backed pulpit-chairs, beautiful in color and carving, and of a Gothic
type, the whole scene suggesting a transept of Notre-Dame. Mr. Thomp-
kins had reverently removed his hat. It was not long afterward that
he quietly replaced it on his head. No notice was taken by us of these
movements.
At the farther end, where the church altar belonged, was indeed a
handsomely carved altar. Above it sprang a graceful arch, bearing a
canopy beautifully painted in blue, with yellow stars. In the centre was
a painting of Christ upon the cross. The altar was the bar, or caisse,
of this queer _café_, and behind it sat the proprietress, quietly
knitting and waiting to fill orders for drinks. The walls of the _café_
were almost entirely covered with framed drawings by Rodel; all were
portraits of well-known Bohemians of Montmartre in characteristic
attitudes,--the star patrons of this rendezvous. Many women figured
among them, all Bohemian to the bone.
[Illustration: 0304]
This was the Café du Conservatoire, famous for its celebrities, the
poets of Bohemian Paris, among whom Marcel Legay is eminent. It was
evident that the habitués of the Conservatoire were of a much higher
order than those whom we had seen elsewhere.
[Illustration: 8306]
They looked more prosperous, were more amiable, and acted more as other
people.
True, there was much long hair, for that is a disease hard to shake off;
but when it did occur, it was well combed and oiled. And there were
many flat-brimmed "plug" hats, as well as collars,--clean ones, too,
an exceptional thing in Bohemia, laundering being expensive. But the
poverty-haunted Bohemians in the Soleil d'Or are more picturesque. That,
however, is in the Latin Quarter: anything exceptional may be expected
at Montmartre.
When we had finished our coffee we approached the patronne behind the
bar, and bought billets for the Salle des Poètes at two francs each.
This was a large room crowded with enraptured listeners to Legay, who
was at that moment rendering his song.
LES CLOCHES.
"Les cloches Catholiques,
Du haut de leur beffroi,
Voyaient avec effroi
La résurrection des Grandes Républiques.
Les cloches rêvaient,
En quatre-vingt onze,
Les cloches de bronze
Rêvaient."
Legay had quite a distinguished appearance as he stood singing before
the piano. He wore a generously cut frock-coat, and his waistcoat
exposed a spacious show of white shirt-front.
[Illustration: 9307]
His long hair was carefully brushed back, his moustaches neatly waxed;
altogether he was dainty and jaunty, and the ladies in the room made no
concealment of their adoration.
The accompanist was a picturesque character. He was forty-five or fifty
years of age; he had long white hair and a drooping moustache, and his
heavy protruding eyes were suffused with tears evoked by the pathos of
the song. While he gazed up into the singer's face with tear-filled eyes
he was in another life, another world, where there was nothing but
music and poetry unalloyed to constitute his heaven. For Legay sang
charmingly, with an art and a feeling that were never obtrusive; and
his audience was aesthetic. When he had finished he was cheered without
stint, and he clearly showed how much the attention pleased him.
[Illustration: 8308]
His song was only one of the numbers on a very interesting programme.
This was the training school of the young poets and song-writers of
upper Bohemia; this was where they made their début and met the test
of that discriminating criticism which decided them to advance upon the
world or conceal themselves for yet a while from its cruel glare; and
were they not but repeating the ordeal of the ancient Greeks, out of
which so many noble things passed into literature? These critics were as
frank with their disapproval as generous with their acceptance.
Among those who sang were Gustave Corbet, Marius Geffroy, Eugene
Lemercier, Xavier Privas, Delarbre, and Henri Brallet, men as yet
unknown, but likely to make a mark under the training, inspiration, and
severe checks of the Café du Conservatoire. One of the goals for which
these writers strive, and one that, if they win it, means to them
recognition, is to have their poems published in _Gil Blas_, with
illustrations by the peerless Steinlen, as are the works of Legay, and
also of Bruant, le Terrible.
Marcel Legay is a familiar figure on the boulevards, where his dainty
person is often seen after nightfall, hurrying to one or another of his
haunts, with a small roll of music under his arm, and his fluffy hair
streaming over his shoulders. On certain nights of every week he
sings over in the Latin Quarter, at the Cabaret des Noctambules, Rue
Champollion, near the Chapel of the Sorbonne.
The other singers that night at the Café du Conservatoire each affected
his peculiar style of habit, gesture, and pose that he deemed most
fetching. The entire programme was of songs: hence the name, Café du
Conservatoire.
After we had deft, Bishop bought some Brevas cigars; thus fortified, we
headed for the Moulin Rouge.
It was evident that Mr. Thompkins had reserved his enthusiasm for the
great dance-hall of Montmartre,--Le Moulin Rouge,--with its women of the
half world, its giddiness, its glare, its noise, its naughtiness.
[Illustration: 0310]
Here at last we should find all absence of restraint, posing,
sordidness, self-consciousness, and appeals to abnormal appetites. Mr.
Thompkins visibly brightened as we ascended the incline of the entrance
and came within the influence of the life and abandon of the place.
Indeed, it must have seemed like fairy-land to him. The soft glow of
hundreds of lights fell upon the crowds in the ball-room and balconies,
with their shifting streams of color from the moving figures of dancing
women in showy gowns and saucy hats, and its many chatting, laughing,
joyous groups at the tables along the passage and the balconies,
enjoying merry little suppers and varied consommations that kept scores
of garçons continually on the move. A placard announced American Bar;
American and English Drinks--as bald and unashamed as that. Here on high
stools, American free-lunch fashion, ranged along the bar, were English
and American tourists and French dandies sipping Manhattan cocktails
with a cherry, brandy-and-soda, Tom-and-Jerry, and the rest. Along the
walls hung vivid paintings of some of the famous dancing-girls of the
Moulin, their saucy faces half hidden in clouds of lacy white skirts.
High up on a pretty balcony at the end of the huge ball-room were the
musicians, enjoying their cigarettes and bocks between pieces. A small
stage occupied the opposite end of the room, where a light vaudeville
performance had been given; but that was all over now, and attention
centred in the tables and the dancing.
The Moulin Rouge resembles very much the Bul-lier; but at the Moulin
the cocottes are much more dashing and gaudy than over in the Quartier,
because the inspector at the door of the Moulin maintains a more
exacting standard on the score of the toilettes of the women whom he
admits free of charge. Women, women, women! There seemed no end of them;
and each was arrayed to the full limit of her means. And there were
French dandies in long-white melton coats that were very tight at the
waist, and that bore large brown-velvet collars; their hair, parted
behind, was brushed toward their ears; they strolled about the place in
numbers, twirling their moustaches and ogling the girls. And there
were French army officers, Martinique negroes, longhaired students and
Montmartre poets, artists, actors, and many three-days-in-Paris English
tourists wearing knickerbockers and golf-caps, and always smoking
bulldog pipes. There were also two parties of American men with their
wives and daughters, and they enjoyed the spectacle with the natural
fulness and responsiveness of their soil. For the Moulin is really now
but a great show place; it has been discovered by the outside world,
and, unlike the other quaint places mentioned in this paper, has
suffered the change that such contact inevitably imparts. It is no
longer the queer old Moulin, genuinely, spontaneously Bohemian. But the
stranger would hardly realize that; and so to Mr. Thompkins it seemed
the brilliant and showy side of Bohemian Paris. By reason of its change
in character it has less interest than the real Bohemian Paris that the
real Bohemians know, enjoy, and jealously guard.
Many light-footed young women were amusing circles of on-lookers with
spirited dancing and reckless high-kicking; and, being adepts in their
peculiar art, were so flashing and illusory that an attempt to analyze
their movements brought only bewilderment. No bones seemed to hamper
their swiftness and elasticity. The flash of a black stocking would
instantly dissolve into a fleecy cloud of lace, and the whirling air
was a cyclone; and there upon the floor sat the dancer in the "split,"
looking up with a merry laugh, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes,
twinkling from the shadow of a twisted toque; then over her would sweep
a whirlwind of other dancers, and identities would become inextricably
confused.
An odd-looking man, with a sad face and marvellously long, thin legs in
tights, did incredible things with those members; he was merely a
long spring without bones, joints, or hinges. His cadaverous face and
glittering black eyes, above which rose a top-hat that never moved from
place, completed the oddity of his appearance. He is always there in the
thickest of the dancing, and his salary is three francs a night.
We suddenly discovered Mr. Thompkins in a most embarrassing situation.
A bewitching chemical blonde of the clinging type had discovered and
appropriated him; she melted all over him, and poured a stream of bad
English into his ear. She was so very, very thirsty, she pleaded, and
Monsieur was so charming, so much a gentleman,--he was beautiful, too.
Oh, Monsieur would not be so unkind as to remove the soft, plump arm
from round his neck,--surely it did not hurt Monsieur, for was it not
warm and plump, and was not that a pretty dimple in the elbow, and
another even prettier in the shoulder? If Monsieur were not so charming
and gracious the ladies would never, never fall in love with him like
this. And oh, Monsieur, the place was so warm, and dancing makes one so
thirsty!
Mr. Thompkins's face was a picture of shame and despair, and I have
never seen a more comical expression than that with which he looked
appealingly to us for help. Suppose some one in the hall should happen
to recognize him! Of course there was only one thing to do. Mademoiselle
Blanche's thirst was of that awful kind which only shipwrecked sailors,
travellers lost in a desert, and _café_ dancing-girls can understand.
And so four glasses of beer were ordered. It was beautiful to see the
grace and celerity with which Mademoiselle Blanche disposed of hers,
the passionate eagerness with which she pressed a long kiss upon Mr.
Thompkins's unwilling lips, and the promptness with which she then
picked up his glass, drained it while she looked at him mischievously
over the rim, kissed him again, and fled.
Mr. Thompkins sat speechless, his face blazing, his whole expression
indescribably foolish. He vigorously wiped his lips with his
handkerchief, and was not himself again for half an hour.
Innumerable bright little comedies were unconsciously played in all
parts of the room, and they were even more interesting than the antics
of the dancers.
We presently strolled into the garden of the Moulin, where a performance
is given in the summer. There stood a great white sheet-iron elephant,
remindful of Coney Island. In one of the legs was a small door, from
which a winding stair led into the body of the beast. The entrance fee
was fifty centimes, the ticket-office at the top of the stair. It was a
small room inside the elephant, and there was a small stage in the end
of it, upon which three young women were exercising their abdominal
muscles in the danse du ventre. Mr. Thompkins, dismayed at this,
would have fled had not Bishop captured him and hauled him back to
a conspicuous seat, where the dancing-girls, quickly finding him,
proceeded to make their work as extravagant as possible, throwing him
wicked glances meanwhile, and manifestly enjoying his embarrassment. Of
course the dancers came round presently for offerings of sous.
We returned to the dance-hall, for it was now closing-up time, and in
order to feel a touch of kinship with America, drank a gin fizz at the
American bar, though it seemed to be a novelty to Mr. Thompkins.
The streets were alive with the revellers who had been turned out by
the closing of the _café_s, dancehalls, and theatres, and the cries of
cabbies rose above the din of laughter and chatter among the crowds. But
the night was not yet quite finished. Said Bishop,--"We shall now have
coffee at the Red Ass."
That was below the Place Pigalle, quite a walk down to the Rue de
Maubeuge, through that suddenly quiet centre of artists' studios and
dignified residences. At last we reached L'Âne Rouage,--the Red Ass.
It has a small and unassuming front, except that the window-panes are
profusely decorated with painted flowers and figures, and a red ass
peers down over the narrow door. L'Âne Rouge has no special distinction,
save its artistic interior and the fanciful sketches on its walls. It
is furnished with heavy dark tables and chairs, and iron grilled into
beautiful scrolls and chandeliers,--like the famous Chat Noir, near by.
In fact, L'Âne Rouge resembles an old curiosity shop more than anything
else, for it is filled with all imaginable kinds of antiques, blackened
by age and smoke, and in perfect harmony. It, too, has its particular
clientèle of Bohemians, who come to puff their long pipes that hang in
racks, and recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and failures,
occasionally breaking into song. For this they bring forth their
mandolins and guitars, and sing sentimental ditties of their own
composition. There is a charming air of chez soi at the Red Ass; a
spirit of good-fellowship pervades it; and then, the _café_ is small,
cosey, and comfortable, as well as artistic.
[Illustration: 0318]
It was in a lively commotion when we crossed the threshold, the place
being filled with littérateurs of the quarter. A celebration was in
progress,--one of their number had just succeeded in finding a publisher
for two volumes of his poetry. It was a notable event, and the lucky
Bohemian, flushed with money, had settled his debts and was now treating
his friends. Although we were strangers to him, he cordially invited us
to share the hospitality of the occasion, and there was great applause
when Bishop presented him with a Brevas cigar.
"_Bravo, les Anglais! Ce sont des bons types, ceux-là!_" and then they
sang in chorus, a happy, careless, jolly crowd.
There was a small, thin young sketch artist making crayon portraits of
the successful poet and selling them to the poet's friends for fifty
centimes apiece,--with the poet's autograph, too.
In response to a call for une chanson Anglaise, Bishop sang "Down on the
Farm" as he had never sung it before, his shining top-hat pushed back
upon his curly hair, his jovial face beaming. At its conclusion he
proposed a toast to the successful poet, and it was drunk standing and
with a mighty shout.
We looked in at the Cabaret des Quat'z' Arts,--a bright and showy place,
but hardly more suggestive of student Bohemianism than the other fine
_café_s of the boulevards.
And thus ended a night on Montmartre. We left Mr. Thompkins at his
hotel. I think he was more than satisfied, but he was too bewildered and
tired to say much about it.
Montmartre presents the extravagant side of Parisian Bohemianism. If
there is a thing to be mocked, a convention to be outraged, an idol
to be destroyed, Montmartre will find the way. But it has a taint of
sordidness that the real Bohemianism of the old Latin Quarter
lacks,--for it is not the Bohemianism of the students. And it is vulgar.
For all that, in its rude, reckless, and brazen way it is singularly
picturesque. It is not likely that Mr. Thompkins will say much about it
when he goes home, but he will be able to say a great deal in a general
way about the harm of ridiculing sacred things and turning reverence
into a laugh.
[Illustration: 0321]
MOVING IN THE QUARTIER LATIN
THE Quartier Latin takes on unwonted life about the fifteenth of July,
when the artists and students change their places of abode under the
resistless pressure of a nomadic spirit.
[Illustration: 8322]
Studios are generally taken for terms ranging from three months to a
year, and the terms generally expire in July. The artists who do not
change their residence then go into the country, and that means moving
their effects.
It is a familiar fact that artists do not generally occupy a high
position in the financial world.
Consequently they are a very practical lot, attending to their own
domestic duties (including washing when times are hard), and doing
their own moving when July comes; but this is not a very elaborate
undertaking, the worse of them for that.
One day in July Bishop and I sat in our window overlooking the court,
and observed the comedy of a
A STUDENT MOVING
No one thinks student in the throes of moving. The old building at the
end of our court was a favorite abiding-place for artists. Evidently, on
this day, a young artist or art student was _en déménagement_, for his
household goods were being dragged down the stairs and piled in the
court preparatory to a journey in a small hand-cart standing by. He
was cheerfully assisted by a number of his friends and his devoted
companion, a pretty little grisette. There were eight of them in all,
and their laughter and shouts indicated the royal fun they were having.
The cart was one of those voitures à bras that are kept for hire at a
neighboring location de voitures à bras at six sous an hour. In order to
get locomotion out of it you have to hitch yourself in the harness that
accompanies it, and pull the vehicle yourself; and that is no end of
fun, because your friends are helping and singing all the way.
Into this vehicle they placed a rickety old divan and a very much
dilapidated mattress; then came half a sack of coal, a tiny, rusty,
round studio stove with interminable yards of battered and soot-filled
pipe, a pine table, two rush-bottomed chairs, and a big box filled with
clattering dishes, kettles, pots, and pans. On top of this came a thick
roll of dusty, faded, threadbare hangings and rugs, and the meagre
wardrobes of the artist and the grisette; then a number of hat-boxes,
after which Mademoiselle looked with great solicitude. Last of all
came bulky portfolios filled with the artist's work, a large number of
canvases that were mostly studies of Mademoiselle au naturel, with
such accessories as easel, paint-boxes, and the like, and the linen and
bedding.
The fat old concierge stood grumbling near by, for the ropes were being
tied over the load, and she was anxiously waiting for her _dernier
adieu_, or parting tip, that it is the custom to give upon surrendering
the key. But tips are sometimes hard to give, and Bohemian etiquette
does not regard them with general favor. After the load had been made
snug, the artist approached the concierge, doffed his cap, bowed low,
and then in a most impressively ceremonious manner handed her the key,
avowed that it broke his heart to leave her, and commended her to God.
That was all. There seems to be a special providence attending upon
the vocabulary of concierges in their hour of need. The shrill,
condemnatory, interminable vocalization of this concierge's wrath
indicated specific abilities of exceptional power.
But the artist paid no attention. He hung his coat and "plug" hat on
the inverted table-leg, got between the shafts, hitched himself in the
harness, and sailed out of the court, his friends swarming around and
assisting him to drag the toppling cart away. And this they did with a
mighty will, yelling and singing with a vigor that wholly obliterated
the concierge's noise. The little grisette closed the procession,
bearing in one hand a lamp and in the other a fragile bust. And so the
merry party started, possibly for the other end of Paris,--the greater
the distance the more the fun. They all knew that when the voiture had
been unloaded and all had fallen to and assisted the young couple in
straightening out their new home, there would be a jolly celebration in
the nearest _café_ at the moving artist's expense.
So the start was made fairly and smoothly; but the enthusiasm of the
crowd was so high and the little vehicle was so top-heavy, that at the
end of the passage the comedy seemed about to merge into a tragedy. It
was announced to all the court in the shrill voice of the concierge,
who exultingly screamed,--"The stove has fallen out! and the coal! The
things are falling all over the street! Oh, you villain!"
To the movers themselves it was merely an incident that added to the fun
and zest of the enterprise.
[Illustration: 0326]
My plans carried me to Concarneau, and Bishop's took him to Italy, where
I would join him after a while. And a royal time we had in our several
ways. The autumn found us fresh and eager for our studies in Paris
again, and so we returned to hunt a studio and establish ourselves in
new quarters. We had stored our goods with a kind American friend; and
as we had neither the desire nor the financial ability to violate the
traditions of the Quartier, we greatly scandalized him and his charming
family by appearing one day with a crowd of students and a voiture à
bras before his house and taking our effects away in the traditional
fashion. Of course our friend would have gladly paid for the transport
of our belongings in a more respectable fashion; but where would have
been the fun in that? I am pleased to say that with true American
adaptiveness he joined the singing and yelling crowd, and danced a jig
to our playing in our new quarters after a generous brew of punch had
done its share in the jollity of the event.
[Illustration: 0328]
Ah, dear old Paris! wonderful, bewildering Paris! alluring, enchanting
Paris! Our student years are now just ended, and Paris is already so
crowded with workers who cannot bear to leave it that we must seek
our fortune in other and duller parts of the world. But Paris has
ineradicably impressed itself upon us. We have lived its life; we have
been a part of its throbbing, working, achieving individuality. What
we take away will be of imperishable value, the salt and leaven of our
hopes and efforts forever.
THE END