abandoned their studies, forgot all about the concours and the Prix de
Rome, and devoted all their energies to the construction of a colossal
figure of Gérôme's great war goddess, "Bel-lona." It was a huge task,
but the students worked it out with a will. Yards of sackcloth, rags,
old coats, paint rags, besides pine timbers, broken easels and stools,
endless wire and rope, went into the making of the goddess's frame, and
this was covered with plaster of Paris dexterously moulded into shape.
Then it was properly tinted and painted and mounted on a chariot of
gold. A Grecian frieze of galloping horses, mounted, the clever work of
Siffert, was emblazoned on the sides of the chariot. And what a wreck
the atelier was after all was finished! _Sacré nom d'un chien!_ How the
gardiens must have sworn when cleaning-day came round!
The ateliers in the Ecole are all rivals, and each had been secretly
preparing its coup with which to capture the grand prix at the bal.
The great day came at last. The students of our atelier were perfectly
satisfied with their handiwork, and the massier made all happy by
ordering a retreat to the Café des Deux Magots, where success to the
goddess was drunk in steaming "grog Américain." Then Bellona began her
perilous journey across Paris to Montmartre and the Moulin Rouge.
[Illustration: 0087]
This was not an easy task, as she was fifteen feet high; signs and lamp-
posts suffered, and sleepy cab-horses danced as their terrified gaze
beheld the giant goddess with her uplifted sword. Crowds watched the
progress of Bellona on the Avenue de l'Opéra, drawn by half a hundred
students yelling the national hymn. The pull up the steep slope of
Montmartre was heavy, but in less than two hours from the start at the
Ecole the goddess was safely housed in the depths of the Moulin Rouge,
there to await her triumphs of the night.
Bishop, besides doing his share in the preparation of the figure, had
the equally serious task of devising a costume for his own use at
the ball. It was not until the very last day that he made his final
decision,--to go as a Roman orator. Our supply of linen was meagre, but
our only two clean bed-sheets and a few towels were sufficient, and two
kind American ladies who were studying music and who lived near the old
church of St. Sulpice did the fitting of a toga. The soles of a pair
of slippers from which Bishop cut the tops served as sandals, and
some studio properties in the way of Oriental bracelets completed his
costume. I was transformed into an Apache Indian by a generous rubbing
into my skin of burnt sienna and cadmium, which I was weeks in getting
rid of; a blanket and some chicken-feathers finished my array. Our
friend Cameron, next door, went in his Scotch kilts. After supper we
entered the Boul' Mich' and proceeded to the Café de la Source, where
the students of the _Atelier Gérôme_ were to rendezvous.
[Illustration: 0090]
The Boul' was a spectacle that night. Time had rolled back the curtain
of centuries; ancient cemeteries had yielded up their dead; and living
ghosts of the ages packed all the gay _café_s. History from the time of
Adam had sent forth its traditions, and Eves rubbed elbows with ballet-
girls. There was never a jollier night in the history of the Quartier
Latin.
We found the Café de la Source already crowded by the Gérôme contingent
and their models and mistresses, all en costume and bubbling with
merriment and mischief. It was ten o'clock before all the students had
arrived. Then we formed in procession, and yelled and danced past all
the _café_s on the Boul' Mich' to the Luxembourg Palace and the Théâtre
de l'Odéon, to take the 'buses of the Montmartre line. These we quickly
seized and overloaded in violation of the law, and then, dashing down
the quiet streets of the Rive Gauche, headed for Montmartre, making a
noise to rouse the dead. As we neared the Place Blanche we found the
little streets merging from different quarters crowded with people in
costume, some walking and others crowding almost innumerable vehicles,
and the balconies and portes-cochères packed with spectators. The Place
Blanche fronts the Moulin Rouge, and it was crowded and brilliantly
lighted. The façade of the Moulin Rouge was a blaze of electric lights
and colored lanterns, and the revolving wings of the mill flamed across
the sky. It was a perfect night. The stars shone, the air was warm and
pleasant, and the trees were tipped with the glistening clean foliage
of early spring. The bright _café_s fronting the Place were crowded
with gay revellers. The poets of Bohemia were there, and gayly attired
cocottes assisted them in their fun at the _café_ tables, extending
far out into the boulevard under the trees. At one corner was Gérôme's
private studio, high up in the top of the house, and standing on the
balcony was Gérôme himself, enjoying the brilliant scene below.
As the Bal des Quat'z' Arts is not open to the public, and as none
but accredited members of the four arts are admitted, the greatest
precautions are taken to prevent the intrusion of outsiders; and
wonderful is the ingenuity exercised to outwit the authorities. Inside
the vestibule of the Moulin was erected a tribune (a long bar), behind
which sat the massiers of the different studios of Paris, all in
striking costumes. It was their task not only to identify the holders of
tickets, but also to pass on the suitability of the costumes of such
as were otherwise eligible to admittance. The costumes must all have
conspicuous merit and be thoroughly artistic. Nothing black, no dominos,
none in civilian dress, may pass. Many and loud were the protestations
that rang through the vestibule as one after another was turned back and
firmly conducted to the door.
Once past the implacable tribunes, we entered a dazzling fairy-land, a
dream of rich color and reckless abandon. From gorgeous kings and queens
to wild savages, all were there; courtiers in silk, naked gladiators,
nymphs with paint for clothing,--all were there; and the air was heavy
with the perfume of roses. Shouts, laughter, the silvery clinking of
glasses, a whirling mass of life and color, a bewildering kaleidoscope,
a maze of tangled visions in the soft yellow haze that filled the vast
hall. There was no thought of the hardness and sordidness of life, no
dream of the morrow. It was a wonderful witchery that sat upon every
soul there.
This splendid picture was framed by a wall of lodges, each sumptuously
decorated and hung with banners, tableaux, and greens, each representing
a particular atelier and adorned in harmony with the dominant ideals
of their masters. The lodge of the _Atelier Gérôme_ was arranged to
represent a Grecian temple; all the decorations and accessories were
pure Grecian, cleverly imitated by the master's devoted pupils. That of
the Atelier Cormon repre sented a huge caravan of the prehistoric
big- muscled men that appeal so strongly to Cormon; large skeletons of
extinct animals, giant ferns, skins, and stone implements were scattered
about, while the students of Cormon's atelier, almost naked, with bushy
hair and clothed in skins, completed the picture. And so it was with all
the lodges, each typifying a special subject, and carrying it out with
perfect fidelity to the minutest detail.
The event of the evening was the grand cortège; this, scheduled for one
o'clock, was awaited with eager expectancy, for with it would come the
test of supremacy,--the awarding of the prize for the best. For this was
the great art centre of the world, and this night was the one in which
its rivalries would strain the farthest reach of skill.
Meanwhile, the great hall swarmed with life and blazed with color and
echoed with the din of merry voices. Friends recognized one another with
great difficulty. And there was Gérôme himself at last, gaudily gowned
in the rich green costume of a Chinese mandarin, his white moustache
dyed black, and his white locks hidden beneath a black skull-cap topped
with a bobbing appendage. And there also was Jean Paul Laurens, in the
costume of a Norman, the younger Laurens as Charlemagne. Léandre, the
caricaturist, was irresistible as a caricature of Queen Victoria. Puech,
the sculptor, made a graceful courtier of the Marie Antoinette régime.
Willett was a Roman emperor. Will Dodge was loaded with the crown,
silks, and jewels of a Byzantine emperor.
Louis Loeb was a desperate Tartar bandit. Castaigne made a hit as an
Italian jurist. Steinlen, Grasset, Forain, Rodin,--in fact, nearly all
the renowned painters, sculptors, and illustrators of Paris were there;
and besides them were the countless students and models.
[Illustration: 0094]
"La cavalcade! le grand cortège!" rose the cry above the crashing of the
band and the noise of the revellers; and then all the dancing stopped.
Emerging from the gardens through the open glass door, bringing with it
a pleasant blast of the cool night air, was the vanguard of the great
procession. The orchestra struck up the "Victor's March," and a great
cry of welcome rang out.
First came a band of yelling Indians dancing in, waving their spears and
tomahawks, and so cleaving a way for the parade. A great roar filled
the glass-domed hall when the first float appeared. It was daring and
unique, but a masterpiece. Borne upon the shoulders of Indians, who were
naked but for skins about their loins, their bodies stained a dark brown
and striped with paint, was a gorgeous bed of fresh flowers and trailing
vines; and reclining in this bed were four of the models of Paris, lying
on their backs, head to head, their legs upraised to support a circular
tablet of gold.
[Illustration: 0095]
Upon this, high in air, proud and superb, was the great Susanne in all
her peerless beauty of face and form,--simply that and nothing more. A
sparkling crown of jewels glowed in her reddish golden hair; a flashing
girdle of electric lights encircled her slender waist, bringing out the
marvellous whiteness of her skin, and with delicate shadows and tones
modelling the superb contour of her figure. She looked a goddess--and
knew it. The crowd upon whom she looked down stood for a while spell-
bound, and then, with a waving of arms and flags, came a great shout,
"Susanne! Susanne! la belle Susanne!" Susanne only smiled. Was she not
the queen of the models of Paris?
Then came Bellona! Gérôme, when he conceived and executed the idea
embodied in this wonderful figure, concentrated his efforts to produce a
most terrifying, fear-inspiring image typifying the horrors of war. The
straining goddess, poised upon her toes to her full height, her face
uplifted, her head thrust forward, with staring eyes and screaming
mouth, her short two-edged sword in position for a sweeping blow,
her glittering round shield and her coat of mail, a huge angry python
darting its tongue and raising its green length from the folds of her
drapery,--all this terrible figure, reproduced with marvellous fidelity
and magnified tenfold, overwhelmed the thousands upon whom it
glowered. Surrounding the golden chariot was a guard of Roman and Greek
gladiators, emperors, warriors, and statesmen. From the staring eyes of
Bellona flashed green fire, whose uncanny shafts pierced the yellow haze
of the ball-room. Under a storm of cheers Bellona went on her way past
the tribune of the judges.
[Illustration: 0097]
Following Bellona came a beautiful reproduction of Gérôme's classical
"Tanagra," which adorns the sculpture gallery of the Luxembourg. The
figure was charmingly personated by Marcelle, a lithe, slim, graceful
model of immature years, who was a rage in the studios. Gérôme himself
applauded the grace of her pose as she swept past his point of vantage
in the gallery.
[Illustration: 0099]
Behind Tanagra came W------, also of the Atelier Gérôme, dressed as an
Apache warrior and mounted on a bucking broncho. He was an American,
from Nebraska, where he was a cowboy before he became famous as a
sculptor. He received a rousing welcome from his fellow-artists.
The Atelier Cormon came next,--a magnificent lot of brawny fellows
clothed in skins, and bearing an immense litter made of tree branches
bound with thongs and weighted down with strong naked women and children
of a prehistoric age. It was a reproduction of Cormon's masterpiece in
the Luxembourg Gallery, and was one of the most impressive compositions
in the whole parade.
Then came the works of the many other studios, all strong and
effective, but none so fine as the three first. The Atelier Pascal, of
architecture, made a sensation by appearing as Egyptian mummies, each
mummy dragging an Egyptian coffin covered with ancient inscriptions and
characters and containing a Parisian model, all too alive and sensuous
to personate the ancient dead. Another atelier strove hard for the prize
with eggs of heroic size, from which as many girls, as chicks, were
breaking their way to freedom.
After the grand cortège had paraded the hall several times it disbanded,
and the ball proceeded with renewed enthusiasm.
The tribune, wherein the wise judges sat, was a large and artistic
affair, built up before the gallery of the orchestra and flanked by
broad steps leading to its summit. It was topped with the imperial
escutcheon of Rome--battle-axes bound in fagots--and bore the legend,
"_Mort aux Tyrants_," in bold letters. Beneath was a row of ghastly,
bloody severed heads,--those of dead tyrants.
The variety and originality of the costumes were bewildering. One
Frenchman went as a tombstone, his back, representing a headstone,
containing a suitable inscription and bearing wreaths of immortelles
and colored beads. Another, from the Atelier Bon-nat, went simply as a
stink, nothing more, nothing less, but it was potent. He had saturated
his skin with the juice of onions and garlic, and there was never any
mistaking his proximity. Many were the gay Bacchantes wearing merely a
bunch of grapes in their hair and a grape-leaf.
At intervals during the evening the crowd would suddenly gather and form
a large circle, many deep, some climbing upon the backs of others the
better to see, those in front squatting or lying upon the floor to
accommodate the mass behind them. The formation of these circles was the
signal for the _danse du ventre_.*
* The danse du ventre (literally, belly-dance) is of Turkish origin,
and was introduced to Paris by Turkish women from Egypt. Afterward these
women exhibited it in the Midway Plaisance of the Columbian Exposition,
Chicago, and then at the California Midwinter Exposition, San Francisco.
As danced by Turkish women it consists of astonishing control and
movements of the abdominal and chest muscles (hence its other name,
muscle-dance), varied with more or less graceful steps and gyrations,
with adjuncts, such as castanets, scarfs, etc., and the seemingly
perilous use of swords. Such clothing is worn as least obscures the play
of the muscles. It is danced to a particular Turkish air, monotonously
repeated by an orchestra of male Turkish musicians, with Turkish
instruments, and the dance is done solus. A dance closely analogous
to it, though of a wholly independent origin, is the hula-hula of the
Hawaiian women; but the hula-hula lacks the grace, dash, and abandon of
the Turkish dance. The danse du ventre, as danced by French and American
women who have "picked it up," is very different from that of the
Turkish women--different both in form and meaning. Whatever of
suggestiveness it may be supposed to carry is, in the adaptation,
grossly exaggerated, and whatever of grace and special muscular skill,
evidently acquired by Turkish women only from long and thorough drill,
is eliminated. W. C. M.
[Illustration: 0103]
The name of some favorite model would be yelled, and the orchestra would
strike up the familiar Oriental strain. And there was always a model to
respond. Then the regular dancing would be resumed until another circle
was formed and another favorite goddess of the four arts would be called
out.
It was three o'clock when supper was announced by the appearance of two
hundred white-aproned waiters carrying scores of tables, chairs, and
hampers of plate and glassware. The guests fell to with a will and
assisted in spreading and setting the tables; almost in a moment the
vast hall was a field of snow pricked out with the brilliant costumes of
the revellers. Then came a frightful din of pounding on the tables for
the supper. Again marched in the two hundred waiters, loaded with cases
of champagne, plates of creamy soup, roasts, salads, cheeses, creams,
cakes, ices,--a feast of Bacchus, indeed. The banquet was enjoyed with
Bohemian abandon.
The twelve wise judges of the Tribune now gravely announced their award
of prizes, and each announcement was received with ringing applause.
The _Atelier Gérôme_ received first prize,--fifty bottles of champagne,
which were immediately taken possession of. The other ateliers received
smaller prizes, as their merits deserved, and all were satisfied and
happy. The banquet was resumed.
Now here was Susanne, not content with her triumph of the early evening,
springing upon one of the central tables, sending the crockery and
glassware crashing to the floor with her dainty foot, and serenely
surveying the crowd as it greeted her tumultuously, and, seizing a
bottle of champagne, sending its foaming contents over as wide a circle
of revellers as her strength could reach, laughing in pure glee over her
feat, and then bathing her own white body with the contents of another
bottle that she poured over herself. A superb Bacchante she made! A
general salute of popping corks and clinking glasses greeted her, and
she acknowledged the compliment with the danse du ventre. Susanne was
so sure of the adoration and affection of the ateliers! Her dance was
a challenge to every other model in the chamber. One after another, and
often several at a time, they mounted the tables, spurned the crockery
to the floor, and gave the danse du ventre. The Moulin was indeed a wild
scene of joyous abandonment, and from an artistic point of view grand,
a luminous point in the history of modern times. Here were the life,
the color, the grace of the living picture, with a noble background
of surrounding temples, altars, statues,--a wonderful spectacle, that
artists can understand and appreciate.
[Illustration: 0103
The feast wore merrily through the small hours until the cold blue dawn
began to pale the lights in the ceiling. Strangely beautiful was this
color effect, as the blue stole downward through the thick yellow
glamour of the hall, quickening the merry-makers with a new and uncanny
light, putting them out of place, and warning them thence. But still the
ball went rolling on.
Though the floor was slippery with wine and dangerous from broken glass,
dancing and the cutting of capers proceeded without abatement. The
favorite danse du ventre and songs and speeches filled the night to
the end of the ball, and then the big orchestra, with a great flourish,
played the "Victor's March." This was the signal for the final
procession. The vast concourse of students and artists poured forth into
the cool, sweet morning air, and the bal was at an end.
Paris was asleep, that early April morning, save for the street-sweepers
and the milkmaids and the concierges. But the Place Blanche was very
much awake. The morning air was new wine in stale veins, and it banished
fatigue.
"_En cavalcade! en cavalcade!_" was the cry; and in cavalcade it was.
A great procession of all the costumers was formed, to march ensemble
across Paris to the Quartier Latin. Even the proud Bellona was dragged
along in the rear, towering as high as the lower wings of the now
motionless red windmill. She seemed to partake in the revelry, for she
swayed and staggered in an alarming fashion as she plunged recklessly
down the steeps of Montmartre.
[Illustration: 0107]
The deserted Rue Blanche re-echoed the wild yells and songs of the
revellers and the rattling of the string of cabs in the rear. The rows
of heaped ash-cans that lined the way were overturned one after another,
and the oaths and threatening brooms of the outraged concierges went for
nothing. Even the poor diligent rag- and bone-pickers were not spared;
their filled sacks, carrying the result of their whole night's hunt,
were taken from them and emptied. A string of carts heavily laden with
stone was captured near the Rue Lafayette, the drivers deposed, and the
big horses sent plunging through Paris, driven by Roman charioteers, and
making more noise than a company of artillery.
When the Place de l'Opéra was reached a thousand revellers swarmed up
the broad stairs of the Grand Opéra like colored ants, climbed upon the
lamp-posts and candelabra, and clustered all over the groups of statuary
adorning the magnificent façade. The band took up a position in the
centre and played furiously, while the artists danced ring-around-a-
rosy, to the amazement of the drowsy residents of the neighborhood.
The cavalcade then re-formed and marched down the Avenue de l'Opéra
toward the Louvre, where it encountered a large squad of street-sweepers
washing the avenue. In an instant the squad had been routed, and the
revellers, taking the hose and brooms, fell to and cleaned an entire
block, making it shine as it had never shone before.
Cabs were captured, the drivers decorated with Roman helmets and swords,
and dances executed on the tops of the vehicles. One character, with
enormous india-rubber shoes, took delight in permitting cabs to run over
his feet, while he emitted howls of agony that turned the hair of the
drivers white.
[Illustration: 9110]
As the immense cavalcade filed through the narrow arches of the Louvre
court-yard it looked like a mediaeval army returning to its citadel
after a victorious campaign; the hundreds of battle-flags, spears, and
battle-axes were given a fine setting by the noble architecture of
the Pavillon de Rohan. Within the court of the Louvre was drawn up a
regiment of the Garde Municipale, going through the morning drill; and
they looked quite formidable with their evolutions and bayonet charges.
But when the mob of Greek and Roman warriors flung themselves bodily
upon the ranks of the guard, ousted the officers, and assumed command,
there was consternation.
[Illustration: 0111]
All the rigid military dignity of the scene disappeared, and the drill
was turned into such a farce as the old Louvre had never seen before.
The officers, furious at first, could not resist the spirit of pure fun
that filled the mob, and took their revenge by kissing the models
and making them dance. The girls had already done their share of the
conquering by pinning flowers to military coats and coyly putting pretty
lips where they were in danger. Even the tall electric-light masts in
the court were scaled by adventurous students, who attached brilliant
flags, banners, and crests to the mast-heads far above the crowd.
To the unspeakable relief of the officers, the march was then resumed.
The Pont du Carrousel was the next object of assault; here was performed
the solemn ceremony of the annual sacrifice of the Quat'z' Arts to the
river Seine. The mighty Bellona was the sacrifice. She was trundled
to the centre of the bridge and drawn close to the parapet, while the
disciples of the four arts gathered about with uncovered heads. The
first bright flashes of the morning sun, sweeping over the towers of
Notre-Dame, tipped Bellona's upraised sword with flame. The band played
a funeral march. Prayers were said, and the national hymn was sung; then
Bellona was sent tottering and crashing over the parapet, and with a
mighty plunge she sank beneath the waters of the Seine. A vast shout
rang through the crisp morning air. Far below, poor Bellona rose in
stately despair, and then slowly sank forever.
The parade formed again and proceeded to the Beaux-Arts, the last
point of attack. Up the narrow Rue Bonaparte went singing the tired
procession; the gates of the Ecole opened to admit it, cabs and all,
and the doors were shut again. Then in the historic court-yard of the
government school, surrounded by remnants of the beautiful architecture
of once stately chateaux and palaces, and encircled by graceful
Corinthian columns, the students gave a repetition of the grand ball
at the Moulin Rouge. A strange and incongruous sight it was in the
brilliant sunshine, and the neighboring windows and balconies were
packed with onlookers. But by halfpast seven every trace of the Bal des
Quat'z' Arts had disappeared,--the great procession had melted away to
the haunts of Bohemia.
[Illustration: 5114]
BOULEVARD SAINT-MICHEL
[Illustration: 0115]