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[Illustration: THE REAL LATIN QUARTER Book Cover]
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[Illustration: THE REAL LATIN QUARTER]
[Illustration: IN THE GARDENS OF THE LUXEMBOURG
_WATER COLOR DRAWING BY_
F. HOPKINSON SMITH
PARIS, 1901]
THE REAL
LATIN QUARTER
By F. BERKELEY SMITH
[Illustration: (portrait of woman)]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR
INTRODUCTION AND FRONTISPIECE BY
F. HOPKINSON SMITH
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK . NINETEEN HUNDRED AND ONE
Copyright, 1901
by
Funk & Wagnalls Company
Registered
at
Stationers' Hall
London, England
Printed in the
United States of America
Published in
November, 1901
[Illustration: (teapot with cup)]
CONTENTS
Page
Introduction 7
Chapter
I. In the Rue Vaugirard 11
II. The Boulevard St. Michel 29
III. The "Bal Bullier" 52
IV. Bal des Quat'z' Arts 70
V. "A Dejeuner at Lavenue's" 93
VI. "At Marcel Legay's" 113
VII. "Pochard" 129
VIII. The Luxembourg Gardens 151
IX. "The Ragged Edge of the Quarter" 173
X. Exiled 194
[Illustration: (wine bottles with glass)]
INTRODUCTION
"Cocher, drive to the rue Falguiere"--this in my best restaurant French.
The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his
eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguiere.
"Yes, rue Falguiere, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued.
Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin."
And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led
into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair
of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author
of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in
his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90 deg. outside--working at his
desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript.
The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in
fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of
work.
Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of
some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to
rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a
collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the
rue Falguiere chose a different plan. He would come back year after
year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter
in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of
the Luxembourg Gardens and the Pantheon; near the cafes and the Bullier;
next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman
pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes.
It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at
work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the
value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the
labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding
the quality which comes of it.
If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true
inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel
sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much
to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous
impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other
merit which they may possess.
Nothing can be made really _real_ without it.
F. HOPKINSON SMITH.
Paris, August, 1901.
[Illustration: (city rooftop scene)]
CHAPTER I
IN THE RUE VAUGIRARD
Like a dry brook, its cobblestone bed zigzagging past quaint shops and
cafes, the rue Vaugirard finds its way through the heart of the Latin
Quarter.
It is only one in a score of other busy little streets that intersect
the Quartier Latin; but as I live on the rue Vaugirard, or rather just
beside it, up an alley and in the corner of a picturesque old courtyard
leading to the "Lavoir Gabriel," a somewhat angelic name for a huge,
barn-like structure reeking in suds and steam, and noisy with gossiping
washerwomen who pay a few sous a day there for the privilege of doing
their washing--and as my studio windows (the big one with the north
light, and the other one a narrow slit reaching from the floor to the
high ceiling for the taking in of the big canvases one sees at the
Salon--which are never sold) overlook both alley and court, I can see
the life and bustle below.
[Illustration: LAVOIR GABRIEL]
This is not the Paris of Boulevards, ablaze with light and thronged with
travelers of the world, nor of big hotels and chic restaurants without
prices on the menus. In the latter the maitre d'hotel makes a mental
inventory of you when you arrive; and before you have reached your
coffee and cigar, or before madame has buttoned her gloves, this
well-shaved, dignified personage has passed sentence on you, and you pay
according to whatever he thinks you cannot afford. I knew a fellow once
who ordered a peach in winter at one of these smart taverns, and was
obliged to wire home for money the next day.
In the Quartier Latin the price is always such an important factor that
it is marked plainly, and often the garcon will remind you of the cost
of the dish you select in case you have not read aright, for in this
true Bohemia one's daily fortune is the one necessity so often lacking
that any error in regard to its expenditure is a serious matter.
In one of the well-known restaurants--here celebrated as a rendezvous
for artists--a waiter, as he took a certain millionaire's order for
asparagus, said: "Does monsieur know that asparagus costs five francs?"
At all times of the day and most of the night the rue Vaugirard is busy.
During the morning, push-carts loaded with red gooseberries, green peas,
fresh sardines, and mackerel, their sides shining like silver, line the
curb in front of the small shops. Diminutive donkeys, harnessed to
picturesque two-wheeled carts piled high with vegetables, twitch their
long ears and doze in the shady corners of the street. The gutters,
flushed with clear water, flash in the sunlight. Baskets full of red
roses and white carnations, at a few sous the armful, brighten the cool
shade of the alleys leading to courtyards of wild gardens, many of which
are filled with odd collections of sculpture discarded from the
ateliers.
[Illustration: (donkey cart in front of market)]
Old women in linen caps and girls in felt slippers and leather-covered
sabots, market baskets on arm, gossip in groups or hurry along the
narrow sidewalk, stopping at the butcher's or the baker's to buy the
dejeuner. Should you breakfast in your studio and do your own
marketing, you will meet with enough politeness in the buying of a pate,
an artichoke, and a bottle of vin ordinaire, to supply a court welcoming
a distinguished guest.
Politeness is second nature to the Parisian--it is the key to one's
daily life here, the oil that makes this finesse of civilization run
smoothly.
"Bonjour, madame!" says the well-to-do proprietor of the tobacco-shop
and cafe to an old woman buying a sou's worth of snuff.
"Bonjour, monsieur," replies the woman with a nod.
"Merci, madame," continues the fat patron as he drops the sou into his
till.
"Merci, monsieur--merci!" and she secretes the package in her netted
reticule, and hobbles out into the sunny street, while the patron
attends to the wants of three draymen who have clambered down from their
heavy carts for a friendly chat and a little vermouth. A polished zinc
bar runs the length of the low-ceilinged room; a narrow, winding
stairway in one corner leads to the living apartments above. Behind the
bar shine three well-polished square mirrors, and ranged in front of
these, each in its zinc rack, are the favorite beverages of the
Quarter--anisette, absinthe, menthe, grenadine--each in zinc-stoppered
bottles, like the ones in the barber-shops.
At the end of the little bar a cocher is having his morning tipple, the
black brim of his yellow glazed hat resting on his coarse red ears. He
is in his shirt-sleeves; coat slung over his shoulder, and whip in hand,
he is on the way to get his horse and voiture for the day. To be even a
cocher in Paris is considered a profession. If he dines at six-thirty
and you hail him to take you as he rattles past, he will make his brief
apologies to you without slackening his pace, and go on to his plat du
jour and bottle of wine at his favorite rendezvous, dedicated to "The
Faithful Cocher." An hour later he emerges, well fed, revives his
knee-sprung horse, lights a fresh cigarette, cracks his whip like a
package of torpedoes, and goes clattering off in search of a customer.
[Illustration: (rooftop)]
The shops along the rue Vaugirard are marvels of neatness. The
butcher-shop, with its red front, is iron-barred like the lion's cage in
the circus. Inside the cage are some choice specimens of filets, rounds
of beef, death-masks of departed calves, cutlets, and chops in paper
pantalettes. On each article is placed a brass sign with the current
price thereon.
In Paris nothing is wasted. A placard outside the butcher's announces an
"Occasion" consisting of a mule and a donkey, both of guaranteed
"premiere qualite." And the butcher! A thick-set, powerfully built
fellow, with blue-black hair, curly like a bull's and shining in pomade,
with fierce mustache of the same dye, waxed to two formidable points
like skewers. Dangling over his white apron, and suspended by a heavy
chain about his waist, he carries the long steel spike which sharpens
his knives. All this paraphernalia gives him a very fierce appearance,
like the executioner in the play; but you will find him a mild, kindly
man after all, who takes his absinthe slowly, with a fund of good humor
after his day's work, and his family to Vincennes on Sundays.
The windows, too, of these little shops are studies in decoration. If it
happens to be a problem in eggs, cheese, butter, and milk, all these are
arranged artistically with fresh grape-leaves between the white rows of
milk bottles and under the cheese; often the leaves form a nest for the
white eggs (the fresh ones)--the hard-boiled ones are dyed a bright
crimson. There are china hearts, too, filled with "Double Cream," and
cream in little brown pots; Roquefort cheese and Camembert, Isijny, and
Pont Leveque, and chopped spinach.
[Illustration: (overloaded cart of baskets)]
Delicatessen shops display galantines of chicken, the windows banked
with shining cans of sardines and herrings from Dieppe; liver pates and
creations in jelly; tiny sausages of doubtful stuffing, and occasional
yellow ones like the odd fire-cracker of the pack.
[Illustration: (women at news stand)]
Grocery shops, their interiors resembling the toy ones of our childhood,
are brightened with cones of snowy sugar in blue paper jackets. The
wooden drawers filled with spices. Here, too, one can get an excellent
light wine for eight sous the bottle.
As the day begins, the early morning cries drift up from the street. At
six the fishwomen with their push-carts go their rounds, each singing
the beauties of her wares. "Voila les beaux maquereaux!" chants the
sturdy vendor, her sabots clacking over the cobbles as she pushes the
cart or stops and weighs a few sous' worth of fish to a passing
purchaser.
The goat-boy, piping his oboe-like air, passes, the goats scrambling
ahead alert to steal a carrot or a bite of cabbage from the nearest
cart. And when these have passed, the little orgue de Barbarie plays its
repertoire of quadrilles and waltzes under your window. It is a very
sweet-toned organ, this little orgue de Barbarie, with a plaintive,
apologetic tone, and a flute obbligato that would do credit to many a
small orchestra. I know this small organ well--an old friend on dreary
mornings, putting the laziest riser in a good humor for the day. The
tunes are never changed, but they are all inoffensive and many of them
pretty, and to the shrunken old man who grinds them out daily they are
no doubt by this time all alike.
[Illustration: (cat on counter)]
It is growing late and time for one's coffee. The little tobacco-shop
and cafe around the corner I find an excellent place for cafe au lait.
The coffee is delicious and made when one chooses to arrive, not stewed
like soup, iridescent in color, and bitter with chicory, as one finds it
in many of the small French hotels. Two crescents, flaky and hot from
the bakery next door, and three generous pats of unsalted butter,
complete this morning repast, and all for the modest sum of twelve sous,
with three sous to the garcon who serves you, with which he is well
pleased.
I have forgotten a companionable cat who each morning takes her seat on
the long leather settee beside me and shares my crescents. The cats are
considered important members of nearly every family in the Quarter. Big
yellow and gray Angoras, small, alert tortoise-shell ones, tiger-like
and of plainer breed and more intelligence, bask in the doorways or
sleep on the marble-topped tables of the cafes.
[Illustration: (woman carrying shopping box)]
"Qu'est-ce que tu veux, ma pauvre Mimi?" condoles Celeste, as she
approaches the family feline.
"Mimi" stretches her full length, extending and retracting her claws,
rolls on her back, turns her big yellow eyes to Celeste and mews. The
next moment she is picked up and carried back into the house like a
stray child.
At noon the streets seem deserted, except for the sound of occasional
laughter and the rattle of dishes coming from the smaller restaurants as
one passes. At this hour these places are full of workmen in white and
blue blouses, and young girls from the neighboring factories. They are
all laughing and talking together. A big fellow in a blue gingham blouse
attempts to kiss the little milliner opposite him at table; she evades
him, and, screaming with laughter, picks up her skirts and darts out
of the restaurant and down the street, the big fellow close on her
dainty heels. A second later he has overtaken her, and picking her up
bodily in his strong arms carries her back to her seat, where he places
her in her chair, the little milliner by this time quite out of breath
with laughter and quite happy. This little episode affords plenty of
amusement to the rest of the crowd; they wildly applaud the good-humored
captor, who orders another litre of red wine for those present, and
every one is merry.
[Illustration: (city house)]
The Parisian takes his hour for dejeuner, no matter what awaits him. It
is the hour when lovers meet, too. Edmond, working in the atelier for
the reproduction of Louis XVI furniture, meets Louise coming from her
work on babies' caps in the rue des Saints-Peres at precisely twelve-ten
on the corner of the rue Vaugirard and the Boulevard Montparnasse.
Louise comes without her hat, her hair in an adorable coiffure, as
neatly arranged as a Geisha's, her skirt held tightly to her hips,
disclosing her small feet in low slippers. There is a golden rule, I
believe, in the French catechism which says: "It is better, child, that
thy hair be neatly dressed than that thou shouldst have a whole frock."
And so Louise is content. The two breakfast on a ragout and a bottle of
wine while they talk of going on Sunday to St. Cloud for the day--and so
they must be economical this week. Yes, they will surely go to St. Cloud
and spend all day in the woods. It is the second Sunday in the month,
and the fountains will be playing. They will take their dejeuner with
them. Louise will, of course, see to this, and Edmond will bring
cigarettes enough for two, and the wine. Then, when the stars are out,
they will take one of the "bateaux mouches" back to Paris.
Dear Paris--the Paris of youth, of love, and of romance!
* * * * *
The pulse of the Quarter begins really to beat at 6 P.M. At this hour
the streets are alive with throngs of workmen--after their day's work,
seeking their favorite cafes to enjoy their aperitifs with their
comrades--and women hurrying back from their work, many to their homes
and children, buying the dinner en route.
Henriette, who sews all day at one of the fashionable dressmakers' in
the rue de la Paix, trips along over the Pont Neuf to her small room in
the Quarter to put on her best dress and white kid slippers, for it is
Bullier night and she is going to the ball with two friends of her
cousin.
In the twilight, and from my studio window the swallows, like black
cinders against the yellow sky, dart and swoop above the forest of
chimney-pots and tiled and gabled roofs.
It is the hour to dine, and with this thought uppermost in every one's
mind studio doors are slammed and night-keys tucked in pockets. And arm
in arm the poet and the artist swing along to that evening Mecca of good
Bohemians--the Boulevard St. Michel.
[Illustration: (basket of flowers)]