PARIS BECOMES LESS IKE PARIS

Greymouth Evening Star, 10 December 1927, Page 9

PARIS BECOMES LESS IKE PARIS

“Plus-Fours” Spoil Atmosphere—The Passing of La Bolee—Mme Kuhn’s Industry— The “Bishop” of the Latin Quarter

THOUGHT I detected just a small indication ° f that Gallic tem ' kOIHl perament one hears so much about on leaving the railway station on arrival in Paris. The first sight to attract my notice was the owner of a parfumerie shop gaily leap-frogging over small tables in front of his wares on the pavement. Then, as a further reminder that I had left the bowlerhatted uniformity of London, I saw a large number of. straw hats cocked at all angles—jauntily, solemnly, irresponsibly—and a marvellous variety of faces and moustaches under the narrow brims. Then processions of jeunes filles, tripping gaily aloug the open, sun-splashed boulevards as though life was no trouble to them. By the time I had made these rather trivial observations I had reached the Place de I’Opera, in time to see some of the English population taking morning coffee outside the Cafe de la Paix and reading the latest "red plot” sensation in the Continental edition of the "Daily Mail.” Standing near them was a group of the nowfamous Camelots du Roi. Each wore his badge of the fleur-de-lis and carried a heavy stick, used for cracking Republican heads. To look at these young enthusiasts one would hardly suspect them of being the champions of such a very lost cause. Even if they are not successful in establishing the Due de Guise on a throne in France, they are getting some fun out of life. And, if they are not doing anything else, they are making the “Action Francaise” sell like hot cakes.

On arriving in the Latin Quarter I thought it seemed even less Latin and more Anglo-Saxon than formerly. True, there were still enough Chinese, Japanese, Germans, Russians, Indians, Czecho-Slovaks, and even Frenchmen to suggest to cosmopolitan atmosphere; but the sight in this place of a few pairs of ample and imposing plus-fours and that world-conquering stride that seems to go with them is enough to upset the perspective of the observer —as well as of the wearer. I wouldn’t like to say definitely that such externals help to encourage tha thrifty Parisian to dislike Englishmen. If you ask a Frenchman he will either evade the question by cynically alluding to the Entente or else he will go deeply into history to prove that thi modern fashion of politely exploiting the Englishman in business hours and hilariously guying him afterwards is due to natural racial enmity. .To obtain even this admission it is generally necessary to claim American or Australian citizenship. It’s not much good saying you come from New Zealand, because that involves you in geographical - explanations.

One or two results of this AngloSaxon invasion caused me some regrets. For instance the old hilarious clientele of "La Bolee” has migrated to I know not what other subterranean retreat. “La Bolee” was one of the few remaining strongholds of the apache as the word is understood at Hollywood. But now the two gendarmes who were always stationed outside late at night and in the small hours have vanished, and in their place is a notice in English inviting visitors to come and spend money in “this 14th century historical caveau.”

The entrance is in a dingy alley leading from the Place Saint Michel. On the ground floor is an ordinary small cafe bearing on its walls the names of Paul Verlaine, Pierre Mac Orlan, Dorguelas and Oscar Wilde and other famous authors, poets and artists who frequented the Quartier Latin towards the end of the last cen-

tury. A worn stone staircase winds from the cafe into a low-ceiling vault filled with benches that are stained with wine. From about 10 at night to three in the morning the benches were filled with a noisy, chattering rabble that joined in the choruses of songs sung by apaches in corduroys, caps and coloured scarves. The songs were mostly about the inelegant crises in the love affairs of shop girls or the indelicate downfall of a strutting Englishman. And there were dances and pathetic recitations that provoked laughter and tears, and applause in unison, and a clamouring for mo e drinks.

Even the Taverne du Pantheon which two years ago was the meeting place of all the most interesting nhabitants of the Quartier has been

bought by a rich firm of English caterers. An up-to-date jazz band has taken the place of the little orchestra that used to play operatic music by the hour. A clientele of Englishmen and Americans has taken the place of the artists, students, models and political enthusiasts of various nationalities one used to see there. However, it was reassuring to find motherly Madame Kuhn still presiding efficiently over her cheerful young students from the Ecole de Medecine who frequent her obscure but homely restaurant in the Rue M. le Prince. Her marble-top tables, covered with bottles of red wine and baskets of bread (a discretion) are always crowded with the same cheerful family of youths with whom she exchanges chaff and gossip while attending to their needs. Madame Kuhn is a magnificent type of Parisian matron; shrewd, vivacious and swiftly efficient Quite apart from her omelettes, said by some to be the cheapest and best in Paris, she could draw five times the custom, if the place were not so small, merely by the magnificence of her person and by the penetration o' her voice when it is raised above the din to shout orders to Rosalie in the kitchen at the back. The husband of Madame Kuhn—he has no other title —is evidently aware of these qualities, for he is content, good philosopher that he is, to let her get on with her bustling while he sits drowsily at the cash desk receiving the family foitune. When this little fortune, through Madame Kuhn’s thrift and energy, has grown large enough, she will break out into a pension de famille, and then the husband of Madame Kuhn will be relieved of his onerous duties.

Much of this student life is likely to disappear owing to the Cite Universitaire that is being established on the outskirts of Paris near the Porte d’Orleans. The University of Paris which has centred round the Sorbonne in the Latin Quarter since

its establish- Muy ment some I/" 700 years ago and which .’.as grown too large for its present central position since its reconstruction by Cardinal Richelieu '3OO years ago. will graduallj 7 be transferred to the new site. Tne hostel system which is being adopted there will make the Cite Universitaire a kind of French Oxford and will break up the student colony which for centuries has inhabited the hotels of the Latin Quarter. The French Government has invited foreign countries to build their own hostels at the Cite Universitaire, and the other day the Prince of Wales came to Paris and laid the foundation stone of the British Hostel.

Another world-famous part of Paris

that is undergoing a change is the Avenue des Champs Eiysees. The rows of large private houses of the rich which many members of the N.Z.E.F. probably saw there during the war, are giving place to rows of motor showrooms and big shops. This is much the same kind of thing that is beginning to happen in Park Lane in London.

One of the first persons with whom I chanced to renew acquaintance was an elderly man with a shabby old straw hat and a gray goatee. He is known as “The Bishop of the Latin Quarter.” He is a kind of gallicised American who earns his living here as of Physics at the Sorbonne. The affectionate name of “L’eveque du Quartier Latin” was given him by impoverished girl students whom he has befriended and by many other kinds of girls whom he has helped out of many kinds of difficulties. He is generally to be found in a certain cafe in the Rue des Ecoles between 11 at night and three in the morning quaffing large mugs of brown beer and discoursing amiably and unacademically to a group of admiring disciples. He said he had just come through a severe illness and related with emotion how numbers of his “poor young friends” had Insisted on nursing him back to health. A young American who was with him told me he had just put in a month as a waiter in a restaurant in Montmartre where he had made enough out of big tips from English and American tourists to keep him in comfort for some time. This was achieved by talking to them in French translated literally from the English idiom so that they were pleased with the young “French waiter” who was so easy to understand and who understood them so easily, and were pleased with themselves; and they tipped heavily and came again. The manager who thought out the bright idea and who employed him especially to operate it, was sorry to lose him. RICHARD E. DAVIE