Postcards from Paris

Paris, Thursday

Dearest M------:

Encore! Ca c’est Paris! Undoubtedly if you were with us you would check our abandoned enthusiasm somewhat with your prudent common sense; and quite wisely, for it’s not as if we’d never been to Pairs before although it always seems that way.

In spite of the fact that we’re on a tour d’affaires we never manage to get any sleep. Yes, you warned us about the staying up all night fever, but it can’t be helped. We’ve been seized by the songs of Paris and can’t get away from them. Of course we have heard them before but maybe we weren’t listening as carefully as we should have or perhaps we were flustered by getting on the wrong metro which, as you know, is unfortunately one of our practiced habits. Anyway – Monday it was the Moulin Rouge, Tuesday over to Le Boeuf sur le Toit, Wednesday Lapin Agile in the Rue des Saules, Montmartre. You would love Lapin’s; they site you down – artist-style – on hard benches, as though you didn’t have a cent in the world, and serve you brandied cherries which you spear from the center of your table with much-chewed toothpicks. All around you on the walls hang countless pictures left by the artistic clientel in payment for long-standing bills; we guess that some of the pictures must by now be worth more than the whole cabaret itself. Here everyone is invited to join in the singing; you are not merely entertained but you also entertain yourself. Which reminds us of an embarrassing but amusing incident which occurred around the corner at Madame Patachou’s. The arrangement there is much the same as at Lapin’s – pictures, candles, and benches – except that at Patachou’s everyone, absolutely everyone, must join in with the singing on pain of having his necktie clipped off. You know how Louis is about singing; he would rather be shot than serenade in public. At first he devoted himself to earnestly sipping his drink, then he tried to appear to be absorbed in some imaginary practicing, but Madame, who is by the way a very delightful and friendly woman, wasn’t in the least fooled. Over she came: Monsieur ne chante pas? – I can’t, stuttered Louis and snip! off comes his necktie, his hand-painted one at that. Everyone applauded until, with much courage, Louis stood up and announced that although he couldn’t sing we would play, which we did, and so out of urgent necessity was born the idea of arranging some of our favorite Parisian songs for twin pianos so that you and everyone else might enjoy them too.

We can’t wait until we’ll be able to play them for you, for of all the souvenirs we might bring you from Paris, surely her songs are the best. With all the many moods which rise from life in her streets, she sings of her love of men and their love for each other. Under Paris skies it seems impossible not to fall in love, although so far we have managed to avoid this catastrophe. The little tables in the cafes or the park benches are dotted with lovers in twos or fours and if there is a lone person to be seen, he or she looks sad and quite neglected as though the magic of the city has passed him by or momentarily deserted him. Yes, Paris sings a perpetual Hymn to Love and perhaps, after all, we have caught the excitement: we are in love with Paris.

By the way, Madame pinned Louis’ tie up on the café wall where you will be able to see it if we can persuade you to come over with us next year; but meanwhile, we’ll do our best to left you see and hear this wonderful city through our postcard melodies.

Au Revoir. With our love,