BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS
Of all the balls in Paris, the annual "Bal des Quat'z' Arts" stands
unique. This costume ball is given every year, in the spring, by the
students of the different ateliers, each atelier vying with the others
in creation of the various floats and corteges, and in the artistic
effect and historical correctness of the costumes.
The first "Quat'z' Arts" ball was given in 1892. It was a primitive
affair, compared with the later ones, but it was a success, and
immediately the "Quat'z' Arts" Ball was put into the hands of clever
organizers, and became a studied event in all its artistic sense. Months
are spent in the creation of spectacles and in the costuming of students
and models. Prizes are given for the most successful organizations, and
a jury composed of painters and sculptors passes upon your costume as
you enter the ball, and if you do not come up to their artistic
standard you are unceremoniously turned away. Students who have been
successful in getting into the "Quat'z' Arts" for years often fail to
pass into this bewildering display of beauty and brains, owing to their
costume not possessing enough artistic originality or merit to pass the
jury.
[Illustration: (coiffeur sign)]
It is, of course, a difficult matter for one who is not an enrolled
member of one of the great ateliers of painting, architecture, or
sculpture to get into the "Quat'z' Arts," and even after one's ticket is
assured, you may fail to pass the jury.
Imagine this ball, with its procession of moving tableaux. A huge float
comes along, depicting the stone age and the primitive man, every detail
carefully studied from the museums. Another represents the last day of
Babylon. One sees a nude captive, her golden hair and white flesh in
contrast with the black velvet litter on which she is bound, being
carried by a dozen stalwart blackamoors, followed by camels bearing nude
slaves and the spoils of a captured city.
[Illustration: (photograph of woman)]
As the ball continues until daylight, it resembles a bacchanalian fete
in the days of the Romans. But all through it, one is impressed by its
artistic completeness, its studied splendor, and permissible license, so
long as a costume (or the lack of it) produces an artistic result. One
sees the mise en scene of a barbaric court produced by the architects of
an atelier, all the various details constructed from carefully studied
sketches, with maybe a triumphal throne of some barbaric king, with his
slaves, the whole costumed and done in a studied magnificence that
takes one's breath away. Again an atelier of painters may reproduce the
frieze of the Parthenon in color; another a float or a decoration,
suggesting the works of their master.
The room becomes a thing of splendor, for it is as gorgeous a spectacle
as the cleverest of the painters, sculptors, and architects can make it,
and is the result of careful study--and all for the love of it!--for the
great "Quat'z' Arts" ball is an event looked forward to for months.
Special instructions are issued to the different ateliers while the ball
is in preparation, and the following one is a translation in part from
the notice issued before the great ball of '99. As this is a special and
private notice to the atelier, its contents may be interesting:
BAL DES QUAT'Z' ARTS,
Moulin Rouge, 21 April, 1899.
Doors open at 10 P.M. and closed at midnight.
The card of admission is absolutely personal, to be taken by the
committee before the opening of the ball.
[Illustration: (admission card)]
The committee will be masked, and comrades without their personal
card will be refused at the door. The cards must carry the name and
quality of the artist, and bear the stamp of his atelier.
Costumes are absolutely necessary. The soldier--the dress suit,
black or in color--the monk--the blouse--the domino--kitchen
boy--loafer--bicyclist, and other nauseous types, are absolutely
prohibited.
Should the weather be bad, comrades are asked to wait in their
carriages, as the committee in control cannot, under any pretext,
neglect guarding the artistic effect of the ball during any
confusion that might ensue.
A great "feed" will take place in the grand hall; the buffet will
serve as usual individual suppers and baskets for two persons.
The committee wish especially to bring the attention of their
comrades to the question of women, whose cards of admission
must be delivered as soon as possible, so as to enlarge their
attendance--always insufficient.
Prizes (champagne) will be distributed to the ateliers who may
distinguish themselves by the artistic merit and beauty of their
female display.
[Illustration: (photograph of woman)]
All the women who compete for these prizes will be assembled on
the grand staircase before the orchestra. The nude, as always, is
PROHIBITED!?!
The question of music at the head of the procession is of the
greatest importance, and those comrades who are musical will please
give their names to the delegates of the ateliers. Your good-will
in this line is asked for--any great worthless capacity in this
line will do, as they always play the same tune, "Les Pompiers!"
THE COMMITTEE--1899.
For days before the "Quat'z' Arts" ball, all is excitement among the
students, who do as little work as possible and rest themselves for the
great event. The favorite wit of the different ateliers is given the
task of painting the banner of the atelier, which is carried at the head
of the several corteges. One of these, in Bouguereau's atelier, depicted
their master caricatured as a cupid.
The boys once constructed an elephant with oriental trappings--an
elephant that could wag his ears and lift his trunk and snort--and after
the two fellows who formed respectfully the front and hind legs of this
knowing beast had practised sufficiently to proceed with him safely, at
the head of a cortege of slave girls, nautch dancers, and manacled
captives, the big beast created a success in the procession at the
"Quat'z' Arts" ball.
[Illustration: (portrait of man)]
After the ball, in the gray morning light, they marched it back to the
atelier, where it remained for some weeks, finally becoming such a
nuisance, kicking around the atelier and getting in everybody's way,
that the boys agreed to give it to the first junk-man that came around.
But as no junk-man came, and as no one could be found to care for its
now sadly battered hulk, its good riddance became a problem. What to do
with the elephant! that was the question.
At last the two, who had sweltered in its dusty frame that eventful
night of the "Quat'z' Arts," hit upon an idea. They marched it one day
up the Boulevard St. Germain to the Cafe des deux Magots, followed by a
crowd of people, who, when it reached the cafe, assembled around it,
every one asking what it was for--or rather what it was?--for the beast
had by now lost much of the resemblance of its former self. When half
the street became blocked with the crowd, the two wise gentlemen crawled
out of its fore and aft, and quickly mingled, unnoticed, with the
bystanders. Then they disappeared in the crowd, leaving the elephant
standing in the middle of the street. Those who had been expecting
something to happen--a circus or the rest of the parade to come
along--stood around for a while, and then the police, realizing that
they had an elephant on their hands, carted the thing away, swearing
meanwhile at the atelier and every one connected with it.
The cafes near the Odeon, just before the beginning of the ball, are
filled with students in costume; gladiators hobnob at the tables with
savages in scanty attire--Roman soldiers and students, in the garb of
the ancients, strut about or chat in groups, while the uninvited
grisettes and models, who have not received invitations from the
committee, implore them for tickets.
Tickets are not transferable, and should one present himself at the
entrance of the ball with another fellow's ticket, he would run small
chance of entering.
"What atelier?" commands the jury "Cormon."
The student answers, while the jury glance at his makeup.
"To the left!" cries the jury, and you pass in to the ball.
But if you are unknown they will say simply, "Connais-pas! To the
right!" and you pass down a long covered alley--confident, if you are a
"nouveau," that it leads into the ball-room--until you suddenly find
yourself in the street, where your ticket is torn up and all hope of
entering is gone.
It is hopeless to attempt to describe the hours until morning of this
annual artistic orgy. As the morning light comes in through the
windows, it is strange to see the effect of diffused daylight,
electricity, and gas--the bluish light of early morning reflected on the
flesh tones--upon nearly three thousand girls and students in costumes
one might expect to see in a bacchanalian feast, just before the fall of
Rome. Now they form a huge circle, the front row sitting on the floor,
the second row squatting, the third seated in chairs, the fourth
standing, so that all can see the dancing that begins in the morning
hours--the wild impromptu dancing of the moment. A famous beauty, her
black hair bound in a golden fillet with a circle wrought in silver and
studded with Oriental turquoises clasping her superb torso, throws her
sandals to the crowd and begins an Oriental dance--a thing of grace and
beauty--fired with the intensity of the innate nature of this
beautifully modeled daughter of Bohemia.
As the dance ends, there is a cry of delight from the great circle of
barbarians. "Long live the Quat'z' Arts!" they cry, amid cheers for the
dancer.
The ball closes about seven in the morning, when the long procession
forms to return to the Latin Quarter, some marching, other students and
girls in cabs and on top of them, many of the girls riding the horses.
Down they come from the "Moulin Rouge," shouting, singing, and yelling.
Heads are thrust out of windows, and a volley of badinage passes between
the fantastic procession and those who have heard them coming.
Finally the great open court of the Louvre is reached--here a halt is
made and a general romp occurs. A girl and a type climb one of the
tall lamp-posts and prepare to do a mid-air balancing act, when
rescued by the others. At last, at the end of all this horse-play, the
march is resumed over the Pont du Carrousel and so on, cheered now by
those going to work, until the Odeon is reached. Here the odd
procession disbands; some go to their favorite cafes where the
festivities are continued--some to sleep in their costumes or what
remains of them, wherever fortune lands them--others to studios, where
the gaiety is often kept up for days.
Ah! but life is not all "couleur de rose" in this true Bohemia.
"One day," says little Marguerite (she who lives in the rue Monge), "one
eats and the next day one doesn't. It is always like that, is it not,
monsieur?--and it costs so much to live, and so you see, monsieur, life
is always a fight."
And Marguerite's brown eyes swim a little and her pretty mouth closes
firmly.
"But where is Paul?" I ask.
"I do not know, monsieur," she replies quietly; "I have not seen him in
ten days--the atelier is closed--I have been there every day, expecting
to find him--he left no word with his concierge. I have been to his cafe
too, but no one has seen him--you see, monsieur, Paul does not love me!"
I recall an incident that I chanced to see in passing the little shop
where Marguerite works, that only confirms the truth of her realization.
Paul had taken Marguerite back to the little shop, after their dejeuner
together, and, as I passed, he stopped at the door with her, kissed her
on both cheeks, and left her; but before they had gone a dozen paces,
they ran back to embrace again. This occurred four times, until Paul and
Marguerite finally parted. And, as he watched her little heels disappear
up the wooden stairs to her work-room above, Paul blew a kiss to the
pretty milliner at the window next door, and, taking a long whiff of his
cigarette, sauntered off in the direction of his atelier whistling.
[Illustration: A MORNING'S WORK]
It is ideal, this student life with its student loves of four years, but
is it right to many an honest little comrade, who seldom knows an hour
when she is away from her ami? who has suffered and starved and slaved
with him through years of days of good and bad luck--who has encouraged
him in his work, nursed him when ill, and made a thousand golden hours
in this poet's or painter's life so completely happy, that he looks back
on them in later life as never-to-be-forgotten? He remembers the good
dinners at the little restaurant near his studio, where they dined among
the old crowd. There were Lavaud the sculptor and Francine, with the
figure of a goddess; Moreau, who played the cello at the opera; little
Louise Dumont, who posed at Julian's, and old Jacquemart, the very soul
of good fellowship, who would set them roaring with his inimitable
humor.
What good dinners they were!--and how long they sat over their coffee
and cigarettes under the trees in front of this little restaurant--often
ten and twelve at a time, until more tables had to be pushed together
for others of their good friends, who in passing would be hailed to join
them. And how Marguerite used to sing all through dinner and how they
would all sing, until it grew so late and so dark that they had to puff
their cigarettes aglow over their plates, and yell to Madame Giraud for
a light! And how the old lady would bustle out with the little oil lamp,
placing it in the center of the long table amid the forest of vin
ordinaires, with a "Voila, mes enfants!" and a cheery word for all these
good boys and girls, whom she regarded quite as her own children.
It seemed to them then that there would never be anything else but
dinners at Madame Giraud's for as many years as they pleased, for no one
ever thought of living out one's days, except in this good Bohemia of
Paris. They could not imagine that old Jacquemart would ever die, or
that La Belle Louise would grow old, and go back to Marseilles, to live
with her dried-up old aunt, who sold garlic and bad cheese in a little
box of a shop, up a crooked street! Or that Francine would marry Martin,
the painter, and that the two would bury themselves in an adorable
little spot in Brittany, where they now live in a thatched farm-house,
full of Martin's pictures, and have a vegetable garden of their own--and
a cow--and some children! But they DID!
[Illustration: A STUDIO DEJEUNER]
And those memorable dinners in the old studio back of the Gare
Montparnasse! when paints and easels were pushed aside, and the table
spread, and the piano rolled up beside it. There was the buying of the
chicken, and the salad that Francine would smother in a dressing into
which she would put a dozen different things--herbs and spices and tiny
white onions! And what a jolly crowd came to these impromptu feasts! How
much noise they used to make! How they danced and sang until the gray
morning light would creep in through the big skylight, when all these
good bohemians would tiptoe down the waxed stairs, and slip past the
different ateliers for fear of waking those painters who might be
asleep--a thought that never occurred to them until broad daylight, and
the door had been opened, after hours of pandemonium and music and
noise!
In a little hotel near the Odeon, there lived a family of just such
bohemians--six struggling poets, each with an imagination and a love of
good wine and good dinners and good times that left them continually in
a state of bankruptcy! As they really never had any money--none that
ever lasted for more than two days and two nights at the utmost, their
good landlord seldom saw a sou in return for his hospitable roof, which
had sheltered these six great minds who wrote of the moon, and of fate,
and fortune, and love.
For days they would dream and starve and write. Then followed an auction
sale of the total collection of verses, hawked about anywhere and
everywhere among the editeurs, like a crop of patiently grown fruit.
Having sold it, literally by the yard, they would all saunter up the
"Boul' Miche," and forget their past misery, in feasting, to their
hearts' content, on the good things of life. On days like these, you
would see them passing, their black-brimmed hats adjusted jauntily over
their poetic locks--their eyes beaming with that exquisite sense of
feeling suddenly rich, that those who live for art's sake know! The
keenest of pleasures lie in sudden contrasts, and to these six poetic,
impractical Bohemians, thus suddenly raised from the slough of despond
to a state where they no longer trod with mortals--their cup of
happiness was full and spilling over. They must not only have a good
time, but so must every one around them. With their great riches, they
would make the world gay as long as it lasted, for when it was over they
knew how sad life would be. For a while--then they would scratch
away--and have another auction!
[Illustration: DAYLIGHT]
Unlike another good fellow, a painter whom I once knew, who periodically
found himself without a sou, and who would take himself, in despair, to
his lodgings, make his will, leaving most of his immortal works to his
English aunt, go to bed, and calmly await death! In a fortunate space of
time his friends, who had been hunting for him all over the Quarter,
would find him at last and rescue him from his chosen tomb; or his good
aunt, fearing he was ill, would send a draft! Then life would, to this
impractical philosopher, again become worth living. He would dispatch a
"petit bleu" to Marcelle; and the two would meet at the Cafe Cluny, and
dine at La Perruse on filet de sole au vin blanc, and a bottle of Haut
Barsac--the bottle all cobwebs and cradled in its basket--the garcon, as
he poured its golden contents, holding his breath meanwhile lest he
disturb its long slumber.
There are wines that stir the soul, and this was one of them--clear as a
topaz and warming as the noonday sun--the same warmth that had given it
birth on its hillside in Bordeaux, as far back as '82. It warmed the
heart of Marcelle, too, and made her cheeks glow and her eyes
sparkle--and added a rosier color to her lips. It made her talk--clearly
and frankly, with a full and a happy heart, so that she confessed her
love for this "bon garcon" of a painter, and her supreme admiration for
his work and the financial success he had made with his art. All of
which this genial son of Bohemia drank in with a feeling of pride, and
he would swell out his chest and curl the ends of his long mustache
upwards, and sigh like a man burdened with money, and secure in his
ability and success, and with a peaceful outlook into the future--and
the fact that Marcelle loved him of all men! They would linger long over
their coffee and cigarettes, and then the two would stroll out under the
stars and along the quai, and watch the little Seine boats crossing and
recrossing, like fireflies, and the lights along the Pont Neuf reflected
deep down like parti-colored ribbons in the black water.
[Illustration: (pair of high heeled shoes)]