The Name Bergson Stirs up the Blood of the French, Part One

Adrian Bergson's promising career as an artist was now beginning to blossom from the bosom of what is undoubtedly the most unusual "gallery" of the Parisian art scene. Adrian reminisced to me, as I accompanied him to a small plaza, just a grassy knoll surrounded by a gate actually, in front of an ornate old building overlooking a Metro entrance. Paris is full of such picturesque little nooks and crannies, nesting antique architectural wonders in the midst of the hustle and bustle of its modern city life. As purposeful Parisians passed by heedlessly, and descended into the Metro entrance, Adrian took me by the arm and pointed up to a plaque identifying this marvelous little corner of the most beautiful city in the world. He stared up at it thoughtfully, then continued the tale of his personal ordeal. In the toughest year of his life, Adrian explained to me, he would often come here to Paris's 8th arrondisement (district) at night. Here he would look up at this plaque mounted on the green metal gate surrounding this square on the elegant Boulevard Haussman. He explained to me the comfort it gave to look up and see his family name illuminated by the street lamp in the darkness. It was a beacon of hope to him in the darkest period of his own existence, he said. America honors post offices and schools with the names of dead presidents, but there is more genuine pride and sincerity in France's tradition of naming streets and sites in her beautiful capital after great men in all fields, not just politics, but arts letters, science and commerce. Throughout the centuries thousands of Frenchmen and a legion of adopted citizens have chosen to live in Paris, absorb French culture, and from the city of light, contribute to the culture of the world. Their work gave honor to France and she reciprocates. There is the name on the plaque: Place Henri Bergson, Evidence of the homage France paid to Adrian's once famous relative.

Adrian would take a Metro train up to visit La Place during that cold, grey Paris winter, after a series of personal catastrophes had cost him his job and home. Adrian had been reduced to sleeping on the quays, the stone banks along the Seine river. Sometimes he would seek warmth on benches in the cavernous railroad stations. Fortunately Adrian always found comfort rather than bitter irony n the fact that a homeless man could see his family name up in lights. "Things are a lot better now," relates Adrian, as we descend into the

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