I WAS lured to Paris in 1905 by an exhibit of Manets at the Autumn Salon. Also, I had heard the persistent call of Levy, Bondy, Weissgerber, and a few other painter friends already quite established in Paris. French to my ear was like any other noise; for a long time it was impossible for me to distinguish a single word. Woeissgerber and Levy took me around their stamping grounds at the Café du Dôme, and then showed me the rest of Paris, took me to see the work of Simon and Blanche, painters well known to us Germans, also to a picture of a primitive forest by Henri Rousseau, a wall of Renoirs where the rose colouring started fierce discussions, and a wall of Cézannes. Finally they led me to the feature, in a small room, where I should surely laugh my head off. A place had been set aside here for the first time to that group of painters who later were dubbed les Fauves. In one corner there was a picture of a woman with a fan, and next to it a diminutive painting of a window which was done in divided colours. The Lady With a Fan struck me by the energetic arrangement of its lines, although not so much by its colouring. Also, I took a strong liking to the Window. Instead of laughing, we argued. Our evenings at the Dome were spent in powerful harangues. Weissgerber, for instance, who later got so much from Cézanne, directed tirades against this artist, tirades which were charged with anger and a crass misconception of his purposes.
Soon I was able to get to the Salon by myself. And each visit was the occasion of a constant struggle. If I was inspired by Manet, then I could not find beauty in the Lady With a Fan. And on the other hand I might almost say that I did not like Manet. But the whole question was somewhat obscured, and it escaped me. Soon after that I met in a café an American painter, Sterne. Our views on painting were similar, with the result that he took me to the collection of a friend of his. Embarrassed and curious, I went with
