The death of Gambetta, and the talk in political circles in Paris about Monsieur Clemenceau bein’ the comin’ man in his place, reminds me that years ago this Clemenceau was an exile, or an emigre, here in New York, and very poor, and a great friend of that smart, queer, ill-fated chap called Clapp, who used to be known as the King of the Bohemians.
Clapp was an unpleasant sort of a fellow to get along with, very dictatorial and conceited, and all the time findin’ fault with everybody else. He didn’t believe in anybody, not even in himself altogether, though on the whole he thought more of Clapp than Clapp did of anybody else, or than anybody else did of Clapp.
Clapp used to live by writin’ for the papers–among others, the Leader, published by John Clancy, who was for some time quite a power in New York politics. Clancy didn’t pay a very high price for literary work, but he always paid what he promised, and his paper managed to keep a goin’ quite a number of smart men, Clapp among the number.
Clapp had some knowledge of the French language, and had been abroad once. This made him quite an authority on “foreign affairs” among the boys, and when this Clemenceau, in his youth and trouble, came over to this country, and drifted to New York, he at once froze on to Clapp as bein’ of more account and more likely to be worth knowin’ than any other of the New York Bohemians.
Clapp spent most of his time in smokin’ a pipe, drinkin’ beer at “Pfaff’s,” whose place was then down town, and goin’ to the theaters in the evenin’. After the theater he would go to Pfaff’s again, or to the De Soto, in Bleecker street, unless Stuart, of the Winter Garden, wanted him to take a little supper with Ada Clare, or some other of the gang. It wasn’t a hard life, “takin’ one consideration with another,” especially as he didn’t have to pay out much cash, living principally on credit.
But one day very unexpectedly somebody who owed Clapp some money–a hundred dollars or so–paid it. This made Clapp feel quite like a millionaire, and Clapp began, just like Vanderbilt and Jay Gould now, to wonder what on earth he should do with all his money.
He owed here and there a good deal of money, of course, but of course he never even so much as thought of payin’ his debts. It wasn’t Bohemian to pay debts–every ordinary tailor or shoemaker did that, or was supposed to do it. No, that idea never occurred to Clapp. But he thought of a lot of other things he could do with this money; he could buy a new pipe, but then the older a pipe is the sweeter, and his pipe was gettin’ quite old now. He could buy a lot of liquor and keep it in his room. But then everybody who came to his room would be likely to drink it all up, or to give the secret away to others who would. He could buy some old books he had taken a fancy to, etc., but then the other Bohemians would only come to borrow his books and never return them. He could give a supper to the boys and have a high old time. But then why spend money, his money, on a supper, when he could get a supper on some other man’s money? He really was puzzled what disposition to make of his hundred dollars, when suddenly in came Clemenceau, who wanted to borrow some money of him–not for bread and butter, not to pay for board, lodgin’ or washin’, or else, ten to one, but he wouldn’t have wanted to borrow the money, and Clapp wouldn’t have wanted to lend it. But Clemenceau wanted just then a hundred dollars to go up in Maine somewheres on a sentimental journey.
He had met here in New York a very smart and pretty New England woman to whom he had taken a great fancy, and who seemed in her way to have taken a great fancy to him. This lady lived up in Maine, and had been obliged to leave for her native State suddenly, with her parents, leavin’ the young gentleman almost wild at this abrupt termination of their intimacy.
He must follow her to Maine, he must stay with her in Maine till he had proposed to her. His happiness for life depended on it, on his raisin’ at once the money to follow her to Maine, and to live there for some weeks in fair style, till he had time to woo and win her, if she was to be won.
So in his desperation Clemenceau came to Clapp and asked him for a hundred dollars, though he hadn’t the slightest idea of gettin’ it. But somehow he did get it. You see his comin’ relieved Clapp of all his bother just then. It answered the question which had been botherin’ him for some time, what he should do with his hundred dollars. He would lend ‘em to the young Frenchman, that’s what he would do with ‘em, and that’s what he did do with ‘em.
Clapp was about the very last man in the world one would have thought who had a hundred dollars to lend, and would have been the last man to have been supposed to lend it if he had. But it is the unexpected that always happens, and it happened in this case.
Clapp handed over to Clemenceau–on his word of honor to repay–the hundred dollars. With the money thus borrowed Clemenceau went to Maine, did his wooin’, and his winnin’, and in a few months made his way back to Paris, with his Yankee wife.
He paid back Clapp the hundred dollars, and then forgot all about him. Clapp went from bad to worse in New York, got down to almost starvation point and died a mere wreck, while Clemenceau, the man to whom this poor devil of a Bohemian lent the money to court his wife on, is now rich,and prosperous, one of the leadin’ men of France, with a lovin’ wife and several smart children. Such is life.
[Editor’s notes: Clemenceau, many years following the publication of this column, became Prime Minister of France prior to (1906-1909) and during World War I (1917-1920). When this column appeared (1883), he was in a break between holding offices, and edited an opposition newspaper. By that time, he and Mary Plummer had had two children–but separated in 1876. There was frequent infidelity on his part; they divorced in 1891 after he likewise accused her of having an affair.
