The Real Latin Quarter

"Cocher, drive to the rue Falguière"--this in my best restaurant French.

The man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. He evidently had never heard of the rue Falguière.
"Yes, rue Falguière, the old rue des Fourneaux," I continued.
Cabby's face broke out into a smile. "Ah, oui, oui, le Quartier Latin."

And it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led
into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair
of dingy waxed steps, that I found a door bearing the name of the author
of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. He was in
his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at 90° outside--working at his
desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript.

The man himself I had met before--I had known him for years, in
fact--but the surroundings were new to me. So too were his methods of
work.

Nowadays when a man would write of the Siege of Peking or the relief of
some South African town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to
rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a
collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. This writer on the
rue Falguière chose a different plan. He would come back year after
year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the Quarter
in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of
the Luxembourg Gardens and the Panthéon; near the cafés and the Bullier;
next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman
pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes.

It all seemed very real to me, as I sat beside him and watched him at
work. The method delighted me. I have similar ideas myself about the
value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the
labored work of the studio, and I have most positive opinions regarding
the quality which comes of it.

If then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true
inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, I feel
sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much
to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous
impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other
merit which they may possess.

Nothing can be made really _real_ without it.

F. HOPKINSON SMITH.

Paris, August, 1901.
(from Introduction) (2 hr 37 min)