BOULEVARD AND OTHER CAFÉS.
The Café Littéraire--Café Procope--Café Foy--Bohemian Cafés--Café
Momus--The Death of Molière--New Year's Gifts.
The history of France is in a large degree the history of its cafés;
and the French might well retort that the history of England is to be
read in its tavern signs. On the connection between our tavern signs
and our naval and military heroes it would be superfluous to insist.
We have, it is true, our Dogs and Ducks, our Geese and Gridirons, our
Bells and Horns, but we have also our Admiral Keppels, our Wellington
Arms, our Napier's Heads; and taking them altogether, the names of our
hostelries indicate the various epochs of their origin in a remarkable
manner. Another characteristic of the British tavern sign as compared
with the French _enseigne_, whether of the café, the restaurant, or the
tobacco-shop, is the permanency of the former. Who ever heard of the
"Earl of Chatham" being converted into the "Sir Robert Peel," or of
"Lord Nelson" turning into "Sir Charles Napier"? Just the contrary takes
place in France, where all the cafés, tobacco-shops, theatres, steamers,
and even omnibuses that rejoice in what may be called representative
titles, change their signs and their appellations with each successive
dynasty.
But it is above all in the cafés proper that the history of France is to
be read; and not the political history alone, for it can be shown that
they also reflect every social, literary, and commercial change that
takes place in the French metropolis. The _demoiselle du comptoir_ in
the more popular quarters of Paris is herself an important historical
figure, appearing as she did during the African war as an Algérienne, in
the days of the Second Republic as a priestess of Liberty, and during
the siege of Sebastopol as a Tartar girl of the Crimea. But she is a
political rather than a social index. Such also were the United Cooks,
whose miserable _gargotes_ flourished during the Liberty, Equality, and
Fraternity period, with their _boeuf à la République_, their _agneau
à la Robespierre_, their _veau à la baïonnette_, and their _mouton à la
sauce rouge_. It would be difficult to say which of these was the most
economical, or, above all, the most indigestible.
Far different were the restaurants and cafés whose titles and interior
arrangements might be looked upon as indicative of the social and
intellectual movement of the nation. Of these, the most remarkable
have, at various periods, been the huge Literary Café on the Boulevard
Bonne-Nouvelle, the Electric Cafés--of which there were at one time
several--between the Porte Saint-Martin and the Théâtre Lyrique, and the
Café Oriental, near the Boulevard du Temple. Most provincial Frenchmen
and foreigners who have visited Paris in the character of sight-seers
have been conducted to the dreary Café des Aveugles, and probably to
the absurd Café des Singes; but it is only those who have wandered idly
about the boulevards, careless how they might be devoured, that can have
found their way to the Literary, the Electric, or the Oriental Café.
The Café Littéraire (to go back to some ancient notes made on the
subject by the present writer) "was a building of which it would be
little to say that it was more magnificent than an English palace. Above
the portico the title of the establishment, in gigantic letters and in
striking relief, was conspicuous. The stone staircase which led to the
entrance was so imposing that as you ascended it you instinctively put
your hand in your pocket to assure yourself that you had a respectable
number of francs at your disposal. In the vestibule stood two officials;
one the under-waiter, the other the sub-editor of the establishment.
'Does monsieur wish to eat?' 'Does monsieur wish to read?' said the two
functionaries at the same moment. Anxious to offend neither, and not
possessing the art of eating and reading simultaneously, we replied that
we wished to play billiards. 'You will find the professor and tables
in abundance on the first floor,' said the under-waiter. 'Allow me to
present you with the _carte_ of my department;' and he handed me an
ordinary _carte du jour_. 'Here is the _carte_ of the department with
which I have the honour to be connected,' said the sub-editor, giving
me at the same time an astounding unheard-of literary bill of fare,
with poetic dishes by Lamartine and Victor Hugo, and prose _entrées_
by the elder Dumas, Soulié, and George Sand. At the foot of the _menu_
were printed the following General Rules:--Every customer spending a
franc in this establishment is entitled to one volume of any work, to
be selected at will from our vast collection; or in that proportion
up to the largest sum he may expend. N.B.--To avoid delay, gentleman
consumers who may require an entire romance are requested to name their
author with the soup.' After dining we repaired to the billiard-room and
played a couple of games, for which two francs and a half were charged.
Having paid the debt, and received a voucher for the sum, we were waited
on by the editor-in-chief. In strict justice, the voucher entitled
us to two volumes and a half, but the editor assured us that it was
contrary to the rules of the establishment to serve less than an entire
_livraison_. To ask for half a livraison, he said, was like ordering
half a mutton-chop or half a lemonade."
The establishment of the Café Littéraire was contemporaneous with the
first issue, on a large scale, of three-franc volumes and four-sou
_livraisons_, with liberty of the Press, open discussion, and the
ascendency of literary men in connection with politics. As a natural
consequence of this general intellectual activity, a taste for popular
science arose, which the astronomer on the Pont-Neuf, with his long
telescope and his interminable orations, was unable to satisfy.
The electric cafés instituted at this period were sufficiently curious
establishments. A thirsty Parisian entering one of them for the first
time in his life, found himself in a place which resembled a buffet more
than a café, and in which the most remarkable object was an enormous
metal counter. Having swallowed his beverage, he proceeded to place his
piece of money on the counter, when, to his astonishment, he received a
violent shock in the right arm, which probably caused him to drop the
coin as if it were red-hot. "I have had an electric shock!" he would
exclaim to some frequenter lounging near him. "Impossible!" would be
the reply. "You must have knocked your funny-bone against the edge
of the counter." Protesting that he had received a galvanic shock,
the victim was assured by the lounger, who had been lying in wait for
his joke, that he had simply been electrified by the charms of the
young lady behind the counter, just as a theatrical audience is said
to be electrified by an actress or _prima donna_. Again, however, on
receiving his change the new customer experienced a sharp shock, being
the more astonished inasmuch as the _habitués_ present put down and
took up their money evidently without feeling the electric current.
Then he went away mystified, to return, perhaps, later in the evening
with an inexperienced friend, whom, partly from curiosity, partly in
a spirit of mischief, he led up to the counter. His friend no sooner
touched it than he started back electrified, but he himself found that
he could this time touch it with impunity. He had now obviously been
admitted amongst the initiated; and when he had gone on drinking and
spending enough to entitle him to confidence, the beautiful _demoiselle
du comptoir_ condescended to explain to him the entire mystery. At the
foot of the metal counter was a piece of strip iron connected with one
of the wires of a galvanic battery, the other wire communicating with
the counter itself. When any of the initiated touched the counter the
presiding goddess stopped the current, which only novices were intended
to feel. The whole device was simply employed to amuse customers. The
electric counters became very popular, and had rapidly spread all over
Paris, when the Government, thinking probably that such practical jokes
might sometimes be carried too far, absolutely suppressed the _cafés
électriques_.
A whole chapter might be devoted to the literary cafés of Paris, much
more numerous than ever were the literary coffee-houses of London in
the last century. The first Paris café destined to identify itself with
literature was the Café Procope, so called from the name of its founder,
Procopio Cultelli, who, in the earliest days of coffee-drinking among
the French and among Europeans generally, installed himself at No. 13,
Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain, opposite the Comédie Française. The wily
Sicilian had evidently opened his coffee-house in view of the French
actors. But it was the authors who became its principal frequenters;
first the dramatists connected with the Comédie Française, and
afterwards authors of all kinds. In France, however, there are scarcely
any authors who do not at least try their hand at dramatic writing.
Neither Crébillon, with his _Catalina_, nor Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, with
_Jason_, nor Piron, with _Fernand Cortez_, nor Diderot, with _Le Fils
naturel_, nor Voltaire, with so many celebrated plays, can be regarded
solely or specially as dramatists; yet all of them contributed to the
French theatre, and all are remembered among the frequenters of the
Café Procope.
The Café Procope was still at the height of its reputation when,
in 1784, Beaumarchais' _Marriage of Figaro_ was produced; and it
was the scene of a great literary gathering immediately before the
representation of that famous comedy. After the Revolution, however, it
gradually lost its character as a literary centre.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE THÉÂTRE DES VARIÉTÉS, BOULEVARD
MONTMARTRE.]
And now the Comédie Française crossed the water--an unmistakable sign
that the left bank no longer possessed its ancient importance, and that
everything not already to be found on the right bank was gradually
moving to that favoured shore. The Café Procope still exists, but it has
quite lost its old literary character; nor is it much frequented even
by the students, who on the left bank form so important a part of the
community.
The Café de la Régence owes its name to the period in which it was
established. Haunted as it was by chess-players, it was nevertheless
the resort of distinguished writers, with Voltaire, d'Alembert, and
Marmontel amongst them. Here Diderot sat side by side with the Emperor
Joseph II. Robespierre looked in now and then to have a game of chess,
and among other occasional visitors of distinction was the youthful
General Bonaparte. Nor, from the list of the modern frequenters of the
Café de la Régence, must Méry or Alfred de Musset be omitted.
Close to the Café de la Régence stood the Café Foy, celebrated under
the Regency for its beautiful _dame du comptoir_, of whom the Duke
of Orleans became desperately enamoured. It was from this cafe that
Camille Desmoulins, on the 12th of July, 1789, marched forth to begin
the attack which ended in the overthrow of the ancient _régime_.
Until its demolition, not many years ago, the Café Foy was known as
one of the very few cafés in Paris where smoking was not allowed. In
ancient days cafés were broadly divided into cafés simply so called
and _cafés-estaminets_; and in the latter only, as in a beer-house,
could the customer smoke. The Café Foy was at one time greatly in
favour with old gentlemen, dating from a now remote period, when the
smoking of tobacco was considered not altogether (in Byronic language)
a "gentlemanly vice." The Café Foy was known, moreover, by a certain
swallow painted on the ceiling by Carle Vernet (father of the more
celebrated Horace Vernet). He was lunching there one day with a joyous
party of friends, when a bottle of champagne was opened, of which the
cork struck the ceiling and left a mark there. To compensate for this
mishap, the famous painter ordered a ladder to be brought in, and
hurriedly, but with consummate art, painted a swallow where the cork had
struck. Years passed, and still the swallow remained fresh. The form and
colour of the bird were renewed from time to time by other painters; but
to the sight-seer, as informed by the waiters of the café, it was always
the very swallow that had been painted in the midst of a champagne
luncheon by Carle Vernet. It was as clear and bright as ever when at
last it disappeared with the ceiling it had so long adorned.
Close to the Café Foy stood the Café des Aveugles, with an orchestra
of blind men as its distinctive feature. It seems at that period to
have been thought strange that blind men should be able to perform on
musical instruments. In the present day no _virtuoso_ of any pretension
plays with notes; though those, no doubt, are the least blind who do not
pride themselves on disregarding what may well be a valuable, if not
indispensable, aid to memory. A traditional figure associated with the
orchestra of blind musicians was a so-called "savage": some personage,
that is to say, from one of the Paris faubourgs, disguised with
feathers, paint, and tattooing.
After the Revolution the cafés became more and more political. Under
the Republic, as in a less degree under the Empire, there had been no
opposition cafés. But with the Restoration some freedom of thought
returned. Imperialism had its head-quarters at the Café Leinblin, where
the officers of the _Grande Armée_ exchanged ideas on the subject of
the humiliations undergone by France now that the great Napoleon was
an exile, and that power was vested in the hands, not of a military
dictator, but of a mere Parliament, with a constitutional king as
figure-head. At the Café Foy congregated the Liberals of the new
_régime_; at the Café Valois came together the Royalists, who believed
in nothing but the throne and the altar as maintained under the ancient
monarchy.
The café, in spite of the number of new clubs established in Paris,
continues to be one of the most popular and most flourishing
institutions of the French capital. Numbers of Parisians are not rich
enough to belong to clubs, but can well afford from day to day the
expenditure of fivepence or sixpence on a cup of coffee and a _petit
verre_.
Of Bohemian cafés--those frequented, that is to say, by the gipsies
of literature and art--the most celebrated is, or was in the time of
Henri Murger, the brilliant author of "La Vie de Bohême," the Café
Momus. Here it was that poets, painters, and musicians of the future,
blessed for the present with more genius than halfpence, waited until
some comparatively wealthy lover of art and literature came to their
relief, or until, by their noisy and reckless talk, they forced the
alarmed proprietor to beg them to retire, and come in some other day to
pay for their refreshment. Champfleury, gleaning here and there after
Murger's abundant harvest, has told us how, armed with one cup of coffee
and a small glass of brandy, half-a-dozen Bohemians would take absolute
possession of the first floor of this establishment.
Sometimes a Bohemian, not absolutely destitute, would order a cup of
coffee and _petit verre_, and go upstairs. Soon afterwards a second
Bohemian would come in, ask if the first Bohemian were in the café, and
go upstairs to join him. A third would ask for the second, a fourth
for the third, and so on, until around the solitary cup of coffee and
the unique glass of liqueur a party of six had assembled. The proud
paymaster, after sipping a little of the coffee, would pass it to a
friend, who, having helped himself, would hand the remainder to some
other member of the party. The cognac was in like manner shared, and the
last served came in for the sugar, with which he would sweeten a glass
of water. The Bohemian frequenters of the Café Momus were more liberal
in giving their orders when one of them had sold a picture or a piece of
music, a book or a play; and they would afterwards order on credit as
long as credit could be obtained. A story is told of one Bohemian who
persisted in ordering after his credit had been stopped, and who, having
told the waiter repeatedly, but in vain, to bring him a cup of coffee,
went himself to the counter, and said in a stern voice, "I have ordered
a cup of coffee half-a-dozen times; either serve it at once or lend me
five sous, and I'll go and get it elsewhere."
It must be supposed that it somehow suited the proprietor of the Café
Momus to encourage, or at least tolerate, his Bohemian visitors;
otherwise he would have taken steps to exclude them permanently.
Occasionally, it is said, they would barricade themselves in their
favourite room on the first floor, and refuse absolutely to give up
possession. The probability is that when they were in funds they spent
their money lavishly; and they undoubtedly gave a certain reputation
to the Café Momus, which became known throughout Paris as the café of
literary aspirants, and attracted on that ground a certain number of
sympathisers and admirers.
The house formerly occupied by the Frascati establishment bears on
the Rue Richelieu side a medallion with an inscription to the memory
of Cardinal de Richelieu, put up by Antoine Elwart, professor of
composition at the Conservatoire. The other side of the Boulevard
Montmartre, whence springs the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, is no less
animated than the theatre side. Here, too, cafés abound, each of
which, in theatrical phrase, is "full to overflowing"; for numbers of
customers sit out in the street at the little tables in front of the
café. The arcade on this side of the boulevard is known as the Passage
Jouffroi. It runs through what was once the ground-floor of the house
which, under the Restoration, was inhabited by three distinguished
composers: Rossini, Carafa, and Boieldieu. A little further on, always
in the direction of the Madeleine, stands an important club, called
officially Le Grand Cercle, familiarly, Le Cercle des Ganaches. It is
composed chiefly of commercial men and civil servants. It is considered
old-fashioned, and the dinner-hour there is six o'clock, as it was in
most Paris houses fifty years ago.
At the right corner of the Rue Grange Batelière stands an immense house,
on a site occupied, until a few years ago, by the mansion built in the
eighteenth century, by two well-known farmers-general, the Brothers
Lunge, which from 1836 to 1847 was the haunt of the Jockey Club, the
best-known and most fashionable club in Paris, now installed further to
the west, but still in the line of boulevards.
Ask any Parisian in the present day for "the house of Molière," and he
will tell you that La Maison de Molière is only another name for the
Théâtre Français. The house, however, where Molière lived is situated at
the corner of a little street off the Boulevard Montmartre; and here it
was that he breathed his last.
On the 10th of February, 1673, the "Malade Imaginaire" was performed
for the first time. The curtain rose at four o'clock, and a few minutes
afterwards Molière was on the stage, and acting with his accustomed
humour. Everyone was laughing and applauding. None of the audience
suspected that the actor who was throwing all his energy into the part
he had himself created was now on the point of death. In the burlesque
ceremony, just as Argan has to utter the word "Juro," a convulsion
seized him, which he disguised beneath a forced laugh. But it was now
necessary to carry him home. The performance went on, though without
Molière, who meanwhile had been taken to his house in the Rue Richelieu.
It had been found impossible to get his clothes off. The dying man
was still wearing the dressing-gown of the "Imaginary Invalid." He
was presently attacked with a violent fit of coughing, in the course
of which he burst a blood-vessel and threw up a quantity of blood. A
few minutes later he expired, surrounded by the members of his family,
and supported by two nuns to whom he was in the habit of offering
hospitality when they visited Paris. In his dying moments he had asked
for religious consolation; but the priest of St.-Eustache rejected
his prayer. Now that he was dead, Christian burial was denied to him:
a piece of intolerance due to the Archbishop of Paris, Harley de
Champvalon. So soon as Molière's wife heard of the archbishop's refusal,
she exclaimed with indignation: "They refuse to bury a man to whom, in
Greece, altars would have been erected." Then calling for a carriage,
and taking with her the Curé of Auteuil, who was far from sharing the
views of his ecclesiastical superior, she hurried to Versailles, threw
herself at the king's feet, and demanded justice. "If," she exclaimed,
losing all self-control--"if my husband was a criminal, his crimes were
sanctioned by your Majesty in person." At these words the king frowned,
and the Curé of Auteuil is said to have found the moment opportune for
introducing a theological discussion, in the course of which he sought
to disculpate himself from an accusation of Jansenism. But Louis XIV.
had been affronted, and he told both actress and curé that the matter
concerned the archbishop alone. He sent secret orders, however, to the
churlish prelate, the result of which was a compromise. The body was
refused entrance into the church, but two priests were allowed to
accompany it to the cemetery. The archbishop's concession seemed to
some bigots out of place: a proof that the ecclesiastical authorities
were not alone in their wish to have Molière interred without Christian
rites. They could not now prevent his being buried in sacred ground. But
on the day of his funeral they organised a riot in front of his house,
which Mme. Molière, frightened by the cries and menaces of the crowd,
could only appease by throwing money out of the window, to the amount
of about a thousand francs. It was on the 21st of February, 1673, that
the remains of the great man were borne to their resting-place, without
pomp, without ceremony, at night, and almost furtively, as though
he had been a criminal. Molière was buried in the Cemetery of Saint
Joseph, Rue Montmartre. His widow placed above the grave a great slab of
stone, which was still to be seen in the early part of the eighteenth
century, when the brothers Parfait published their _Histoire du Théâtre
Français_. "This stone," writes M. du Tillet, "is cracked down the
middle: which was caused by a very noble and very remarkable action on
the part of the widow. Two or three years after Molière's death a very
cold winter set in, and she had a hundred loads of wood conveyed to the
cemetery, and burned on the tomb of her husband, to warm all the poor
people of the quarter, when the great heat of the fire caused the stone
to split in two."
[Illustration: CAFÉS ON THE BOULEVARD MONTMARTRE.]
The Church of Rome has pronounced again and again at councils, and
through the mouths of distinguished prelates, against the abomination
that maketh not "desolate," but joyful. In the fifth century it
excommunicated stage-players, and the order of excommunication,
though practically it may have ceased to be effective, has never been
rescinded. In France up to the time of the Restoration (1814), or at
least during the Restoration, it was in full force, so that the history
of the relations between Church and stage in that theatre-loving
country has been the history of the refusal of Christian burial in
successive centuries to stage-players. Happily, for many years past
theory and practice have been at variance in France with regard to the
excommunicated position of actors and actresses. The Church, however
much it may stand above society, cannot but reflect in some measure the
views of society at large; and, if only from policy, it cannot permit
itself to outrage a universal feeling. Accordingly, since the doors of
Saint-Roch were closed, in 1817, against the body of the famous actress,
Mlle. Raucourt--an incident which was followed by a popular outbreak,
the calling out of the troops, and ultimately interference on the
part of Louis XVIII., who ordered that the religious service should be
performed by his own chaplain: since those days there have been few
examples in France, and none in Paris, of any actor or actress being
treated as beyond the pale of the Church.
[Illustration: MOLIÈRE.
(_From the Painting by Coypel in the Comédie Française._)]
To be seen in all its glory, the Boulevard Montmartre--perhaps the most
crowded of all the boulevards, especially by business people--should be
traversed at the beginning of the New Year, when in the booths which
line the great thoroughfare nearly along its whole length all kinds of
objects supposed to be suitable as New Year's gifts are offered for sale.
In England, the custom of making Christmas presents and New Year's
gifts had, except among relatives, died out, when a few years ago
some apparently childish, but in reality very ingenious, person
invented Christmas cards. The invention was not successful at first;
and the strange practice of exchanging pieces of cardboard adorned
with commonplace pictorial designs, and inscribed with conventional
expressions of goodwill, was, for a time, confined to the sort of
persons who might be suspected of sending valentines. Eventually,
however, it spread. The initiative in this matter seems to have been
taken by enterprising young ladies, whose attentions it was impossible
to leave unrecognised; and endeavours were naturally made to return them
cards of superior value to those which they had themselves despatched.
Thus a noble spirit of emulation was generated, which the designers,
manufacturers, and vendors of Christmas cards did their best to gratify
and stimulate; so that, latterly, there has been a marked rise in these
products as regards price, and even quality. Many of them possess
undeniable artistic merit, and during the last few years some very
beautiful varieties of the Christmas card have been brought out at
Paris. These pictorial adaptations from the English are at least more
graceful and more original than the great majority of our own dramatic
adaptations from the French.
If, as everyone knows, the sending of Christmas cards is a custom of
but a few years' standing, New Year's gifts are by no means of recent
invention; and under the Roman Empire, as now in Russia, presents used,
as a matter of course, to be made on the first day of the New Year to
the magistrates and high officials. In the end, the practice of making
New Year's gifts grew so popular that every Roman at the opening of a
new year presented the reigning emperor with a certain amount of money,
proportionate to his means; and what had, in the first instance, been
among ordinary individuals but a token of esteem, was now, in regard
to the sovereign, an assurance of loyalty, besides being a tolerable
source of income. The barbaric nations, with simpler habits, had simpler
ceremonies in connection with the New Year; and the Gauls were content
to present one another at this season with sprigs of mistletoe plucked
from the sacred groves.
Coming to much more recent times, we find the custom of giving New
Year's presents in full force at the Court of Louis XIV., when, on the
1st of January, ladies received tokens from their lovers, and gave
tokens in return.
The custom of making New Year's gifts became at length so general that
servants murmured if their masters neglected them in this respect; and
an amusing story is told of the stingy Cardinal Dubois, who, on his
major-domo asking for his _étrennes_, replied, "Well, you may keep what
you have stolen from me during the last twelvemonth." This, however,
occurred a long time ago; and had the cardinal lived in the present
century, he would scarcely have dared to make such an answer. The
Frenchman who nowadays ventures to refuse to his servants, or to any
other dependants, the expected annual gifts must be prepared to bear
the bitterest sarcasm, which will possibly not cease to assail him even
beyond the grave; for it may be his fate to have inscribed on his tomb
some such epitaph as the following quite authentic one:--
"Ci-gît, dessous ce marbre blanc,
L'homme le plus avare de Rennes;
S'il est mort la veille de l'an
C'est pour ne pas donner d'étrennes,"
which may be roughly rendered in English thus:--
"Here lies, beneath this marble white,
The miserliest man in Rennes;
If New Year's Eve he chose for flight,
'Twas that he need not give _étrennes_."
Towards the end of the eighteenth century an edict was published in
France forbidding New Year's gifts; but without avail. The _étrennes_
only became more numerous and more costly as the greed of the recipients
grew more and more insatiable; and in the present day the meaning of the
word _étrenne_ will be only too well understood by any Englishman who,
in Paris at the time of the New Year, may venture to have dealings with
the waiters at the cafés, with hair-dressers, drivers, or any other set
of men who delight in certain traditional customs.
[Illustration]