It was' the pianist's function to be merely a musician; but the other
man--the musical director--was one from whom judgment, decision, and
authority were required. Therefore he was large, powerful, and big-
stomached, and had a pumpkin head, and fat, baggy eyes that shone
through narrow slits. He now stepped forward and rang a little bell,
upon which all talking was instantly hushed.
"_Mesdames et messieurs_," he said, in a large, capable voice, "_J'ai
l'honneur de vous annoncer que Madame Louise Leroux, nous lira ses
dernières oeuvres--une faveur que nous apprécierons tous_."
[Illustration: 8192]
A young woman--about twenty-three, I should judge--arose from one of
the tables where she had been sitting talking with an insipid-looking
gentleman adorned with a blond moustache and vacant, staring-eyes; he
wore a heavy coat trimmed with astrachan collar and cuffs, which, being
open at the throat, revealed the absence of a shirt from his body. A
Latin Quarter top-hat was pushed back on his head, and his long, greasy
hair hung down over his collar. Madame Leroux smiled affectionately at
him as she daintily flicked the ashes from her cigarette and laid it
upon the table, and moistened her thin red lips with a yellow liqueur
from her glass. He responded with a condescending jerk of his head, and,
diving into one of the inner pockets of his coat, brought forth a roll
of paper, which she took. A great clapping of hands and loud cries
of her name greeted her as she stepped upon the platform, but it was
clearly to be seen from her indifferent air that she had been long
accustomed to this attention.
The big musical director again rang his bell.
"_Il était une Fois,_" she said, simply. The pianist fingered the keys
softly, and she began to recite.
[Illustration: 0193]
The room was as still as a chapel. Every one listened in profound
absorption; even the stolid bull-necked waiter leaned against the wall,
his gaze fastened upon her with respectful interest. She spoke slowly,
in a low, sweet tone, the soft accompaniment of the piano following the
rhythm of her voice with wonderful effectiveness. She seemed to forget
her surroundings,--the hot, close room, crowded with shabby, eccentric
geniuses who lived from hand to mouth, the poverty that evidently was
her lot,--even her lover, who sat watching her with a cold, critical,
half-disdainful air, making notes upon a slip of paper, now nodding
his head approvingly, now frowning, when pleased or displeased with her
performance. She was a rare picture as she thus stood and recited, a
charming swing to her trim figure, half reclining upon the piano, her
black hair falling loosely and caressing her forehead and casting her
dark eyes in deeper shadow, and all her soul going forth in the low,
soft, subdued passion of her verses. She reminded one greatly of
Bernhardt, and might have been as great.
During her whole rendering of this beautiful and pathetic tale of "other
times" she scarcely moved, save for some slight gesture that suggested
worlds. How well the lines suited her own history and condition only
she could have told. Who was she? What had she been? Surely this strange
woman, hardly more than a mere girl, capable of such feelings and of
rendering them with so subtle force and beauty, had lived another life,-
-no one knew, no one cared.
Loud shouts of admiration and long applause rang through the room as
she slowly and with infinite tenderness uttered the last line with
bowed head and a choking voice. She stood for a moment while the room
thundered, and then the noise seemed to recall her, to drag her back
from some haunting memory to the squalor of her present condition, and
then her eyes eagerly sought the gentleman of the fur-collared coat. It
was an anxious glance that she cast upon him. He carelessly nodded once
or twice, and she instantly became transfigured. The melancholy of her
eyes and the wretched dejection of her pose disappeared, and her sad
face lit up with a beaming, happy smile. She was starting to return to
him, all the woman in her awaking to affection and a yearning for
the refuge of his love, when the vociferous cries of the crowd for
an encore, and the waving of her lover's hand as a signal for her to
comply, sent her back on guard to the piano again. Her smile was very
sweet and her voice full of trippling melody when she now recited a gay
little ballad,--also her own composition,--"_Amours Joyeux_,"--in so
entirely different a spirit that it was almost impossible to believe her
the same mortal. Every fibre of her being participated in the rollicking
abandon of the piece, and her eyes were flooded with the mellow radiance
of supreme love satisfied and victorious.
Upon regaining her seat she was immediately surrounded by a praise-
giving crowd, who shook hands with her and heartily congratulated her;
but it was clear that she could think only of him of the fur collar,
and that no word of praise or blame would weigh with her the smallest
fraction of a feather's weight unless this one man uttered it. She
disengaged her hand from her crowding admirers and deftly donned her
little white Alpine hat, all the while looking into the face of the one
man who could break her heart or send her to heaven. He sat looking at
his boot, indifferent, bored. Presently he looked up into her anxious
eyes, gazed at her a moment, and then leaned forward and spoke a word.
It sent her to heaven. Her face all aglow and her eyes shining with
happiness, she called the garçon, paid for the four saucers upon the
table, and left the room upon the arm of her lover.
"How she does adore that dog!" exclaimed my friend the musician.
"What does he do?" I asked.
"Do?" he echoed. "Nothing. It is she who does all. Without her he would
starve. He is a writer of some ability, but too much of a socialist to
work seriously. In her eyes he is the greatest writer in the world. She
would sacrifice everything to please him. Without him her life would
fall into a complete blank, and her recklessness would quickly send her
into the lowermost ranks. When a woman like that loves, she loves--ah,
_les femmes sont difficiles à comprendre!_" My friend sighed, burying
his moustaches in a foaming bock.
Individual definition grew clearer as I became more and more accustomed
to the place and its habitués. It seemed that nearly all of them were
absinthe-drinkers, and that they drank a great deal,--all they could
get, I was made to understand. They care little about their dress and
the other accessories of their personal appearance, though here and
there they exhibit the oddest finery, into whose possession they fall
by means which casual investigation could not discover, and which is
singularly out of harmony with the other articles of their attire and
with the environment which they choose. As a rule, the men wear their
hair very long and in heavy, shaggy masses over their ears and faces.
They continually roll and smoke cigarettes, though there are many pipes,
and big ones at that. But though they constitute a strange crowd, there
is about them a distinct air of refinement, a certain dignity and pride
that never fail, and withal a gentleness that renders any approach
to ruffianism impossible. The women take a little more pride in
their appearance than the men. Even in their carelessness and seeming
indifference there abides with nearly all of them the power to lend
themselves some single touch of grace that is wonderfully redeeming, and
that is infinitely finer and more elusive than the showy daintiness of
the women of the _café_s.
As a rule, these Bohemians all sleep during the day, as that is the best
way to keep warm; at night they can find warmth in the cabarets. In the
afternoon they may write a few lines, which they sell in some way for a
pittance, wherewithal to buy them a meal and a night's vigil in one of
these resorts. This is the life of lower Bohemia plain and simple,--not
the life of the students, but of the misfit geniuses who drift, who have
neither place nor part in the world, who live from hand to mouth, and
who shudder when the Morgue is mentioned,--and it is so near, and its
lights never go out! They are merely protestants against the formalism
of life, rebels against its necessities. They seek no following, they
desire to exercise no influence. They lead their vacant lives without
the slightest restraint, bear their poverty without a murmur, and go to
their dreary end without a sigh. These are the true Bohemians of Paris.
Other visitors came into the Soleil d'Or and sought seats among their
friends at the tables, while others kept leaving, bound for other
rendezvous, many staying just sufficiently long to hear a song or two.
They were all of the same class, very negligently and poorly attired,
some displaying their odd pieces of finery with an exquisite assumption
of unconsciousness on its account, as though they were millionaires and
cared nothing for such trivial things. And the whimsical incongruities
of it! If one wore a shining tile he either had no shirt (or perhaps a
very badly soiled one), or wore a frayed coat and disreputable shoes. In
fact, no complete respectable dress made its appearance in the room
that night, though each visitor had his distinctive specialty,--one
a burnished top hat, another a gorgeous cravat, another a rich velvet
jacket, and so on. But they all wore their hair as long as it would
grow. That is the Bohemian mark.
The little bell again rang, and the heavy director announced that
"Monsieur Léon Décarmeau will sing one of his newest songs." Monsieur
Léon Décarmeau was a lean, half-starved appearing man of about forty,
whose eyes were sunk deep in his head, and whose sharp cheek-bones
protruded prominently. On the bridge of his thin, angular nose set
a pair of "pince-nez," attached by a broad black cord, which he kept
fingering nervously as he sang. His song was entitled "Fleurs et
Pensées," and he threw himself into it with a broad and passionate
eagerness that heavily strained the barrier between melodrama and
burlesque. His glance sought the ceiling in a frenzied quest of
imaginary nymphs, his arms swayed as he tenderly caressed imaginary
flowers of sweet love and drank in their intoxicating perfume instead
of the hot, tobacco-rife smoke of the room. His voice was drawn out in
tremendous sighs full of tears, and his chest heaved like a blacksmith's
bellows. But when he had ceased he was most generously applauded and
praised.
During the intervals between the songs and recitations the room was
noisy with laughter, talking, and the clinking of glasses. The one
garçon was industriously serving boissons and yelling orders to the bar,
where the fat woman sat industriously knitting, heedless, as might have
been expected of the keeper of the Cave of Adullam, and awakening to
activity only when the stentorian yells of the garçon's orders rose
above the din of the establishment. Absinthe and beer formed the
principal beverages, though, as a rule, absinthe was taken only just
before a meal, and then it served as an appetizer,--a sharpener of
hunger to these who had so little wherewithal to satisfy the hunger that
unaided nature created!
The mystery of the means by which these lighthearted Bohemians sustained
their precarious existence was not revealed to me; yet here they
sat, and laughed, and talked, and recited the poetry of their own
manufacture, and sang their songs, and drank, and smoked their big
pipes, and rolled cigarettes incessantly, happy enough in the hour of
their lives, bringing hither none of the pains and pangs and numbing
evidences of their struggles. And there was no touch of the sordid
in the composite picture that they made, and a certain tinge of
intellectual refinement, a certain spirituality that seemed to raise
them infinitely above the plane of the lowly strugglers who won their
honest bread by honest labor, shone about them as a halo.
Their dark hours, no doubt, came with the daylight, and in these
meetings at the cabaret they found an agreeable way in which to while
away the dismal interval that burdened their lives when they were not
asleep; for the cabaret was warm and bright, warmer and brighter than
their own wretched little rooms au cinquième,--and coal and candles are
expensive luxuries! Here, if their productions haply could not find a
larger and more remunerative audience, they could at least be heard,--by
a few, it is true, but a most appreciative few, and that is something
of value equal to bread. And then, who could tell but what fame might
unexpectedly crown them in the end? It has happened thus.
"But why worry?" asked the musician. "'Laugh, and the world laughs with
you. If we do not live a long life, it is at least a jolly one,' is our
motto and certainly they gave it most faithful allegiance."
I learned from Bishop that the musical director received three francs a
night for his services. Should singers happen to be lacking, or should
the evening be dull for other reason, he himself must sing and recite;
for the tension of the Soleil d'Or must be kept forever taut. The old
white-haired pianist received two francs a night, and each of these
contributors to the gayety of the place was given a drink gratis.
So there was at least some recompense besides the essential one of
appreciation from the audience.
Glasses clinked merrily, and poets and composers flitted about the room
to chat with their contemporaries. A sketch artist, deftly drawing the
portrait of a baritone's jolly little mistress, was surrounded by
a bantering group, that passed keen, intelligent, and good-natured
criticism on the work as it rapidly grew under his hands. The
whitehaired pianist sat puffing at his cigarette and looking over some
music with a rather pretty young woman who had written popular songs of
La Villette.
The opening of the doors and the straggling entrance of three men sent
an instant hush throughout the room.
"Verlaine!" whispered the musician to me.
It was indeed the great poet of the slums,--the epitome and idol of
Bohemian Paris, the famous man whose verses had rung throughout the
length and breadth of the city, the one man who, knowing the heart and
soul of the stragglers who found light and warmth in such places as
the Soleil d'Or, had the brains and grace to set the strange picture
adequately before the wondering world.
The musical director, as well as a number of others in the place,
stepped forward, and with touching deference and tenderness greeted the
remarkable man and his two companions. It was easy to pick out Verlaine
without relying upon the special distinction with which he was greeted.
He had the oddest slanting eyes, a small, stubby nose, and wiry
whiskers, and his massive forehead heavily overhung his queerly shaped
eyes. He was all muffled up to the chin; wore a badly soiled hat and a
shabby dark coat. Under one arm he carried a small black portfolio.
[Illustration: 8202]
Several of the women ran to him and kissed him on both cheeks, which
salutations he heartily returned, with interest.
One of his companions was Monsieur Bi-Bi-dans-la-Purée--so he was
called, though seemingly he might have been in anything as well as soup.
He was an exceedingly interesting figure. His sunken, drawn, smooth-
shaven face gave terrible evidence of the excessive use of absinthe. A
large hooked nose overshadowed a wide, loose mouth that hung down at the
corners, and served to set forth in startling relief the sickly leaden
color of his face. When he spoke, a few straggling teeth gleamed
unpleasantly. He wore no overcoat, and his jacket hung open, disclosing
a half-opened shirt that exposed his bare breast. His frayed trousers
dragged the ground at his heels. But his eyes were the most terrible
part of him; they shone with the wild, restless light of a madman,
and their gaze was generally flitting and distrait, acknowledging no
acquaintances. Afterwards, when Verlaine was dead, I often saw Monsieur
Bi-Bi-dansla-Purée on the street, looking most desolate, a roll of white
manuscript in his hand, his coat and shirt wide open, exposing his naked
breast to the biting cold wind. He seemed to be living altogether in
another world, and gazed about him with the same unseeing vacant stare
that so startled me that night in the Soleil d'Or.
When Verlaine and his companions were seated--by displacing the
artist--the recitations and songs recommenced; and it was noticeable
that they were rendered with augmented spirit, that the famous poet of
the slums might be duly impressed with the capabilities and hospitable
intentions of his entertainers; for now all performed for Verlaine, not
for one another. The distinguished visitor had removed his slouch hat,
revealing the wonderful oblong dome of his bald head, which shone like
the Soleil d'Or; and many were the kisses reverently and affectionately
bestowed upon that glistening eminence by the poet's numerous female
admirers in the throng.
A reckless-looking young woman, with a black hat drawn down over her
eyes, and wearing glasses, was now reciting. Her hands were gloved in
black, but the finger-tips were worn through,--a fact which she made all
the more evident by a peculiar gesture of the fingers.
As the small hours grew larger these gay Bohemians waxed gayer and
livelier. Formalities were gradually abandoned, and the constraint of
dignity and reserve slowly melted under the mellowing influences of
the place. Ceremonious observances were dropped one by one; and whereas
there had been the most respectful and insistent silence throughout the
songs, now all joined heartily in the choruses, making the dim lights
dance in the exuberance of the enjoyment. I had earnestly hoped that
Verlaine, splendid as was his dignity, might thaw under the gathering
warmth of the hour, but beyond listening respectfully, applauding
moderately, and returning the greetings that were given him, he held
aloof from the influence of the occasion, and after draining his glass
and bidding good-night to his many friends, with his two companions he
made off to another rendezvous.
Monsieur le Directeur came over to our table and asked Bishop to favor
the audience with a "_chanson Américaine_." This rather staggered my
modest friend, but he finally yielded to entreaties. The director rang
his little bell again and announced that "Monsieur Beeshup" would sing a
song _à l'Américaine_. This was received with uproarious shouts by all,
and several left their seats and escorted Bishop to the platform. I
wondered what on earth he would sing. The accompanist, after a little
coaching from Bishop, assailed the chords, and Bishop began drawling out
his old favorite, "Down on the Farm." He did it nobly, too, giving the
accompanist occasion for labor in finding the more difficult harmonies.
The hearers, though they did not understand a word of the ditty, and
therefore lost the whole of its pathos, nevertheless listened with
curious interest and respect, though with evident veiled amusement. Many
quick ears caught the refrain. At first there came an exceedingly soft
chorus from the room, and it gradually rose until the whole crowd had
thrown itself into the spirit of the melody, and swelled it to a mighty
volume. Bishop led the singers, beating time with his right arm, his
left thumb meanwhile hooked in the arm-hole of his waistcoat. "_Bravo!
Bravo, Beeshup! Bis!_" they yelled, when it was finished, and then the
room rang with a salvo of hand-clappings in unison: 1-2--3-4-5--1-2-3-
4-5--1-2-3-4-5--1--2--3!! A great ovation greeted him as he marched with
glowing cheeks to his seat, and those who knew him crowded round him
for a hand-shake. The musician asked him if he would sing the song in
private for him, that he might write down the melody, to which Bishop
agreed, on condition that the musician pose for him. Bishop had a
singularly sharp eye for opportunities.
The sketch artist sauntered over and sat down at our table to have a
chat with Bishop. He was a singular fellow. His manner was smoothed by a
fine and delicate courtesy, bespeaking a careful rearing, whose effects
his loose life and promiscuous associations could not obliterate. His
age was about thirty-two, though he looked much older,--this being due
in part to his hard life and in other part to the heavy whiskers that
he wore. An absurd little round felt hat sat precariously on his riotous
mane, and I was in constant apprehension lest it should fall off every
time he shook his head. Over his shoulders was a blue cape covering a
once white shirt that was devoid of a collar. His fingers were all
black with the crayon that he had used in sketching. He said that he had
already earned twelve sous that evening, making portraits at six sous a
head! But there was not so much money to be made in a place like this as
in the big _café_s,--the frequenters were too poor.
[Illustration: 0206]
I asked him where he had studied and learned his art, for it could be
easily seen that he had had some training; his portraits were not half
bad, and showed a knowledge of drawing. He thereupon told me his story.
He had come to Paris thirteen years before from Nantes, Brittany, to
study art. His father kept a small grocery and provision-shop in Nantes,
and lived in meagre circumstances. The son having discovered what his
father deemed a remarkable talent for drawing when a boy, the father
sent him to Paris, with an allowance of a hundred francs a month, and he
had to deny himself severely to furnish it. When the young man arrived
at Paris he studied diligently at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts for a while,
and became acquainted with many of the students and models. He soon
found the easy life of the _café_s, with the models for companions, more
fascinating than the dull grind of the school. It was much pleasanter to
enjoy the gayety of the nights and sleep all day than drone and labor
at his easel. As his small allowance did not permit of extravagance, he
fell deeply into debt, and gave more heed to absinthe than his
meals,--it is cheaper, more alluring, and brings an exhilaration that
sharpens wit and equips the soul with wings.
For a whole year the father was in total ignorance of his son's conduct,
but one day a friend, who had seen the young man in Paris, laid the ugly
story in his father's ear. This so enraged the father that he instantly
stopped the remittances and disowned his son. All appeals for money, all
promises to reform, were in vain, and so the young madcap was forced to
look about for a means of subsistence. And thus it was that he drifted
into the occupation of a sketch artist, making portraits in the _café_s
all night and sleeping in daytime. This brought him a scant living.
But there was his mistress, Marcelle, always faithful to him. She worked
during the day at sewing, and shared her small earnings with him. All
went fairly well during the summer, but in winter the days were short,
Marcelle's earnings were reduced, and the weather was bitter cold.
Still, it was not so bad as it might be, he protested; but underneath
his easy flippancy I imagined I caught a shadow,--a flitting sense of
the hollowness and misery and hopelessness and shame of it all. But I am
not certain of that. He had but gone the way of many and many another,
and others now are following in his footsteps, deluding self-denying
parents, and setting foot in the road which, so broad and shining at the
beginning, narrows and darkens as it leads nearer and nearer to the rat-
holes under the bridges of the Seine, and to the grim house whose lights
forever shine at night under the shadow of Notre-Dame.
Had monsieur a cigarette to spare? Monsieur had, and monsieur thought
that the thanks for it were out of all proportion to its value; but they
were totally eclipsed by the praises of monsieur's wonderful generosity
in paying for a glass of absinthe and sugar for the man who made faces
at six sous apiece.
The quiet but none the less high tension of the place, the noise of the
singing, the rattling of glasses and saucers, the stifling foul air of
the room, filled me with weariness and threatened me with nausea. Things
had moved in a constant whirl all night, and now it was nearly four
o'clock. How much longer will this last?
"Till five o'clock," answered the musician; then all the lights go out,
and the place is closed; and our friends seek their cold, cheerless
rooms, to sleep far into the afternoon.