters. And I lost all of them [24] . They all died of... (he looks for a word, then says in German "Eklampsien"). I was the tenth child. Doctor X... who is quite famous in Germany, claims that I escaped their fate because I was the only one not to nursed by my mother. Does it bother you, if I tell you all this about my family?... Yes, my mother watched all of her nine girls die... or, at least,... I did not tell her about the death of my last sister, who had been married in America. My mother herself was very ill at the time, and I lost her, too, a few weeks later. [25]

"How old were you then?"

"Eighteen."

"And so you are all alone now?"

He repeats absent-mindedly: [26] "Yes, all alone," then he continues:

"My mother was an admirable woman. She had all the good qualities in the world, yes, the noblest qualities you can imagine, she had them. I cannot think about her without crying (I automatically look at his eyes: they are perfectly dry). On her death-bed she said to me: 'Ah! Kind ; daß Du mir nur stolz bleibst,' gd then she turned to a friend who assisted her, and whispered: 'Ich fürchte, es wird schlecht mit ihm ausgehen.' [27] " gd

"Was there anything that could have made her anticipate...?"

"Not at this time."

A long silence; then:

"I have to warn you, Monsieur Gide, of a peculiarity in my nature. It's that I'm lying all the time." [28]

"Vollmoeller [29] has told me about that as well," I tell him.

"Yes... but he could never understand the value of my lies. I would like to explain it to you [30] ... It is not what you think... I feel the same urge to lie, the same satisfaction to be lying, others [31] feel when they are telling the truth... [32] Look here, for example: when someone hears a sudden noise next to him, he turns his head around quickly. [33] (He grabs my arm). I don't! Or if I turn my head, [34] I do it on purpose: so I'm lying."

"When did you start lying?"

"Right after my mother's death."

Silence.

"It's because of my lies that my wife stays with me; my marvelous faculty of lying. As soon as she [35] felt it, she left her husband and children [36] for me; she left everything behind to follow me. At first, I thought of abandoning her; then I understood, for my part as well, [37] that I could not do without her. It is mostly with her that I lie [38] . Sometimes, it leads to terrible scenes between us; but in the end it's invariably the lies that prove strongest... Tonight I'll return to her. In two months we are going to be married. Until then we will live in Switzerland. When I get home, I'll sell everything I own, and we shall start living on 100 francs a month." [39]

Lunch is finished. He offers me an oriental cigarette from a silver container which is the most elegant I have ever seen, as simple and perfect like a shell [40] . In addition, I admire his matchbox, which is also in silver. [41] The minutest objects he carries [42] are of impeccable taste, and of sober and simple elegance.

"Yes," he says, "I passionately love elegance; but all of this will be sold." [43]

We get up.

"When does your train leave?"

"At eleven; [44] It's the only train with third class compartments."

(I still harbour a vague fear that he has come here to borrow from me.) [45]

"Is there anything you would like to see or do in Paris?"

"No, nothing. I came exclusively to talk to you." [46]

Worrying that the day might become too long for us, [47] I ask him if he wouldn't be interested in seeing some paintings.

"Oh, no," he tells me, "not yet. Look, if you want to do me a favour, you can take me to the Champs-Élysées."

A taxi takes us [48] to the Forest, after passing through [49] the Park Monceau.

During lunch, I saw him sitting across from me. Sitting [50] next to him I notice that he looks quite different in profile. [51] Facing you, he has a seductive smile, [52] almost child-like. In profile, the expression of his chin is disquieting. We talk again about his prison term.

"It has had the good result," he tells me, "that it has completely eradicated all signs of a bad conscience, and all scruples in me..." [53]

"And now that society has punished you, you feel you can take all your liberties against it...?" [54]

"Yes, all liberties."

"Waging a battle against society is challenging, but you will be defeated." [55]

"No, I will not. I feel [56] incredibly strong."

He says this without any kind of bravery, just with a simple conviction. [57] Wishing to be a bit more on my guard, [58] and profiting from a moment [59] when he reaffirms his love for opulence:

"As for my part, [60] I must admit," I counter, [61] "that I only like observing it in others. [62] I would have loved to know Byron, but I would hardly have wanted to be Byron." [63]

I can feel that he is listening less attentively. To recapture his interest, I talk again about his books. [64]

"That is why," I continue, [65] "your first essay [66] has particularly interested me. It coincided, at least in my case, precisely with a critical period in my life [67] ... I think that the way you, speaking of Wilde, described life and art as diametrically opposed, was quite correct, and you showed that [68] ..."

" [69] And I find it entirely wrong now. [70] Yes, if you like, [71] yes, it is dangerous for the artist to get too involved in "living." But I am not an artist. [72] Art is nothing but a necessity for me; it is the need for money that makes me write. [73] Feeling my arm when it stretches out (he extends his arm in an admirable gesture), gives me more pleasure than writing the most beautiful verse. So, were you lying when you wrote your Nourritures? When I wrote my booklet on Wilde, I lied. Action, that's all I want. Intense, yes, intense... even to the point of murder." [74]

A long silence.

"No," I finally say, to regain my composure, [75] "action does not interest me as much for the sensations it awakes in me, [76] as for its consequences, its repercussions. That is why, no matter how passionately it might interest me, it will interest me even more when carried out by someone else. [77] I fear -- don't misunderstand me -- I fear [78] to expose myself. I mean, to limit myself by what I do, or what I could do. To think [79] that, because I did a certain thing, I could never do another, would be intolerable for me. [80] I prefer to make somebody else act than act myself."

"Never could somebody else act in the way you might have acted. [81] It is in our actions that each of us is truly irreplaceable." [82]

Another long silence... [83]

"Monsieur Gide, there is something else I want to tell you... I don't quite know how to say it..." [84]

"Say it in German."

"In German I couldn't say it any better. You have to understand that I don't talk any faster in German. I don't want to talk any faster, at present. [85] For a long time I have been looking for the right words. No! I'm still too nervous. I can't do it. It feels like I have a heavy weight on my head, and my body doesn't seem to belong to me any more. As soon as I left the prison, I wrote you a long letter... but before sending it, I wanted to see you." [86]

"Is it my fault that you are unable [87] to talk to me now?"

"No... but [88] for today, it's useless. I couldn't tell you any more." [89]

Misled by his reticence, and [90] to settle the question once and for all, I ask abruptly:

"Are you homosexual?"

"Absolutely not." [91]

Our car is returning to Paris:

"Where should we be driven?" [92]

"May I ask you to do me yet another favour... of a practical kind?"

He seems to be extremely hesitant, and I'm starting to worry a bit about my purse. [93]

"Do you know where I can purchase [94] some henna?"

I take him to Philippe's, the hairdresser in the Rue St-Honoré. [95] And there I quickly say good bye to him, not knowing anything more embarrassing than parting from somebody who has come from Cologne exclusively to see you, when it is barely four and his return train only leaves at eleven. [96]

---

(BAAG no 32, October 1976, 37, with note 97)

Some days after I returned here, I received the following letter by him: [97]

(BAAG no 32, October 1976, 37-38, with notes 98-105)

I. 07.06.1904

Dear Sir,

When we parted in Paris, I could not thank you as I had wanted to do. I am not yet sending you the letter I promised, but what I do need to tell you here is that the second of June has been a major event in my life.

Allow me to tell you yet one more thing.

Influence is what I want, and if I have understood you correctly, it is what you desire as well. But I -- of course, this was not what I had hoped so much to express during our stroll, and what I cannot tell you  even now -- I believe in the influence life has. I believe that the influence life has is far [98] superior to the one literature holds. Caesar was far more demoralizing than Nietzsche or Wilde. Power is what is most immoral. And I do have power. Riches would forge a formidable weapon. So now, I have to forge myself a weapon out of literature. But the goal -- the goal is life. I am not an artist. I could never live but a very dangerous life. But I intend to triumph. You mustn't hold it against me that I always seem to contradict you. I am still young enough (I am only 25) to have an inner need to contradict, [99] and to discover, only by contradicting, my very own truth.

I do not know yet what I shall live on over the summer. I will give you my  address as soon as I know it myself. [100] For another fortnight any letters etc. will still reach me at the address listed below. [101] I am going to London on Thursday, and expect [102] to be back in Cologne on the 7th. [103]

A publisher for your L'Immoraliste [104] has been found. I am still keeping the manuscript, and will write you before embarking on any definite negotiations.

Please consider me, dear Monsieur Gide, most cordially yours,

            F. P. G.

                        Cologne [105]

---

(BAAG no 32, October 1976, 39)

It doesn't look like Gide ever received the "promised letter." But four months later, Greve wrote to him again at great length:

II. 17.10.1904

Wollerau, Canton Schwyz, 17.X.04 [106]

Dear Monsieur Gide,

A thousand apologies for not having written you any earlier, I have been feeling guilty about it for quite some time. But when you hear what I have achieved this summer, I know that you will surely forgive me.

1) I have produced for the Germans lousy translations of the following books: Wells, Time Machine, The Island of  Dr. Moreau, The Food of the Gods (Bruns); Wilde, Apologia (Bruns); Meredith, The Egoist, Henry Richmond, (Bruns); Flaubert, Correspondence (4 vol.), Par les champs et par les grèves (Bruns); Galiani, Correspondence (2 vol.) (Insel); Swinburne, Mary Stuart (trag. in 5 acts) (Insel); Phaedra (fragment), and several poems (Freishattt gd ); Browning, two poems of about 500 lines (Freistatt gd ).

2) I have written three essays of no importance, but in a manner the public in Germany appreciates (on Meredith, on Flaubert, and on the method of making German poems); one of these has been published, the other two will appear in the near future.

3) I have created lots of poems myself, and I have introduced a lady poet into German literature: the solution to this riddle will follow below.

4) I have written a satirical farce nobody wants because of the ridicule it showers on the Bavarian government, and the administration of museums and prisons.

5) I am preparing a great book which will make me very unpopular with all the artists in Germany (with you as well? for I will count on you being my reader when I finally emerge with something important) because of the unflattering things I have to say about artists and art itself. The title of this book will be Kunst und Künstler (Art and Artist). It has to be well written, even very well written, and therein lies the difficulty. Up to now, I have only gathered lots of notes.

6) I have proofed half a dozen books which are presently being printed.

All of this in four months; that means that I haven't slept more than three hours on any given night. Ten hours a day I have been dictating. Do I get my pardon? The result?... I have made about 4000 frs. There you are! In Germany, one doesn't believe in paying too much to a man who ... etc. So what! I'm going to show them. First I must saturate the market with my name. That is precisely what I'm doing. In spite of this, I'll concede that the better part of my translations are superior to most of those that appear in print: and I have witnesses to prove it. Also, my translations are occasionally quite good, even very good (see my Apologia for Wilde which I will send you).

Now let's talk. Business first. It seems clear to me that Mr. von Poellnitz (Insel) is  definitely reluctant. He told me repeatedly that he found the style of your book brilliant, but the subject 'too troublesome' for publication. Therefore my question: would you authorize me to deal with Mr. Bruns? Mr. Diederichs has told me firmly that he does not wish to publish any more translations. Furthermore, I am at odds with Mr. S. Fischer in Berlin, who has offended me to the point that I shall have him prosecuted. So, it looks like Mr. Bruns is the only one left, and I think it will be easy for me to stir sufficient interest in him to commence printing without further delay. Send me one line (by card or telegram) -- and I'll start negotiating with him.

---

The following passage in Greve's letter of October 17, 1904, has special significance for several projects concerning his companion Else, born Ploetz, divorced Endell, abandoned Greve, & later well-known in New York Dada Circles as the widowed Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven [gd, 9.2.2006]:

About myself: I must work under singularly strange conditions. I am not one person anymore, I am three: I am 1) Mr. Felix Paul Greve; 2) Mrs. Else Greve; 3) Mrs. Fanny Essler. The latter, whose poems I will send you in the near future, and whose poems -- this is still a secret -- are addressed to me , is a poet already well regarded in certain parts of Germany. Until now, she has only published some poems. But I, F. P. Greve, her mentor and promoter, am preparing two novels for publication , which she has written in Bonn on the Rhine while in prison (a prison that I, F. P. Greve, have taken the habit of calling the 'villa'). All this, I beg of you, must naturally be kept under the seal of the strictest confidence. Nobody is suspecting anything about this state of affairs. In addition, the translation of Flaubert's Correspondence will be published with the name of Mrs. Else Greve printed on the title page, but unfortunately the only language Mrs. Greve knows is Italian , and consequently I, F. P. Greve, had to do her translation during the summer nights.

To push this farce to the limit, I will publish a few weeks from now a long article about the great poet Fanny Essler, and one of Mrs. Fanny Essler's novels , which will be published without the author's name and which the publisher believes to be an autobiography, will have the title: Fanny Essler .

You can imagine that with work this complicated I have spent a summer gay enough. I almost regret having revealed this secret to you.

---

I shall remain here all winter -- for reasons of economy (so that by spring I will have the few thousand francs I need to spend four or six weeks in Paris).

I still have the draft of a letter addressed to you in a drawer of my desk, but I don't have the time to copy it -- you will have to wait some more.

And how are you doing? What are you up to?

Please, do me the favour and write me a long letter! And do trust that I will always, with the highest regards and admiration, be yours

            Felix P. Greve

Notes