Strangely garbed artists, long-haired poets, news-sheet and flower vendors, sightseers, students, children, and cocottes. Presently came a friend whom it was good to see again and we fix up a bit of a party and get into Dudley's 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 tin-pan-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.
The 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 Réné 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 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 favourite autograph. I wrote, "I would sooner be a gipsy 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.