Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

32 it has atmosphere, something entirely its own, that you feel so much more than the tangible things about you. There is a woman wearing a monocle. A simple touch, but how it changes. The fashions here proclaim themselves even without comparison and expert opinion. The music is simple, exotic, neurotic. Its simplicity demands attention. It reaches inside you instead of affecting your feet. They are dancing a tango. It is entertainment just to watch them. The pauses in the music," its dreamy cadences, its insinuation, its suggestiveness, its whining, almost monotonous swing. It is tropical yet, this Pans. And I realize that Paris is at a high pitch. Paris has not yet had relief from the cloddy numbness brought on with the war. f wonder will relief come easily or will there be a conflagration. I meet Douglas, the correspondent. We recall our first meeting in the kitchen of Christine's in Greenwich Village. It is soon noised about that I am here and our table takes on the atmosphere of a reception. What a medley J Strangely garbed artists, long-haired poets, news sheet and flower vendors sightseers, students, children and cocottes. Presently came Miss Iris Tree, the poet, her lovely golden hair gleaming in the tavern light, and she with the air and figure of a medieval page. It is good to see her again and we fix up a bit of a party and get into Dudleys petrol wagon, and as we bowl along we sing songs, ancient songs of the music halls, "After the Ball," "The Man That Broke the Bank of Monte Carlo," and many another which I had not thought of in years. Presently the wagon becomes balky and will not continue. So we all pile out and into a tavern near by, where we call for wine. And Dudley played upon the tinpan-sounding piano. There came one a tall, strange, pale youth, who asked if we would like to go to the haunt of the Agile Rabbit. Thence uphill and into a cavernous place. When the patron came the youth ordered wine for us. Somehow I think he sensed the fact that I wanted to remain incognito. ftJi'~"A SCREENLAMD Ciifi™. I "Hello France.'" Charlie sees the crowded docks. 1 HE patron was such a perfect host. Ancient and white-bearded, he served us with a finesse that was pure artistry. Then at his command one named Rene Chedecal, with a sad, haunted face, played upon the violin. That little house sheltered music that night. He played, as if from his soul, a message yearning, passionate, sad, gay, and we were speechless before the emotional beauty and mystery of it. I was overcome. I wanted to express my appreciation, but could do no more than grasp his hand. Genius breeds in strange places and humble. And then the bearded one sang a song that, he said, the followers of Lafayette had sung before they left France for America. And all of us joined in the chorus, singing "Apres de ma blonde" lustily. Then a young chap did two songs from Verlaine, and a poet with considerable skill recited from his own poems. How effective for the creator of a thought to interpret it. And afterward the violin player gave us another selection of great beauty, one of his own compositions. Then the old patron asked me to put my name in his ledger, which contained many names of both humble and famous. I drew a picture of my hat, cane and boots, which is my favorite autograph. I wrote, "I would sooner be a gypsy than a movie man," and signed my name. Home in the petrol wagon, which by this time had become manageable again. An evening of rareness. Beauty, excitement, sadness and contact with human, lovable personalities Waldo Frank called the next "day bringing with him Jacques Copeau, one of the foremost dramatists and actors in France, who manages and directs in his own theatre. We go to the circus together and I never saw so many sadfaced clowns. We dine together and late that night I have supper with Copeau's company in a cafe in the Latin quarter. It is a gay evening, lasting until about three in the morning. ALDO FRANK and I sit on a bench in the Champ Elysee and watch the wagons going to market in the early morning. Paris seems most beautiful to me just at this time What a city! What is the force that has made it what it is? Could any One conceive such a creation, such a land of continuous gayety? It is a masterpiece among cities, the last word in pleasure. Yet I feel that something has happened to it, something that they are trying to cover by heightened plunges into song and laughter. We stroll along the boulevard and it is growing light. I am recognized and we are being followed. We are passing a church. There is an old woman asleep on the steps. But she does not seem worn and haggard. There is almost a smile on her face as she sleeps. She typifies Paris to m%. Hid^s.her poverty behind a smile. Sir Philip Sassoon, who is the confidential secretary to Lloyd George calls the next day, and with him Georges Carpentier, the pugilistic idol of France, and we are photographed many times, the three of us, together and separately. 4 1 am quite surprised that Sir Philip is such a young man. I had pictured the secretary of Lloyd George as rather a dignified and aged person. He makes an appointment for me to dine with Lord and Lady Rock-Savage the next day. Lady Rock-Savage is his sister. I also lunch with them the next day, and then to a very fashionable modiste's for some shopping. This is my first offense of this sort. I meet Lady Astor, who is shopping there also. It was quite a treat for me, watching the models in this huge, elaborate institution that was really a palace in appointments. In fact, it greatly resembled the palace at Versailles. I felt very meek when tall, suave creatures strolled out and swept past me, some imperious, some contemptuous. It was a studied air, but they