An early pre 1914 photo of the Closerie des Lilas, looking westwards down Montparnasse, one of the buildings further down at 157/9 was another favoured cafe, Au Negre de Toulouse.
The 'Oyster den" mentioned here, in reality the still extant seafood restaurant 'Aux Iles Marquises' in the Rue Gaite, probably the only place known to Jan and Cora that can be eaten in today.
had no orchestra with German or Viennese violinists to draw one's feet within; its terrace had no tented covering with red glowing coke stoves. But push open the spring door, and you entered not a cafe, but a club— a club whose sole entrance fee was intellect, originality, wit or beauty, presided over by a Poet whose name will live in France; whose commonplace conversations were as often as not the fragments of some unpublished poem, but who spoke so indistinctly that a full half of his words were unintelligible even to Frenchmen.
We held a personal invitation from the Poet for one evening; he had heard my wife display a peculiar talent which she possesses for imitating the roar of a camel. Those who understand Parisian argot will appreciate the exact way in which the talent tickled M. F------'s fancy ; a sidelight upon her ability of which., however, I must add, my wife was supremely ignorant. Still, there was the
invitation, and we became habitués.
It was a cosmopolitan club; we were at that time the sole English, but the nations had contributed
in abundance. There was S------, like a young and flexible faun, poet, raconteur, and journalist;
his wife, dark-haired, dark-eyed, part Algerian, like a curbed, lazy panther at the Zoo. The two
Madame F------'s; the legitimate, our Presidentess, great-hearted, adoring her husband; the
other, illegitimate, yet recognised, a poetess, each shaking hands formally with the other every evening and then, sitting at different tables; There was Ratapouf, the Dutchman, sometime labourer on the Eiffel Tower, guide to the Louvre, man of erudition, and author of three thin books of verse which had taken seven years to produce. There was B—, the futurist, killed
lately by a wheel of a gun in the Alps; there was Madame W------, a
Scandinavian masseuse with white hair and the carriage of an empress, advocate of the married state, loved by everyone ; her husband, sculptor and dude, who was addicted to collars so tall that he wounded himself in the neck upon their points and was forced for some time to go about smothered in bandages. There was an Egyptian writer nicknamed "the Satyr"; there was Dr. M--
—, Austrian, heavy-souled and a seeker; there was B------, German painter of Apache dens for
his own pleasure, and of ladies clad only in stockings pour vendre. There were D------and his
wife, large, handsome,
kindly, reminiscent somehow of a Pickwickian feast, famed as champion consumers of absinthe,
and their son, a Scandinavian Adonis, causing much havoc in the hearts of the ladies from the
North. There was C------, cynical, epigrammatic,sandy-haired, sandy-eyed, respected by everyone for his penetrating wit, and who modestly admitted himself to be the greatest man of us all, because while we had talents and used, them,
he with more -talent would not be bothered. And last, but by no means least, Mile. L------,
demure Normand, a governess, prim, modest, middle-aged during the daytime; but at night marvellously altered by a slight rake of the hat, and with a talent for brilliant repartee. Some are dead, others in the blood and mud of the battle. To-day is not the day for the happy-go lucky. Othello's occupation has absorbed the fit, and pictures or poems go halting; brutal reality has swallowed up idealism.
Yet—there is a pleasure in recalling our joyous past, our fourteenths of July, our New Year's eves, and our Christmasses and other special occasions, when we dressed in motley, and by the permission of a complacent Government, kept our cafe open all night, hired an orchestra, sang and danced between the tables covered with our piling saucers.
One Christmas in particular sticks in my memory. A baker's dozen of us, the thirteenth an airman, had supped upon shell-fish and snails at. an oyster den frequented by the Apache. Over the door an enormous snail gilded was the sign of the house; the front room had been cleared, and was piled high on either hand with oyster shells, and ever rough-clad -waiters flung shells on to the growing heaps, between which was a narrow footpath to a cast-iron staircase. After supper, my wife and I had danced the Highland schottische for the Apache, and laughing we tumbled again into the streets filled with Christmas revellers, and took a singing way towards our Café des Roses. A cafe is the ideal place for merriment; it has a largeness denied to all other localities; at home one's joy is egoistic — it shuts out all others, and even a public dinner, if it ever becomes joyous, is selective; but in a cafe he who has two pence, he who can find the cash for a mere coffee, may join in; poet and peasant can hobnob in song. That night another Englishman had joined us, a painter. Our friends knew nothing of his work, and cared less, bur the extreme beauty and variety of his lady friends had caused him to be unanimously elected to our club, for virility is a talent recognised in Bohemia. That was the night when they christened C - the Plato of Bohemia, and after the douche of beer he solemnly combed his sandy hair with a knife and fork. S -, with the unconscious poise of a Nijinsky, waving long, lean hands with incredible grace, led the choruses; Ratapouf, globular, somewhat like a Biliiken come to life, sang his only song, about a reprobate who followed a fair form one dusky evening for seven miles to find that he had been tracking a priest. J.I -, the futurist leader, shouted his poem about the Racing Automobile.... In any other country we would have been stupified by dawn, but we greeted the first grey light of Paris without a stagger and made our way into the streets. On such occasions the Luxembourg Gardens are open at night, and my wife and I determined to find a contrast to the recent jollity in the sombre glades of the park. Below the terraces the grass was white with hoar frost; the fountain made a faint, thin tinkling music, which was the whisper of romance. We leant on the stone balustrades awed by the solemn dignity of this imprisoned garden. But in the gloaming came four figures towards us ; some of our fellow revellers had followed us, and forming a circle we startled the silences by dancing and singing — I think the tune was " Marietta." From every corner rushed black-cloaked guardians, like priests of gloom, and chased us, desecrators, from their sanctuary back into the lightening streets.... John Salis
site authors note
This is another little Jan Gordon gem that would be invaluable to the biographer if only he had been factual about names and is a rare insight into Parisian artistic life pre 1914.
This incident is probably circa 1911-13
The 'Café des Roses' is easily recognised as the Closerie des Lilas and the Oyster den, identifiable as Aux Iles Marquises in Rue Gaite still has its Golden Escargot over the door.
Of the characters in it I can identify with certainty Paul Fort, the poet and writer, possibly Marinetti the Futurist painter, and S- is Andre Salmon the writer. The rest are mostly irrelevant to this story.
I have also deduced that several of the characters in Jan Gordon's writing of this era are composite figures, where he is using an actual person, that person is readily identifiable, the composite identities carrie rather absurd invented names.
We held a personal invitation from the Poet for one evening; he had heard my wife display a peculiar talent which she possesses for imitating the roar of a camel. Those who understand Parisian argot will appreciate the exact way in which the talent tickled M. F------'s fancy ; a sidelight upon her ability of which., however, I must add, my wife was supremely ignorant. Still, there was the
invitation, and we became habitués.
It was a cosmopolitan club; we were at that time the sole English, but the nations had contributed
in abundance. There was S------, like a young and flexible faun, poet, raconteur, and journalist;
his wife, dark-haired, dark-eyed, part Algerian, like a curbed, lazy panther at the Zoo. The two
Madame F------'s; the legitimate, our Presidentess, great-hearted, adoring her husband; the
other, illegitimate, yet recognised, a poetess, each shaking hands formally with the other every evening and then, sitting at different tables; There was Ratapouf, the Dutchman, sometime labourer on the Eiffel Tower, guide to the Louvre, man of erudition, and author of three thin books of verse which had taken seven years to produce. There was B—, the futurist, killed
lately by a wheel of a gun in the Alps; there was Madame W------, a
Scandinavian masseuse with white hair and the carriage of an empress, advocate of the married state, loved by everyone ; her husband, sculptor and dude, who was addicted to collars so tall that he wounded himself in the neck upon their points and was forced for some time to go about smothered in bandages. There was an Egyptian writer nicknamed "the Satyr"; there was Dr. M--
—, Austrian, heavy-souled and a seeker; there was B------, German painter of Apache dens for
his own pleasure, and of ladies clad only in stockings pour vendre. There were D------and his
wife, large, handsome,
kindly, reminiscent somehow of a Pickwickian feast, famed as champion consumers of absinthe,
and their son, a Scandinavian Adonis, causing much havoc in the hearts of the ladies from the
North. There was C------, cynical, epigrammatic,sandy-haired, sandy-eyed, respected by everyone for his penetrating wit, and who modestly admitted himself to be the greatest man of us all, because while we had talents and used, them,
he with more -talent would not be bothered. And last, but by no means least, Mile. L------,
demure Normand, a governess, prim, modest, middle-aged during the daytime; but at night marvellously altered by a slight rake of the hat, and with a talent for brilliant repartee. Some are dead, others in the blood and mud of the battle. To-day is not the day for the happy-go lucky. Othello's occupation has absorbed the fit, and pictures or poems go halting; brutal reality has swallowed up idealism.
Yet—there is a pleasure in recalling our joyous past, our fourteenths of July, our New Year's eves, and our Christmasses and other special occasions, when we dressed in motley, and by the permission of a complacent Government, kept our cafe open all night, hired an orchestra, sang and danced between the tables covered with our piling saucers.
One Christmas in particular sticks in my memory. A baker's dozen of us, the thirteenth an airman, had supped upon shell-fish and snails at. an oyster den frequented by the Apache. Over the door an enormous snail gilded was the sign of the house; the front room had been cleared, and was piled high on either hand with oyster shells, and ever rough-clad -waiters flung shells on to the growing heaps, between which was a narrow footpath to a cast-iron staircase. After supper, my wife and I had danced the Highland schottische for the Apache, and laughing we tumbled again into the streets filled with Christmas revellers, and took a singing way towards our Café des Roses. A cafe is the ideal place for merriment; it has a largeness denied to all other localities; at home one's joy is egoistic — it shuts out all others, and even a public dinner, if it ever becomes joyous, is selective; but in a cafe he who has two pence, he who can find the cash for a mere coffee, may join in; poet and peasant can hobnob in song. That night another Englishman had joined us, a painter. Our friends knew nothing of his work, and cared less, bur the extreme beauty and variety of his lady friends had caused him to be unanimously elected to our club, for virility is a talent recognised in Bohemia. That was the night when they christened C - the Plato of Bohemia, and after the douche of beer he solemnly combed his sandy hair with a knife and fork. S -, with the unconscious poise of a Nijinsky, waving long, lean hands with incredible grace, led the choruses; Ratapouf, globular, somewhat like a Biliiken come to life, sang his only song, about a reprobate who followed a fair form one dusky evening for seven miles to find that he had been tracking a priest. J.I -, the futurist leader, shouted his poem about the Racing Automobile.... In any other country we would have been stupified by dawn, but we greeted the first grey light of Paris without a stagger and made our way into the streets. On such occasions the Luxembourg Gardens are open at night, and my wife and I determined to find a contrast to the recent jollity in the sombre glades of the park. Below the terraces the grass was white with hoar frost; the fountain made a faint, thin tinkling music, which was the whisper of romance. We leant on the stone balustrades awed by the solemn dignity of this imprisoned garden. But in the gloaming came four figures towards us ; some of our fellow revellers had followed us, and forming a circle we startled the silences by dancing and singing — I think the tune was " Marietta." From every corner rushed black-cloaked guardians, like priests of gloom, and chased us, desecrators, from their sanctuary back into the lightening streets.... John Salis
site authors note
This is another little Jan Gordon gem that would be invaluable to the biographer if only he had been factual about names and is a rare insight into Parisian artistic life pre 1914.
This incident is probably circa 1911-13
The 'Café des Roses' is easily recognised as the Closerie des Lilas and the Oyster den, identifiable as Aux Iles Marquises in Rue Gaite still has its Golden Escargot over the door.
Of the characters in it I can identify with certainty Paul Fort, the poet and writer, possibly Marinetti the Futurist painter, and S- is Andre Salmon the writer. The rest are mostly irrelevant to this story.
I have also deduced that several of the characters in Jan Gordon's writing of this era are composite figures, where he is using an actual person, that person is readily identifiable, the composite identities carrie rather absurd invented names.