(This is a short story by Clifford Hall, writing, sometime in the 1930s, as Henry Constant)
FAME
Georges was a poet. In Montparnasse, on the crowded terrasse of La Dôme and La Rotonde they said of him – he is not exactly Verlaine.
In a post-war Paris, in a quarter of a few artists, of numerous amateurs and poseurs making art an excuse for an irregular life, Georges represented the true Bohemian.
He was not handsome and although his hair was long and his clothes shabby, you would not have found him very remarkable. At night, sitting outside his favourite café, Georges would drink, usually, Penod. He seldom had any money, but there were always people to buy drinks and to listen to him as he talked. He spoke of women, of life and money. It was foolish to work, he said, one should enjoy life.
In the summer he slept in the Luxembourg Gardens. He was friends with the guards and they did not molest him.
“Think of the statues of the queens so well placed by the stone benches. Why, mon vieux, I have slept with all the queens of France. Last night I had Marie de Medici.” He would lean across the table, his voice low and husky, his little eyes twinkling and whisper: “She’s as hard as a rock”; then suddenly sit up straight, laughing. Laughing so loudly, so gaily that respectable shopkeepers with their families taking an evening stroll on the Boulevard would shake their heads and glancing in his direction, remark: “There’s that good-for-nothing Georges and his friends, drinking, as always.”
In winter things were not so easy; but still there remained the all-night cafés. It was possible to arrange things. Georges knew the waiters and often some tipsy American would be charged for the poet’s drinks as well as his own.
Once provided with a drink, if only a coffee, he was safe. Wrapped in his overcoat, propped in a corner with the laughter of the late revellers in his ears, Georges slept warm and content. No, decidedly no, it was not necessary to work. In any case, look at it as you would, work was foolish. Life was too amusing. Paris and the sunlight too beautiful to waste time working. Why, people who worked never had time to enjoy life.
Georges was a remarkable man. He had succeeded in building up quite a reputation as a poet, yet few had read a line of his work. True, his reputation was a local one; it was confined to the Quarter, to Montparnasse, but Montparnasse was his world and he was satisfied.
When Georges first had a poem printed there were great celebrations. He was not sober for days on end. He became a joke, a laughing stock. His appearance in print happened in the following manner. One Fresnoy, a retired civil servant, had won a small prize in the State Lottery. Having ambitions towards literature, he decided to found a weekly paper devoted entirely to the affairs of the Quarter. It would have news in half a dozen languages. Would be distinctly literary and artistic in aim and appeal to the cosmopolitan inhabitants of Montparnasse. It was as good a way as any of spending the money.
Various contributors were hastily gathered. An out-of-work small part actor took charge of the Drama. Detroff, the painter, agreed to do the Art Criticism and promised to produce something revolutionary. Fresnoy was editor, literary critic, business manager and reporter.
In the course of his life in the Quarter, he had met Georges and he now approached him about a poem for the first issue. The poet was not particularly enthusiastic, but after three or four Pernods he produced a crumpled newspaper on which some verses were written in red pencil, and agreed to let the self-appointed editor have them. Naturally, Fresnoy was careful to explain, his paper did not pay for poetry; besides, there was the cost of the drinks. Georges understood perfectly, and laughed.
The poem duly appeared and caused a sensation. Everyone who mattered in the Quarter heard of it, although very few went so far as to read the lines. Most were content to see the title and the name of Georges. Some, however, did read it to the end and the discerning realised with surprise that the writer was indeed a fine poet.
It was decided that something should be done for him. Of course, he was an impossible fellow; he slept out, drank too much and never worked, but he was an artist and the cleverer ones thought that even his notoriously bad character could be turned to account. What fine publicity the story of his life would make.
Once again, Georges showed a regrettable lack of interest. He admitted that he had done other work, and even showed a dozen or more finer and richer in promise than the verses already published. Some of the best he had lost, he said. He usually wrote on scraps of newspaper picked up in some café or other, and once written he bothered no more about them and often as not threw them away. In any case, he did not want to be troubled. Life was very amusing; he would be pleased, however, to drink their health.
So nothing happened. People still spoke of the poem and Georges lived as before, sitting up most of the night, talking and accepting drinks with an air that seemed to confer an honour on the giver.
He was destined to achieve fame in another way, not with his art, and it was Jo-Jo who was the means of making him the most talked of man in Paris.
At eighteen, Jo-Jo was tired of life in a Brittany village and had run away to Paris. She came to the artists’ quarter thinking that the life of a model would be more romantic than milking cows and working in the fields at home. Soon she was living the usual life of the place. Sometimes a painter or a poor student would give her shelter, sometimes an American sailor from Cherbourg on a few weeks’ leave in the capital. She became one of those girls to be seen night after night in the cafés and cheap bars laughing and drinking, surrounded by a group of semi-intoxicated men.
It was not long before she met Georges. His name was known to her and he was the first of the down-at-heel writers of her acquaintance who had appeared in print. This girl from the country, sophisticated yet childish, was a little shocked that such a man should be so unkempt, so dirty; should live, in fact, much as she lived herself. Georges, who had known many women, who boasted gaily that he had never had a bed of his own, save a bench in the Gardens, but had slept at times in many beds belonging to others, was attracted to her. Something of the simple peasant girl remained in her painted face and reckless manner. It was not long after the publication of the poem and drinks were plentiful. Why he should have wanted her in particular, I cannot tell. Perhaps he too, long ago, had come to Paris from her part of the country.
Jo-Jo laughingly told him that she could never love a man who wore such dirty shirts.
“Look at Sam” she said, pointing to her smart American sailor, “and regard yourself.”
Georges saw his reflection in the mirror behind the zinc bar; his creased clothes spotted with alcohol, his filthy shirt that had once been white, against the background he knew and loved so well: the crowded tables, the hurrying waiters with laden trays miraculously poised and the lights shining dully in a haze of cigarette smoke.
Early next morning he walked to the river. It was almost like a journey to another country for one who had lived so long in the Quarter. There on the quayside, among the tramps and beggars, he washed his shirt and spread it on the stones to dry.
Jo-Jo did not appear to notice any difference. She did not remark on the change that took place in the poet, but he now journeyed to the river regularly and even ventured across the bridge to pick up some flower dropped in the market with which to decorate his ancient coat. As winter approached, his laundering by the river bank became a real hardship, yet he persisted in spite of the cold. It seemed to have become a habit even though Jo-Jo had gone to Cherbourg to be with her sailor.
For some months, alterations had been going on at Le Hirondelle. The place was being transformed and the wildest rumours were in the air. It was to become the largest café in Montparnasse. There would be an American Bar in the latest fashion, a dance floor and restaurant upstairs, chromium steel and red leather furniture. At last, the Patron announced the opening date and sent out special invitations. A glass of champagne was to be given to each guest so that they might drink to the success of the new venture. As an old habitué and one who had attracted custom in the past, Georges was invited.
The day arrived and Montparnasse flocked to La Hirondelle. Certainly the change was all the rumour had foretold. A vast café on the ground floor with a huge fountain in the centre and the famous American Bar occupying the entire length of one wall. A thousand electric light bulbs studded the chromium-plated ceiling and sprang in clusters from the walls. Goldfish swam in the coloured water of the fountain basin and grinning negroes stood behind the American Bar.
In a few minutes the place was crowded. Every table was taken and the air was filled with the intoxicating sound of hundreds of people talking at once; with the pop of corks, the fall of wine into glasses and the loud cries of the waiters as they shouted their orders.
Georges arrived late, just after the police hurriedly summoned, had driven back a rush on the doors led by Detroff who had not been invited because he owed the Patron for a mirror broken with a siphon on a wild night in the old building.
Georges was very drunk. Somehow, he had obtained a bunch of radishes and these stuck crookedly in his lapel made a weird buttonhole. Round his neck he wore a scarf to hide the lack of a shirt, and under his arm he carried a small parcel. Having negotiated the swing doors, he paused, dazzled by the sudden magnificence of the transformed interior. Looking about him slowly, he caught sight of the fountain and deliberately walked towards it, threading his way between the crowded tables. In his fuddled head an idea was slowly forming. Here indeed was the café of his dreams. No need to make that long walk to the river bank; the fountain would suit him admirably. Why, the place might have been planned to his design. The architect had thought of everything. He unwrapped the parcel. He took a piece of soap from his pocket and began to wash – a shirt.
When they realised what he was doing, those sitting within view of the fountain were so amazed that for a moment they forgot to talk. Some paused in mid-sentence open-mouthed, and with glasses held half-way between their lips and the table. Then there was a wild rush. Georges was surrounded by a crowd of excited men and women. People farther off jumped from their seats, overturning tables, pushing and jostling to see what the trouble was about. A waiter, horror-struck witness of the affair, ran to tell the Patron, dropping his tray as he went.
At first the Patron could not believe he heard aright. He was furious. His beautiful café. His splendid fountain with its swimming goldfish in coloured water to be used for washing a shirt. It was a rival’s plot to ruin him. Certainly, it was a conspiracy. Why, the bandit had actually come provided with soap. “Soap!” He raised his clenched fists to the chromium ceiling, he frothed at the mouth, he danced.
“Assassins! Thieves!” he yelled: “Police! Murder!”
But Madame had a head for business.
“Softly my little one”, she soothed; “think of the réclaim, the advertisement for the establishment”, and she pointed to a number of newspaper men fighting their way towards the poet. “Find Monsieur Georges a place”, she commanded the frozen waiters; “and bring him whatever he asks.”
Georges, with the deliberate movements of a drunken man, had just finished. Taking no notice of the uproar, he wrung out the shirt and wrapped it up with care. He stood, swaying slightly, supporting himself on the edge of the fountain. The head waiter bowed before him:
“Une place pour Monsieur.” He waved to a vacant table. “Monsieur désirez?”
Georges sat down heavily. He was too fuddled to understand these attentions. Friends and acquaintances pressed round. Shook him by the hand, kissed him, patted him on the back and ordered his favourite drinks. Madame beamed and the press-men scribbled. What a story!
He did not seem to realise what he had done, but sat on, long past midnight, the centre of an admiring throng. At last he got up, and disengaging himself from detaining hands, zigzagged towards the door. Outside on the café terrasse the braziers of coke still glowed behind the plate glass screens provided by a thoughtful management for customers who preferred to sit on the boulevard. But at this hour the place was deserted. By the first brazier Georges stopped. The night air was cooling to his head and he thought again of the shirt. Of course, he remembered, he had washed it in the café; now it must be dried, and the brazier was the very thing. It might have been placed there especially for him. He spread the famous shirt over a chair and sat down beside it.
It was still dark but the sky was beginning to lighten behind the bare branches of the trees. Gradually, people began to leave Le Hirondelle. Georges was awakened by a number of his friends, the last to leave. One caught sight of the shirt.
“You have washed it”, he cried, giving him a shake; “now you must wear it”. The others shouted gleefully. A dozen pairs of hands seized the feebly protesting sleepy poet, dragging off his upper garments and pulling the still damp shirt over his head. Coat and overcoat were huddled on him; a girl retrieved his hat and they stepped back, laughing.
“Come along, Georges.”
Georges shuddered violently; he fell back in his chair and was asleep again almost at once.
Someone said that the Select was still open and the party straggled off in the direction of the twinkling lights further down the street.
The poet slept on. The early trams and buses appeared and the pavements began to fill with girls and men hurrying to work. A tired looking waiter came out from Le Hirondelle and started to sweep, to arrange the tables and clean out the braziers ready for another day. He did not disturb the sleeping man.
The feeble daylight now revealed a grotesque silhouette. The poet’s head seemed to have sunk into his chest. His face could not be seen; it was hidden by his upturned coat collar. A tuft of grey hair stuck out from under his hat which was sprinkled with sawdust and crammed on awry.
All over Paris the newspaper sellers were busy. Huge headlines displayed: “Sensation at the opening of Le Hirondelle.” “A Famous Poet and his Shirt.” Madame had been right. It was wonderful, undreamed-of publicity.
Jo-Jo must surely have been impressed by such a gesture, but Georges never enjoyed his fame. He was dead.
©2018 The Estate of Clifford Hall