A humiliation

Thursday, October 29th., Rue de Calais, Paris

I have had awful difficulties with the French language since I came here. Somehow, very illogically, I thought that the mere fact of residence in Paris  would mysteriously increase my knowledge of the French tongue to a respectable degree. I remember that I was advised to haunt the theatre if I wished to perfect my French. The first play I saw was Edmond See's "L'Indiscret" at the Theatre Antoine. I entered the theatre hoping for the best. I had read the play in advance. I did not however succeed in comprehending a single word - not one. 

I am to be seen three or four nights a week in the front row of the stalls (so as to hear well) of the little theatre de quartier round about Montmartre. Last night for example I went to see the new 'revue' at La Cigale. I was really astonished by the breadth of some of the double-meanings that were explained to me. On the whole it was not as good as the last one I saw there. But the mounting and stage management and, especially, the figures of the women of this little Montmartre theatre are not surpassed anywhere in Paris, and the 'revues' are certainly better than any others I have seen.

So, after studying French for twenty six years, the man in me who had written scores of authoritative articles on French literature has been deeply humiliated. I have been taking lessons as well as attending the theatres and, enchantingly, I have begun to understand bits of phrases heard in the street. A corner has been turned! I am almost pleased with myself.

The business of dying

Saturday, November 4th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

The other evening I went to a little theatre in Montmarte. The theatre which I visited is called, rather grandiosely, "The Theatre of the People", and it lies on the very confines of 'Parisianism', just at the point where the Avenue de Clichy ceases to be anything but a gaunt suburban thoroughfare. It is something rather wonderful is The Theatre of the People, one of those enterprises at once glorious and forlorn whose aim is to bring Art and the People together. The programme set before me included a two act masterpiece of Moliere, a one act comedy by that truly great humourist George Courteline, and Heyermans' famous three act tragedy of fisher life, "The Good Hope". It was the last named piece that I really went to see having missed it when the Stage Society did it last year. I was anxious to witness the gloomy spectacle which has desolated every drama critic in London.

I came away from the theatre thoroughly and superbly depressed, an emotion not to be despised by the discerning person of thoughtful disposition. The Good Hope is probably unrivalled for sheer gloom in the whole range of modern drama, almost Greek in its tragic quality. But it was not The Good Hope that depressed me. It was the forlornness of the whole enterprise. The theatre was not half full; it was not a third full; and when we clapped as we did often, our applause resounded as the voices of house-hunters resound in an empty house. And all the people connected with the enterprise seemed to be wondering how long this Art-and-People game would last, and where their next meal was coming from. I felt profoundly sorry for the whole pathetic crew; I became sentimental - and it is not often that I get sentimental.

One actress, a certain Claire Mars, stuck obstinately in my mind. She was not beautiful, but she was a star (of The Theatre of the People), and she could act, and she was intensely, too intensely, alive. And she was very young. She had the peculiar 'yearning' eyes which always mean martyrdom, either for their owner or for some man. And the next night I returned but The Theatre of the People was closed. I admit that I wanted to see Claire Mars again. I even had a sort of thought of making her acquaintance. And the next day I read in the paper: "Suicide of a young actress of the Theatre du Peuple. Mdlle. Lion, aged 23, committed suicide yesterday in her rooms, No. 40 Rue des Martyrs, by shooting herself in the right temple with a revolver. Under the name of Claire Mars she had won applause in Therese Raquin and The Good Hope."

Of the reasons for this self-extinction I have no knowledge. Nor does the reason much matter. It is the raw event that counts. We were separated, she and I, only by a few feet and a line of electric light, and perhaps a few hours. Of course the affair is useless to me as a novelist. But, as a human being, I allowed myself to think those well-known, banal and commonplace thoughts about life and death which, despite their banality and commonplaceness, remain amongst the most precious and valuable of our emotions. And, in addition, I wondered how many people would not, at some moment or other commit suicide if suicide could be committed instantaneously, without enterprise, sustained resolution, trouble or mess. Especially mess.And it occurred to me that it is not death that most persons fear, but the business of dying.

Morose in Montmartre

Monday, February 15th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

I was influenza-ish all day yesterday and on Saturday evening - until last night when it passed off. We dined on Saturday and yesterday at Sylvain's, and last night went into the Casino de Paris for an hour or so.

I heard again the story of the life, death and burial of the mysterious pretty Englishwoman from Liverpool who gave lessons in English to a constant stream of messieurs chic, and expired alone at 7 rue Breda after being robbed by a Spanish male friend.The arrival of the English relatives and all that! It seemed to me I might use up a lot of the stuff in "The History of Two Old Women", which it seems more and more likely will be my next serious book.

I went last night to see "Siegfried" at the Opera, and came away in a mood to swear that nothing should ever induce me to go to the Opera again in search of my own artistic pleasure. A tame performance without any distinction of any kind.  "Siegfried" is an opera which needs the greatest tact in production. I can easily understand now, how at first Wagner's works were merely laughed at. If they were produced new today they would be laughed at. Their beauty seems to exist side-by-side with their Teutonic gawkiness. Some moments I enjoyed extremely despite all the drawbacks: still the Opera is a European scandal. It ought to be at Bucharest or Cairo.

Passage Jouffroy

I went out this afternoon (Mardi Gras) towards the Grand Boulevard. The crowd got thicker and thicker and confetti more and more plentiful. I left the rue Montmartre for the 'passages' and became blocked in the Passage Jouffroy and so returned. The carnival was nothing but an excuse for stupidity and horseplay. It began to rain, and soon rained heavily, and kept on till 8.30. I was morosely glad to see the carnival thus ruined. It may break out again tonight, though I had promised myself a concert of old music tonight, but after trudging in the wet to the hall in the rue d'Athenes, I found the place shut up. I must have mistaken the night. 

So I spent an hour at the Moulin Rouge, picking up trifles and boring myself.

Bachelor arrangements

Friday, December 4th., Rue de Calais, Paris.

Last night "Pelleas et Melisande", at the Opera Comique. This time I thought Debussy's music very good. Sometimes really powerful.

The Opéra Comique was founded in 1714 under the reign of Louis XIV. It is among the oldest French dramatic and musical institutions. Its history was alternately turbulent and prestigious until it was listed on the register of national theaters in 2005. Since then a new era has begun renewing with its history, it set itself the task of spreading its unique repertoire and securing the production and dissemination of operatic works to the widest audience.

The day before yesterday or a bit earlier two children were born in the streets of Paris the same day. Chichi explained to me that the thing occurred not infrequently. Accouchement in a 'maison' was an expensive affair, comparatively. hence women, at the very last moment, went to the poste de police and demanded the assistance that the law binds itself to give.

It is extraordinary how the leading cafes of Montmartre are absolutely crammed at midnight. Till a day or two ago I had scarcely known of the existence of the Cafe Graff. I was in there last night and at 12.15 there was not a seat empty. I came home and found my stove gone out. I lighted it at 1 p.m. but it would not 'take'. This trifling thing annoyed me wonderfully. It got on my nerves. I could not sleep and was extremely depressed about everything. The cold continues, and this morning it is even more severe.

Yesterday afternoon I very suddenly decided to alter the entire arrangement of the flat, making the bedroom the study, the study the cabinette de toilette, and the cabinette de toilette the bedroom. I called in the concierge to assist, and also the carpenter's young son to shave pieces off the bottoms of the doors. It took over two hours, and the young son received 75 centimes and the concierge 2 francs' worth of coke which I had no use for, as my infernal new stove doesn't burn coke. I can now work in the same room as the stove.

Yesterday I tackled the Phillpotts play for about 4 hours and got into it considerably.

Additionally for December 4th., see 'A patriotic concert' -
http://earnoldbennett.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/a-patriotic-concert.html

Patriotic concert last night in the village schoolroom. Full. All the toffs of the village were there. Rev. Mathews and family dined with us before it. Most of the programme was given by soldiers, except one pro. It was far more amusing than one could have expected. Corporal Snell, with a really superb bass voice, sang two very patriotic, sentimental songs, sound in sentiment but extremely bad in expression. They would have been excruciating in an ordinary voice; but he was thrilling in them.

Parisian views

Sunday, October 4th., Paris.

I walked up to Sacre Coeur, and took the funicular up to the portals of the church. Environs of church: memento shop, image shop, church accessory shop. Tickets for entrance to crypt, belfry, and tower. The horrible unfinished look of the front, with aged hoardings and scaffolding. I was not much impressed by the interior. Mass was just finishing. I noticed a small-boy-acolyte, dressed up and murmuring at the altar. Concentration of lights etc. round about main altar. Sparse congregation. Woman collecting at door, and regularly shaking her bag at two-second intervals. Meanly dressed clerks taking holy water at door and crossing themselves. Curious effect, both interior and exterior, of church being built of large blocks of stone; it looked as if these stones were imitation stones in wallpaper, like the old-fashioned wallpaper in halls of small houses in England. The effect of the dome was goodish, akin to that of St. Paul's, but marred by the new yellowish-cream tint of the masonry.

The Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris, commonly known as Sacré-Cœur Basilica (French: Basilique du Sacré-Cœur), is a Roman Catholic church and minor basilica, dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, in Paris, France. A popular landmark, the basilica is located at the summit of the butte Montmartre, the highest point in the city. Sacré-Cœur is a double monument, political and cultural, both a national penance for the supposed excesses of the Second Empire and socialist Paris Commune of 1871, crowning its most rebellious neighborhood, and an embodiment of conservative moral order, publicly dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, which was an increasingly popular vision of a loving and sympathetic Christ. The Sacré-Cœur Basilica was designed by Paul Abadie. Construction began in 1875 and was finished in 1914. It was consecrated after the end of World War I in 1919.

I then came out and surveyed Paris from the front. I could distinguish most of the landmarks - Notre Dame, Pantheon, Invalides, Gare de Lyon, St. Sulpice, and Louvre. Never before had I had such a just idea of the immense size of the Louvre. I could also see the Opera, (that centre of Paris qui s'amuse) with its green roof (? copper). And it looked so small and square and ordinary. And I thought of the world-famed boulevards and resorts lying hidden round about there. And I thought: Is that all it is? For a moment it seemed impossible to me that, as a result of a series of complicated conventions merely, that collocation of stones, etc. (paving stones and building stones) could really be what it is - a synonym and symbol for all that is luxurious, frivolous, gay, viscious, and artistic. I thought: "Really, Paris is not Paris after all; it is only a collocation of stones." The idea, though obvious enough, was very striking for a minute or two.

View from Sacre Coeur

In the afternoon Schwob called unexpectedly. We went up to the Moulin de la Galette, which he said was the last genuine bal of the lower classes left in Paris, and even that genuine only on Sunday afternoons.

Renoir: Bal du Moulin de la Galette

The Moulin de la Galette is a windmill and associated businesses situated near the top of the district of Montmartre in Paris. Since the 17th century the windmill has been known for more than just its milling capabilities. Nineteenth century owners and millers, the Debray family, made a brown bread,galette, which became popular and thus the name of the windmill and its businesses, which have included a famous guinguette and restaurant. In the 19th century, Le Moulin de la Galette, represented diversion for Parisians seeking entertainment, a glass of wine and bread made from flour ground by the windmill. Artists, such as Renoir, van Gogh, and Pissarro have immortalized Le Moulin de la Galette.

Schwob said that in the evenings it was the resort of whores like other bals. A tremendous climb (we had a difficulty in getting a driver to take us). Inside: stuffy. All the walls seemed to be covered with trellis work on which creepers grew very sparsely. Crowded dancing hall, with a sort of aisle for drinking on either side. The monde ouvrier was certainly there, dancing clumsily and perspiringly, and colliding with itself. Not nearly so graceful as the Bal Bullier. Band very brassy. Schwob said there were plenty of scoundrels - maquereaux, thieves, apaches, till-robbers etc. but I doubt it. The company looked innocent on the whole, though I thought I saw a few wrong 'uns (men). Afterwards we climbed up into the garden, and I saw the old wooden windmill (with its date 1295) garlanded with electric light apparatus.

A solitary gendarme up there was glad to talk to Schwob. He began by saying that the weather was turning colder; he did not disguise that he was bored, but 'On est tranquille,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. he was a rather cynical philosopher, and referred slightingly to the clients of the moulin, and dashed the respectability of the women with a single grimace. But when the cakewalk began he descended part of the stairs to get a glimpse of it.

Much the same view of Paris here as at Sacre Coeur but better. One could see Mont Valerien, a 'frowning height', and one had also glimpses over the hill of Montmartre to the north - of factory chimneys and then hills.

All this part of Montmartre (north of the boulevard exterieur, that is to say) had a character of its own. It was like a place by itself, a self-contained village. Not many cabs got up into those steep picturesque streets, nor omnibuses. Schwob said it was 'old Paris'.

Montmartre is talked about by Parisians the way New Yorkers talk about the Village: It's not what it used to be, It's like Disneyland, the artists can't afford to live here anymore,too many tourists etc. There is some truth these opinions, but there are two ways of approaching this incredibly unique village within the metropolis. The first is to follow the herd instinct and stampede your way up the famous hill, take a picture of yourself on the steps of the basilica, buy an overpriced crepe at the Place du Tertre, get conned into having your portrait sketched, and walk back down clutching newly bought key-rings, postcards, gaudy T-shirts feeling a little mystified about what all the fuss is about.

http://www.aparisguide.com/montmartre/index.html