Toujours Maurice

I’ve always been considered a rational person, serious, even, some would say. But in the late 1940’s I developed an undeniable “crush” on Maurice Chevalier. My older brother was a devotee and let me listen to the many records in his collection for hours on end. I fell in love with Chevalier’s singing and played each 78 so often the bands began to wear thin. So, in 1952, when my husband and I found ourselves in Paris just before our first anniversary, it wasn’t surprising that I immediately made my way to the theater where my idol was appearing and bought tickets for that very night.

It was particularly thrilling to me that M. Chevalier chose to include my all-time favorite, “Ah! Si Vous Connaissiez Ma Poule” in his program. Not as well known as “Valentine” or “Mimi,” the song was so familiar to me I couldn’t wait for him to come to my favorite part where he injected his very French laugh into the notes of the title: “Ha ha ha… ah si vous connaissiez ma pou ou ou ou ou ou ou ou le.” If I had known how to say, “stage door” in French, I would have gladly stood in line to get his autograph—unfortunately, I left empty-handed.

Flash forward—Back in the States, ten years and two children after that first Parisian encounter, when I read that M. Chevalier was coming to this country to do a one man show at The Ziegfeld Theater in New York. I immediately wrote for tickets. My husband, who had always tolerated this rival and even brought him into the house (musically speaking) on several occasions, agreed to accompany me to the theater.

It was a blustery winter night in February 1963, but the house was full, and neither the audience nor Maurice was daunted by the weather outside. If his bio had not revealed his age as being 75, nothing in his performance would have given it away.

I sat enthralled as he went through his repertoire from “Mimi” and “Louise” in English to “Valentine,” “Place Pigalle,” Quai de Bercy,” and many of my other favorites in French. Mind you, I scarcely knew a word of French—I took Spanish in high school—but his gestures, his bearing and the tilt of his straw hat made the meaning of each song as clear as if he had been born on 42nd Street.

The audience that night was made up of equally enthusiastic fans who joined me in applauding wildly and shouting “Bravo” at the end. His curtain calls sent the audience into a tizzy of excitement. “Toujours Maurice,” we shouted. But many of us forwent the last of the bows to be first in line at the stage door where we could see our idol emerge and perhaps, just perhaps, get his autograph. I left my husband, still seated, with strict instructions to shout all my “Bravos” and Encores” and to meet me outside when the final curtain went down.

Almost tripping on my spike heels, I was still not the closest to the door. Others, savvier than I in the ways of autograph seeking, crowded in, but when a representative of M. Chevalier’s appeared in the doorway and said Monsieur would see a few people at a time in his dressing room, I took an uncharacteristic action that surprised even me. I elbowed my way to the front and boldly included myself in the very first (and for all I know the only) group to be ushered into the presence of The Star.

We were escorted past the guard at the entrance, who in an old movie would have been called “Pop,” and then we were there. And there he was, a tall, unsmiling, even dour man in a dressing gown and the obligatory ascot. Without his straw hat, he did not seem as jaunty as he had on stage until I heard him speak. Then I thought I would faint. It took me a moment or two to realize he was asking for the Playbill hanging limply from my hand so that he could write his name on it. That lilt, that accent, that voice.

And that was all there was to it. I walked out onto the street where my husband was waiting for me. In my hand was the autograph on my Playbill. Over the years, my 78’s became 45’s became tapes and now “Ah! Si Vous Connaissiez Ma Poule” is one band on a CD, “Le Roi Du Music-Hall.”

I never saw Chevalier in person after that. I have only my memories, my recordings and a precious piece of paper signed in his own hand. But if you walked into my office on any given day, you would see a large poster of that gentleman in the straw hat hanging over my desk, and in the background hear the unmistakable voice of my all-time favorite chanteur: Maurice Chevalier.

© 2022, Lyla Blake Ward