(originally written in French and loosely translated!)

Take a pencil and, on a map of Paris, trace a line that, leaving the Louvre, outlines la colline Chaillot, la Muette, le quarter des Batignolles, Montmartre, and, in passing by la Bastille, returns to the Louvre. You have encircled “my corner” of Paris. Without a doubt, it is strange to have such quarter while one is a student; it is because my studies were made not only at the École de Musique on Blvd. Malesherbes and at the rue Madrid, but also at the Opera, the Chatelet, and in concert halls. This is why I am on the Rive Droite instead of being in the Quartier Latin!

I would like to take you with me on the old street of the Conservatoire, you know it already, perhaps. It is not far and is found a short distance from the Blvd. des Bonnes Nouvelles. The attraction for me is the old conservatory, an old building with a solemn and depressing aspect. Blackened by the years, it has windows so small and so dusty that that one wonders how light could enter inside. But once inside, one forgets the hostility of the exterior. It is Saturday morning, and the crowd presses forward to enter the concert hall.

The Conservatory, that is, the school, is not here. But the concerts of the Conservatory continue to fill the small room each week and no one worries about the atmosphere of antiquity and moldy velvet. Every Sunday over the years, the elite of Paris, rich men and chic women have come to applaud the orchestra under the baton of Munch and his predecessors. But, not at this moment; it is necessary to come the partake in this supreme adoration of music, It is Saturday morning at the general recital.

Now, in coming very early, you will see people waiting to take their places. these are not the gentlemen in hats and white gloves, nor ladies in silks and furs, who are coming this morning. No, it is poorly dressed artists, often not too clean. There are students, little cellists from the preparatory class, and young conductors of the orchestra that will make their debut in coming months. There are also people of all ages, amateurs who fervently admire music. And when you find the the concert hall packed tight like sardines in a can, and without a single empty seat, then it seems to you that your heart flies away with music. You forget the people around you, you forget the hardness of your bench. All is erased and you feel transported, lifted by this music, by the joy of the orchestra, by the enthusiastic reverence of the listeners, finally, by the spiritual participation of so many human beings related by the same mystic thoughts. And when after two hours or more of this atmosphere charged with electricity, you leave there, you are capable not of walking, speaking, or thinking, but feeling a crazy exhilaration that takes you down the old stairs as if you could move through the air without effort, only by the sole desire of your spirit.

Even later, after hours when you have forgotten the morning concert, this exhilaration of spirit continues and you ask yourself why life seems so beautiful and troubles so small. Don’t look far away; music has magic powers.

Now, you can come with me, following the road I have so often taken after one of these Saturday concerts. In passing through some small streets, we arrive at La Trinite; it is past noon, the sun shines and flocks of pigeons fly around the church. We continue, taking a cross street that takes us to the crossroads of Europe, this place behind Gare St. Lazare where streets fan out in a star pattern, taking the names of great continental cities: Constantinople, Petersburg, London. We take Rue Madrid because it is to the new Conservatory we are heading. In crossing Rue Rome, we begin to see students from this school. Musical magazines are abundant here along with instrument makers on both sides of the street.

We are finally in front of the Conservatoire National de Musique et d’Art Dramatique. One would never believe is it a school, one would more readily say it is a barracks of which there are so many in Paris. It is a large building with tall symmetric windows. Hardly seeming more attractive than the ancient building on the Rue du Conservatoire, one asks how is it that so many people are so attached to it. On entering in the vestibule, we are plunged into a sort of shadow, in contrast to the outdoors, where it is a sunny day. Sometimes the sun comes to throw its rays through the large windows and then the shadow dissipates a little. I never came to understand why it is always so dirty in this old school, starting with the windows. Actually, the Conservatory is known for its spider webs in the classrooms and in the desks and papers of the administration!

Right on time, we come back here, but at present we leave the interior hallway to go to the cafeteria. It is hard for me to describe it to you; only those who have seen something similar in Europe can imagine it. In a room large enough but with a low ceiling, wooden tables are placed with just room for a seat in between. In the center there is an old stove, the stove pipe mounted in a straight line overhead. It is the only source of heat, and in the winter, one fights for places in the circle of heat. In the corners, it is often quite chilly.

Having hung our coats on a hook, probably above that of an unknown friend, we enter and take ourselves as quickly as possible toward the cashier who presides in the center of the room. It is an old woman, very wrinkled, with a pointed nose, a chignon without distinction, and a pince-nez. With our seven or eight Frances, she gives us a piece of bread and two tokens. Then it is necessary to find a place at one of the tables. Each table can take eight people, but here are eleven, and over there nine. Without a doubt you will find some friends; the table is full, but no matter, on finds a chair or a stool, one squeezes in and there we are. The servant is otherwise occupied; she is running around like an angry chicken. Finally, for your yellow token, she gives you a covered dish. If you are lucky, there is still some soup in the tureen in the middle of the table; yes, but it is cold. Bah! What can you do? With the red token, you can have a little red wine to mix with water to make a glassful. After the soup is the meal of the day, an unrecognizable meat dish with two vegetables. For dessert, fruit or custard will appear.

Between times, there is chatter. One discusses the morning concert, the tempos of Munch compared to those of Toscanini, or one speaks of exams, friends, even politics. On one side, there is a student of comedy who recounts in a loud voice the last film of Sacha Guitry. Further away, Mlle X, helps us understand the difference between the exercises of Mme Kedroff and Croiza with examples! In front of me, there is a young girl blushing. She replays just now an exam in speaking made up this morning by Mlle Benoit. These grand gestures of conversation seriously risk tipping over the glasses and the carafe in front of them. I pick them up but where to put them? On the window sill. Mon Dieu! What heat, what an uproar! Someone opens the window, that will be better. I ask myself what I am doing there and yet I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else for anything in the world.

Now it is nearly two o’clock. We go up to the class. It is on the second floor where all the piano classes are held. Classroom no. 5 is the one occupied by M. Lazare-Levy during the twenty years he has taught here. It is the one that was occupied by Cortôt, and before him, by Marmontel and Raoul Pugno. A portrait of this last gentleman faces us in all its enormous majesty on the wall behind the door. The pianos (there are two) are heard at this moment; two students are playing a concerto of Saint-Saens. It is cold in this room; there is never enough heat.

Here is Lazare-Levy who enters, hanging up his hat and coat and approaches. He is a small man who comes up to my shoulder; his remaining hair is all white and frizzy. Students are seated on benches along the walls; in a corner, two mothers who regularly accompany their daughters to class put away their knitting; the class is starting.

“Mademoiselle Voyard jouera la premiere.” Mlle Voyard, a young woman of twenty has earned Second Prize and hopes receive First Prize in the month of July. She carries herself proudly and the new students this year watch her with a respectful admiration. When she has finished her Chopin Ballade, Lazare-Levy makes several comments and finishes with “Good” or “It is necessary to work more” and it is another’s turn. Sometimes, however, a student plays badly. Then Lazare-Levy makes them work, starting many times the same passage, changing the fingering. He is always so happy at these moments and he forgets everything with his effort to find the difficulty and how to overcome it.

All of a sudden, the doors open and a man appears, burdened with an enormous book that he opens on the piano. It is the doorman (?) who comes once each term and leaves again and the class continues. At quarter past, we are liberated. But often everyone has not yet played and the class is prolonged, sometimes for an hour. We learn a lot here, not only is that which we have done poorly corrected, but also the mistakes and faults of others that serve as warnings to us.

After the class, if it is chilly, we adjourn to the cafe on the corner to drink a coffee before separating, each on to their own neighborhood. Often Lazare-Levy accompanies us to warm up and there, the role of the teacher is forgotten; he speaks to us as friends.

And now , our walk is finished; call it what you will, “a little visit to two Conservatories”.